The scars of partner abuse run deep
TW: domestic abuse, violence
Soon, it will be coming on winter again, and I will feel it in my ribs. My left side, about halfway down, to be specific. Right underneath the bra line, which makes me drag the elastic off of the spot.
One winter, the night before we were to fly down to Florida to spend time with our respective parents, who snow-birded their respective ways to the Sunshine state, we got into an argument.
I don’t remember what it was about, but most likely nothing and everything. Visiting family was stressful. Nobody liked anybody.
He was twice my size, and pinned me down on the bed this particular night. He was yelling, slapping, squeezing, and then clenched his fist with the knuckle in his middle finger popped up, like a point on a battering ram.
He quickly rabbit-punched me in the same spot three or four times, until I stopped struggling and gasped. I couldn’t take a breath. His face was red and full of rage. It was inches from my own.
After yelling a while longer, he got off of me. Then he got off on me. That was the night he raped me, the night before I was due to see my parents in an airport, picking us up and driving an hour and a half home.
I was in shock for most of the vacation. I couldn’t believe what had happened. He intentionally tried to break bones, and he did. Then he raped me, telling me it was the only way to make up from ‘our’ argument. I complied, lying there on the bed as he went to town. I couldn’t breathe easily. I didn’t want more of anything. It was easier to let him have his way, then nurse my wounds.
Those wounds run deep. Over 15 years later and I am still processing. Around this time of year, when older bodies ache and old breaks ache against the skin.
I think on some level, everyone knew that we had an abusive relationship. No one said anything about it. No one wants to talk about it. I’d answer questions, but no one asks out of respect for my privacy. I don’t initiate either, so it’s this weird dead fish topic that everyone can smell but no one mentions.
So why write about it? To throw that fish away. Naming and moving on. I have let the shame live inside of me, like an unwanted tenant scratching at the cage of my ribs, reminding me it’s there. It’s time to evict.
