33 years ago, August 30, I was assaulted by my husband and sent to the hospital. I have had 33 years to relive and heal from that abuse.

I thought I was a survivor. Instead, I have been a victim. I have been living a half life of subconscious pain and accumulation of unpleasant, frightening experiences.

I thought I have been creating a life that looks reconciled and healed on the outside. Underneath the surface of my skin, memories and feelings of anger, fear, and sadness seethe. Rage, disbelief, grief, and shame also persist. The silence without words of expression and release traps these memories and feelings. It has become a purgatory I have been living in.

That night in August changed my life forever. How I lived is by the grace of God and the miracle of sound, the word. He jumped on top of me. He gouged at my eyes. He grabbed my head and repeatedly bashed it into the rocks lining our patio. The only thing I heard within my soul was to literally submit to each blow without resistance. I knew in my heart that each blow was deadly. That I must wait. That I must pray for a moment to break free. The moment came when he grabbed my hair and pulled me up off the ground. He wildly jerked me around. I felt my hair pulling out of my head. Then I heard the word, scream! I did as if on command. The scream startled him out of his frenzy and he let go. I ran.

I ran to our neighbors for help. They saw my eyes already blackening. There was a tennis ball size bald spot at the back of my head. The shoe that was missing from my foot was lost in the struggle. They saw my fear and my pain. Yet they sat in shocked disbelief. I had spoken to no one about the abuse I had been receiving for the past three years.

I’ll never forget the look of their disbelief, their confusion. I never thought to call the police. At the hospital, I had my hand examined to see if it was sprained or broken. The nurses saw and guessed my state. I never admitted to being beaten. Discreetly they offered me a pamphlet on domestic violence and told me about restraining orders and safe houses.

Days later I managed to escape with my nine month old daughter to a safe house. I filed a restraining order. I felt a mistaken sense of guilt. It felt as if I was doing something wrong by filing an order against my husband. During the marriage, I felt guilty every time I challenged him. I felt guilty if I spoke up. I also felt guilty if I was not doing enough to fix what didn’t feel right.

Restraining orders, I learned, are not helpful in a city or state if the legislators do not back the legislation. I appeared in court. I saw the judge slap my husband’s hand. The judge asked him whether he understood that beating your wife is not the right thing to do. My husband answered “yes”. After later court appearances for his continued abusive behavior, I left the state to seek help and safety elsewhere.

Eleven months later I was called back to the state to settle the matter in court. I had full custody of my daughter when I left. While I was away my husband filed papers against me for kidnapping. My daughter was taken away. I was arrested, handcuffed, put in leg irons and sent to jail. It took eight months and supervised visitation to get my daughter back. The charges were dropped when the judge finally found out the truth of the matter.

I’ve worked tirelessly these past many years to heal the pain, frustration, fear, anger. The shame of not knowing the signs that allowed abuse. I have fooled myself into believing I have learned the importance of words and expression of feelings. That I have created a safe environment of growth and well-being for both my daughter and I.

I bought a house and rebuilt my life. Everything on the outside of what I can see around me looks so good. But there is an underlying unrest. I struggle with an inability to trust the world at large, that I am worthy of being believed. I find it difficult to trust myself and to feel entirely safe. These feelings have colored my world. I wear a mask of seeming success while covering up what is hidden inside.

I thought I am a survivor only to discover I am a victim. I wanted, needed, looked for vindication out there in the world of people and things. Now I know that vindication comes from within. It happens the day I believe enough in the truth of my experience to tell my story. On this day I cease living between fact and fiction