Parenting
By Rachel E. Bledsoe
Oct. 6, 2016
During my freshman year in college, I quietly took a seat in the middle of a crowded classroom. My focus was on the blank notebook paper in front of me, as I began jotting down notes about geology—a subject I clearly failed to remember because I can’t recall what class it was.
To hide my disheveled ponytail, I wore a dirty white baseball cap adorned with a bold Ole Miss logo. Ironically, I wasn’t attending the University of Mississippi; I was at a college in West Virginia, nearly ten hours away from home.
The previous night had been tumultuous. My then-husband, Jake, was in a rage, as he often was, ready to unleash his anger on me. I still remember the first time he inflicted physical pain on me; he threw a remote control that struck my forehead. I wept—not out of pain but from the shock of betrayal. My earliest memory of violence dates back to when I was five. I thought I had escaped that life, but it seemed my longing for a home only led me deeper into another hell.
After the remote incident, a familiar cycle emerged: violence, apologies, brief periods of calm, and then more violence. Each act of aggression came with a litany of justifications.
“I didn’t mean to. It won’t happen again. I love you. You make me so angry. If you wouldn’t upset me, I wouldn’t lose control.”
As my first fall semester began, his anger flared over my economics class—not our finances, but the fact that I was in a large auditorium with male classmates. He hurled insults at me, calling me a whore and a slut, leading me to drop the class.
I worked full-time to support us, clinging to my university classes with the hope that education would lead to a better life. We had married on New Year’s Eve in 1999, and our honeymoon was fraught with anxiety about the impending Y2K disaster, including instructions not to use the fireplace for cooking.
Our honeymoon lasted just two days, after which Jake’s rage returned to our century-old farmhouse.
One cold March night, shortly after turning 19, I experienced another episode of his fury. He demanded more money, claiming my café tips weren’t sufficient and accusing me of infidelity. I had brought home cold fast food, and in a fit of anger, he threw the fries in my face.
“You should have known they would be cold by the time you got home,” he shouted.
Words turned to violence as he struck me, and darkness engulfed my vision. I thought I was bleeding, but it was merely the sensation of popped blood vessels in my eye.
Pinned between him and a large green armchair, I felt helpless. He struck me again, hitting my other eye, leaving both swollen and painful. I longed for help but could only think of escape.
In a desperate move, I tried to call for help, but he yanked the phone line from the wall. After more violence, he stormed out, taking my keys with him. Fortunately, I had hidden a spare key weeks earlier, a small Toyota Corolla key that became my lifeline.
Knowing he wouldn’t return that night, I waited until early morning to apply makeup, attempting to disguise my swollen eyes with layers of concealer and foundation. I grabbed my Ole Miss cap, wearing it low over my face as I drove to class, ashamed and anxious. I didn’t want anyone to see me; I had no explanation for my injuries.
During that class, I made a pivotal decision: I couldn’t go back. I was three months pregnant and felt unable to protect either myself or my unborn child.
I contacted my parents, knowing I could stay under the radar at their home. I filed for a restraining order and divorce. I returned with police assistance to retrieve my belongings. Tragically, my pregnancy ended due to the violence, and I never wore that Ole Miss cap again.
It took me 15 years to share this story. I spoke about it briefly with a domestic violence counselor and eventually confided in my current husband about my past. As October, Domestic Violence Awareness Month, arrives, I hope that by sharing my experience, I can encourage others to escape unhealthy and abusive relationships.
The pain of staying with a man who harmed me cost an innocent life. Had that child been born, I doubt I would be alive today. Love should never come at a painful price. True love is patient and kind. If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic violence, please seek help and don’t go back.
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Summary:
This narrative chronicles the painful journey of a woman named Rachel, revealing her experiences of domestic violence and the cycles of abuse she endured. After years of suffering, she found the courage to escape her abusive marriage, ultimately leading to personal healing. As she reflects on her past, she emphasizes the importance of recognizing unhealthy relationships and encourages others to seek help.
Keyphrase: Domestic Violence Awareness
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