Every October

TW: Domestic Violence and Abuse

Every October, my instagram feed is flooded with performative infographics about domestic violence. How so many women are victims, how “if he could strangle you, he could kill you”, and I’m reminded of the three horrors of my life. My mother and the two men who proceeded to mimic her.

I spent years, hundreds of pages, and my entire first book attempting to scrap together the words to eloquently describe what my mother did to me and my father poetically, but there’s no real way to. Nothing comes close to the feeling of being five years old and being scared for your life by the person who gave it to you.  How mortifying it is to practice jumping out your bedroom window in case she does it again, the go bags, the school counselors attempting to piece together the words my mother stole from my throat.

“We keep our family business to ourselves.” A fair warning to a child who’s mother dabbled in drug dealing, but words that echoed in my mind when my mother put a towel over my face and waterboarded me when CPS came for the first time. She knew drowning was my biggest fear, and it wasn’t that she failed to care about that minute detail. She knew, and used it against me in one of the cruelest ways possible. This, coming after being locked in closets without food, water, or a bathroom and considering that being “grounded”. I wished I was grounded during these days- not just locked in the house, but immersed in the ground, six feet under.

Once I grew strong enough to defend myself in fist fights against her, she used the body that she made against me. It was hers, according to her drug-ridden logic. She groped me and sexualized my growing body constantly. She’d wait for me to get into the shower, like a lion approaching its prey, and tear down the curtains to touch me.

A while after, I got into a relationship. He was kind, he was sweet, he was everything my mother failed to me. He held me when I’d get nightmares about her hurting me again, but that was until my temper became too much for him. He gave me my first and only concussion by picking me up and slamming me into a concrete floor, and then bashing my head in. He was a Christian, and swore he’d never call me a bitch or a slut, but he’d punch me when I irritated him. He’d cheat on me when I was too much to handle instead of gently letting me go.

His friend helped me after. His parents were addicts and he swore he’d never hurt me. He got me better than anyone, of course. No one could ever understand the complexities of my mind better than someone in virtually the same position. He’d hold me when the nights got cold and I wasn’t used to sleeping alone, until I wanted to be let go. He strangled me and pinned me to a couch with his friend, as he took off my clothes and stole the one thing I had left to claim as my own.

The cycle continued when I moved away from my mom, and she started controlling my dad’s medication. The one person who wouldn’t raise a finger at me fell victim to a terminal illness, because those always tend to happen to the people who deserve them the least. She threw furniture at his head like she did to me. She stole our money, she called us the cruelest of words because her body began to fail her. She always found new ways to hurt me. She attempted murder on him last year.

As I laid in bed with someone who I swore was different, she forced me to have sex with her. My body reacted the same way as it did the first time, with the knowledge that I’d just have to wait for it to be over. She knew about my past, she told me I deserved to be raped and that it makes sense why my mom left and could never be sober.

Every October, I’m reminded of my past and how domestic violence has corroded my perception of people. I’ve watched people I’ve loved fall victim to continuing the cycle on me, I’ve typed in my insurance number to many therapists’ websites, and I’ve witnessed the same people who enable abusers performatively repost statistics that apply to me.

Every October, I think about the five year old girl whose mother tried to kill her., the fourteen year old who’s boyfriend laid his hands on her, the fifteen year old who was strangled and raped, and who I am today. I think about how after all of this time, I refuse to let corrupt people change my faith in humanity, although it’s been tested and tried numerous times.

However, more than anything, I remain thankful every October for the relentless friends, guidance counselors, and family members who dragged me away from my abusers when I begged to sympathize with them.