During my freshman year of college, I found myself quietly slipping into a crowded classroom, taking a seat in the middle. As I glanced at the blank page of my notebook, I began to jot down notes about rocks and a subject I clearly struggled to remember, as I can’t even recall the specific course.
Covering my unkempt hair was a grimy white baseball cap emblazoned with bright red letters representing Ole Miss. Ironically, I was not in Mississippi but rather attending a college in West Virginia, nearly ten hours away from home.
The night prior, my then-husband had been furious. His anger was a constant presence, always ready to unleash violence on me. I can vividly recall the first time he struck me, the pain of the remote control crashing against my forehead. My tears weren’t from the physical pain; they stemmed from a deep sense of betrayal. My earliest memory of being struck dates back to when I was just five years old. I thought I had escaped that life, but I was wrong. My longing for a sense of belonging led me into a different kind of torment.
After the remote incident, a destructive cycle began—violence, apologies, and a few brief moments of calm, only to be followed by another outburst. Each instance of pain was always accompanied by reassurances: “I didn’t mean to,” “It won’t happen again,” “You make me so angry.” His words twisted reality, making me feel responsible for his outbursts.
As my first semester began, his rage escalated over my economics class—not our finances, but the fact I was enrolled in a large lecture hall. He accused me of infidelity, calling me a “whore” and “slut.” In response to his accusations, I dropped the class.
I continued to work full-time to support us, clinging to my education as a pathway to a better future, convinced that I could secure a stable job. We tied the knot on New Year’s Eve of 1999, and our honeymoon was merely two days long, during which I felt okay. However, upon our return, his rage reemerged, filling our old farmhouse with tension.
One cold March night, shortly after my 19th birthday, I felt everything I did was wrong. He demanded more money, complained about my job tips, and accused me of infidelity again. After picking up cold fast food for dinner, he threw the fries in my face, igniting another wave of violence. I fought back with words, but he responded with fists. When he struck me, darkness enveloped my vision, and I feared I was badly injured.
Pinned against an armchair, he continued his assault. In the chaos, I managed to escape his grasp, leaving him with a handful of my hair. I rushed to call for help, only to have him destroy the phone line. He stormed out, taking my keys with him. Fortunately, I had hidden a spare key weeks prior, ensuring I wouldn’t be stranded.
I knew he wouldn’t return that night, so I prepared myself for the next day. At 4 a.m., I layered concealer over my bruised eyes, trying to mask the evidence of my trauma. With my Ole Miss baseball cap pulled low, I attended my classes, ashamed and fearful that someone might notice my condition. I replayed the horrific events in my mind, ultimately deciding I couldn’t go back. I was three months pregnant and felt unable to protect myself, let alone a child.
I reached out to my parents, knowing I could find refuge there. I had learned to navigate my upbringing carefully, avoiding conflict at all costs. I filed for a restraining order and a divorce, returning with police assistance to retrieve my belongings. Tragically, my pregnancy ended due to the violence I endured.
I never wore that Ole Miss hat again.
It took me 15 years to share this story. I briefly discussed it with a domestic violence counselor and later revealed it to my current husband. I buried these memories until now. October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month, and I hope that by sharing my experience, others will find the strength to leave abusive situations.
Living with the regret of staying with someone who caused me harm weighs heavily on my heart. I understand that had my child survived, I may not be here today. Love should never come at such a high cost. True love is respectful and nurturing. If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, please seek help. Don’t wait.
For more information on resources available for those facing domestic violence, visit the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence or explore tools for safe home insemination like this home insemination kit.
Summary
This piece recounts the journey of a woman who faced domestic violence in her marriage, detailing her traumatic experiences and eventual decision to leave. It serves as a poignant reminder of the impact of abusive relationships and the importance of seeking help.
Keyphrase
domestic violence awareness
Tags
[“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]