The Ending of Hell: A Battered Woman's Story

Warning: this is not an article to bash, there for I will not use any names, despite having the court records and police statements to back up this story. For future reference, I will call the ex husband "John".

This article has been a long time coming, in fact most of it has been sitting on notepad on my computer for almost a year now. Part of me was reluctant to write it for all to see, feeling that it would only bring back the bad. The other part of me, the part that finally won out, hopes that perhaps some women will read this, and find the courage to get out, or move forward from there. For the men reading this, I do know there are great men in this world, this article is only worried about the bad ones, and in no way reflects on all men.

To understand my story, I must first start at the beginning, but just how far back to go was the problem. I will start with when I met my ex husband, so maybe you will understand why I was driven to marry this man. I was a single mother at the age of 22, with two very young children. I was bar tending and serving in a local restaurant at night, when one of my co workers introduced us. To say the least we became acquaintances but we were never friends. John and I became involved, and all too quickly we were living together.

I should have seen the signs right from the start, but like most battered women, you ignore them, or just don't see them. It started as little things, how long I could be gone, the put downs, the having me cut my hair because he didn't like it long. Then I became pregnant with my third child, his first. From there, it was inevitable. The fights began. I was forced to quit my job as a nurse aid due to the pregnancy, and he talked me out of getting a second shift job. We couldn't afford for me to work during the day and have two kids in day care. At some point, he asked me to marry him, and I actually thought to myself to say no. Until I remembered all the pressure from my family to finally settle down, the pressure of being a single mother of three if I didn't, and the fear of what would happen if I did reject him.

When I was about 3 1/2 months pregnant, that was the first time he became physically violent. My son, who was 3 years old at the time, was whining about sitting next to John on the couch, John pushed him off, and my son ran to me. I picked him up, and John threw a cup at my son, cutting his lip. I was so shocked, I couldn't move, and then I did the first thing that came to mind, I went for the phone to call the police. John wasn't letting that happen, and as I went for the phone, he pushed me down on the couch, grabbed me in a headlock, and put his knee in my back. Later, reading the police reports, he even told the officers, he only put his pregnant girlfriend in a headlock to calm her down.

If I was going to leave, then should have been the time, I should have gotten out and ran with all the kids. But I didn't, I listened to his pleas of forgiveness, that he was just worried about having three kids, money, a house, the wedding. He had to go to anger management, and even the judge was making his case for him. And so I took him back, and began the next eight years of hell. I was tracked in everything I did. From my gas mileage, to how long my hair was. I wasn't allowed to call my friends, or meet them out. I had time limits on how long I could be at the grocery store, and how much money he gave me.

I wont go into all the fights, or abuse, and no, I never called the police again until that final time. He never hit any of the kids, but towards the end, he was getting very violent with my middle son. He couldn't handle losing anything, a video game, a game of catch, anything like that. His words were harsh and cruel. He began drinking more and more, and I found out by accident he was smoking pot again. He was a Jekyll and Hyde, one minute nice, the next punching me in the back as he walked by me, then coming back for a kiss. It was like walking on eggshells for years, you never knew what would set him off.

One night, closer to the end, he came home after a night of drinking, I was asleep in bed, exhausted from being up with a sick child most the night. Well, I never heard my youngest wake up for a drink crying, but John did. He woke me up screaming at me, and I noticed he was naked. In my sleep mode still, I mumbled at him "What are you doing naked", and came to realize he was so drunk, he had pissed the bed, which of course, he blamed me for. Two days later, he was still mad, and there was another incident. He was walking in the side door after work, and I held the screen door for him, but apparently, I didn't hold it long enough, or he just didn't grab it like I thought he had. Either way, he slammed his pinkie finger in it, and became so violent about it, he kicked in my side door to the garage, breaking through with his foot, and repeatedly kicking it until it was destroyed. Ten minutes later, he came into the kitchen where I had ran to, and gave me a hug as if nothing had happened.

The final fight came March 28, 2006, and it was a doozie. Now, let me clarify something here. By this point, I had become afraid of what he was going to do to my children, he was starting to throw things at them, he was giving my middle son (age 7) jack hammers on the floor, and my youngest son was getting mean also. I needed a way out, but was scared shit-less. I had no job, everything was in his name, and had no where to go. But I knew, it was time, so I told myself, the very next time we fought, I was calling the police, and that was that.

John had a nasty habit of "touching himself" in front of the kids, so when he did it that night, I told him go into the bathroom and do that, because my daughter could see that crap. That was all it took, it became a knock down, drag out fight. I was prepared, or thought I was for this, but it was very different then what I had pictured. I almost think John knew this would be the final fight. I was pushed, punched, hit, you name it. I grabbed the house phone to dial 9-1-1, and he got it, I went for my cell phone, and he got that, I even went for his cell phone. Finally we were locked together in a dance for the phones, he was scratching and pulling on my hands. I finally got one, and dialed emergency, as I did, he grabbed my shirt and ripped it completely down the front, telling me the whole time I was making a big mistake, that I would ruin everything.

I have to say, I was very proud and ashamed of myself as I told the officers yes, I wanted to press charges and that I wanted a protection order. I was proud that I had done it, that I was getting out. However, I was ashamed that I only did it because the kids were getting hurt, and that it took me so long to leave.

From that point on, it was a struggle to move on. I had to find a job, a new place to live, get the divorce, and somehow maintain my sanity. It was a close call a few times. I knew going into the divorce I would leave this marriage with nothing but my children, but I really wastn prepared for all I lost. He got the house, and everything but the children's bedroom furniture. He didn't have to pay any child support until I was out, and I would get no alimony. The house would be sold, but because he had it in his name, I would get next to nothing, (in fact, I never did receive profit from that sale). I ended up having to leave the house sooner than I thought, which put me in the position of being homeless with three children. I went to stay with a friend, and that itself turned into three months of hell, with me sleeping with one eye open, and him trying to get involved with me. It was not a good time at all, even knowing I was free.

My ex husband dragged the divorce out for 17 months, with phone calls telling me I was no good, a bad mother, you name it, he said it. But I was free, my children were free, and it was time to move on. It took me 14 months before I could leave the house and meet with people again, I was so nervous on the way to my first outing, I must have sweated off 20 pounds. Of course, I in no way was ready for another relationship, in fact, I didn't even try to date until the divorce was final.

After almost two years of struggling, I finally found a great job, an apartment back in my hometown, and a wonderful man who is willing to take it as slow as me. I can even say the "m" word again. My children are doing great, no more violence to keep them awake at night does wonders. We aren't jumpy at loud noises, and I can handle being around men again.John isn't doing as well, he still sees the kids every other weekend, but not on a schedule. He picks and chooses, and if he knows it will mess with me, he will change his mind. Losing his control over me has been the biggest loss to him, and I don't think he knows how to handle that.

I can now go to the library for however long I want, no one checks my car mileage. I make my own allowance, and can even buy myself a book if I want. I pick and choose my own friends, and I have grown my hair back out to my lower back, just how I like it. I lost all that "stress weight" I had put on, over 100 pounds, and I feel great. I am lucky, I had a very few wonderful friends who when I finally left, were willing to listen to me, all my rants, cries of unfairness, and all the crazy things I had to say. Life has become very precious to me, and I live it like I finally want.

I guess I just want women out there to know, life does go on, it takes time, and maybe for some not as quickly or others quicker than me. But it does go on. All it takes is one little step, than another, and before you know it, you are down those steps, out the front door, and breathing in the air of freedom.