Letters Written in White (19 page)

I AM A mother of two. Some days I wonder how I am called a mother at all. After I had my first child, my son, 3 years ago, I quickly learned just how challenging being a mother would be. All those horror stories I read about mothers wanting to stick their inconsolable child in a drawer or closet, didn’t seem so horrid anymore. Here I was, 27 years old, alone with a newborn that wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, and never seemed content. I loved him so much my heart hurt. His face was perfect, his skin was like velvet, and his big brown eyes were full of so much love already. Why couldn’t I handle this? Why couldn’t I accept the loss of my freedom? How could I resent this innocent child that I created for the exhaustion and delirium he was causing? Isn’t that what the last 9 months had been for, to prepare me? I watched my surrounding friends all have their perfect babies. Their lives barely changed. Me, I was alone, scared, hurt, and worst of all disappointed. Without having much help, whenever I did, I chose to sleep. Nothing could bother me if I slept and oh, how badly I wanted to sleep. The irony there is when I did get a break that is when my guilt really set in. How could I miss him so much when I begged for a break? How could I worry if someone else was taking good care of him when I barely could? I should have listened to the doctors in the hospital after I failed that stupid 7-question postpartum survey The red flags were there, I was already suffering, but I chose not to listen. I blamed it on my nightmare of a birthing story, the fact that he didn’t latch on, the pain from my C-section. I went home, plastered a happy face on, and cried morning noon and night. My husband would leave for work and as he shut the door, I saw the worry for both his son and I etched all over his handsome face. Of course, there were days I thoroughly enjoyed motherhood and there were moments where I was proud and optimistic, but for the first 6 months of his life I questioned if I had made a mistake. Luckily, I got help and with medication, experience, and time, I got a handle on things. In fact, I now see myself as one of the lucky ones. I didn’t let that fear, that paralyzing panic; stop me from having another baby. I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl 6 months ago and I am so blessed that I got a second chance. A second chance to enjoy labor and delivery, a second chance to enjoy the miracle of a newborn, a second chance to prove to myself I was made to do this.

I MET MY sons biological father my senior year of high school. He was the be all end all in that town. The first two years we were together he was amazing. I couldn't ask for anything better. Then he started smoking weed. That's okay, I'm not against that but it turned into alcohol. He was drunk every night. After a year he started the harder drugs. Coke, meth. You name it he was doing it. It started with him running my leg over in his truck. He had no recollection of it. We started going to parties every night and when we would get home he would be tripping out so bad he had no idea where he was. The first night that happened, he head butted me straight in the nose and sent me to ICU. I went back. He started pushing me around when he was sober and controlling my every move. Checking my odometer in the car. Keeping me from my friends and family. Kept me from a full ride athletic scholarship. Then he started cheating on me. He would get so mad every time I brought it up that one night he was trashed and pulled a loaded shot gun to my head and almost pulled the trigger. I snuck out that night and went home. Fast forward four months he was sober and I went back. Now we are at the three year mark. One day we were going out to eat and he had no drugs left. He ripped my rear view mirror off and beat me upside the head with it while I was driving down the highway. I still stayed. Now I’m six months pregnant. I tell him I’m leaving. He right hooks me straight across the face plumb sober. So I’m six months pregnant, homeless bc I left, and I have a black left side of my face. I’ve never seen him since then. My son is five. He’s never met his biological father and we live thirty minutes apart. He’s married. Has three kids. And is still in and out of jail for domestic violence and drugs and alcohol. My son saved my life. No woman is ever stupid for staying in an abusive relationship. I stayed for five years because I was terrified of what he would do if I left. It took me years to trust. To love. I met my husband now four years ago. He adopted my son and he loves us completely. There’s always hope. And there are always people to love and support you. Always.

MY HUSBAND JOINED the military 4 years ago, Army to be exact. I was not happy about this to say the least, but I knew the reason for doing it was to give us a better life. He was an Infantry man; he was on the front lines. He was in harms way every single day that he was in Afghanistan. He did two deployments there, one for 10 months, one for 7. I could actually memorize the email they would send to us when one of the soldiers from our battalion had been KIA. It got to a point where I was afraid to answer my front door, my heart would stop whenever the doorbell rang. I was traumatized to look out the window in fear of seeing the vehicle sitting in my driveway to tell me my husband gave the ultimate sacrifice.

Thankfully, he was able to return home to us, both times. Being a military family is a rewarding, yet extremely draining experience. I know one thing though; I truly learned the meaning of "Don't take anything for granted." & "Cherish the little things in life," because your loved one could be at home BBQing Monday night and be told he's going to get on a plane Wednesday night to fight in a war. Nothing will prepare you for what your whole family is about to go through, nothing. My husband missed all of our son's birthdays until he was 5. He missed more than one Christmas, he missed Halloweens, Anniversaries, bedtime stories, milestones, he even missed our daughter's first year of life. I would look at other couples fighting or even celebrating things together at a restaurant and think to myself, "I wonder if they realize how lucky they really are to be together right now?" Even when we finally got our loved ones back, it wasn't all smiles, hugs and rainbows. It's a transition. For them and for us. It's more difficult than you think it is to jump back into everyday life. Even simple things too, now having to share the T.V, deciding on dinners together, working plans around both your schedules now.

Regardless of all the tough times, to have that moment, of hugging your loved one after months of not even hearing their voice, is a feeling that only a small percentage of us get to feel. You realize how strong you've become, how changed they are, and how blessed you are to have someone in your life who is courageous enough to put their life before yours. I will know for the rest of my life how being a military wife molded me into the woman I am today.

IT'S FUNNY HOW your body can hold anything off until you can finally focus on it.

When I was sixteen I met the devil in human form. He was smooth and charming and knew I was vulnerable. My parents had just divorced and my father remarried a woman who was my oldest sister's age. The first month was amazing. He treated me like I was the only person that mattered. I later figured out it was a control thing. The first time he hit me was 4/21/2001. I was stunned. That back hand came so quick. He apologized and apologized, told me he loved me and didn't wanna live without me. I believed him.

The abuse only got worse over the next year. He would choke, punch, kick and pull my hair so hard that when I would shower fists full of hair would fall out. But still I stayed. I didn't think I could live without him. I don't understand why, he offered NOTHING. But I later came to the conclusion that it was a game, I was gonna make him a good guy and prove to everyone I could change him. I was so wrong. He would hit me in front of anyone without thinking twice. His mother would buy me makeup to cover up the scratches and bruises. I lost my best friend, who begged me to open my eyes.

I left home at seventeen because I thought I needed him more than my mother. I had to call him 32x before he finally came and got me. That should've been a sign. My first weekend living with him we were both arrested because he beat me up at an apartment complex when I went to look for him. So many horrible things happened. And I fell deeper and deeper into a hole I was scared to climb out of. I lost so many friends. I would go to school with scratch marks on my neck. Everyone knew he hit me. But I pretended they didn't.

I remember one night I jumped out of his car when it was stopped because he was punching me and I started praying for an angel. I ran to two houses and no one answered the door. Then out of nowhere two cops pull up. They saw me and asked if I was ok. I lied and said yes. They asked if I needed help. I lied and said no. They asked me if he was hurting me. I lied and said no. The days blurred. And one day I was pregnant.

We were together for two and a half years at this point and I moved back home. The abuse intensified. He wouldn't hit me, just choked me. The night before my baby shower he gave me a black eye. I have one picture of that day. Looking at it now, I looked so sad. What was I trying to prove?! The night my son was born, he left me to get drunk only twenty minutes after he was born. I vowed that day to protect my son. I didn't want him to touch my son or my son to see the example I so poorly chose to be his father. It took me two more years but I left him. He would come to my house with a gun and bang on the door for hours. The last time he hit me. I had given him a chance. He beat me to a pulp. My mother cried. I was so swollen and bruised.

I spent two years processing my pathetic life so far. 16-21 I was a prisoner. I was the perfect pawn for him. He was able to control and manipulate me. I missed everything in high school. Lost all my friends because I made him number one and when they spoke badly of him, I cut them off. I was so alone. I would lay in bed and cry and cry. How had my life come to this? Why did I let this happen? I couldn't believe I had an innocent child brought into this mess! I was terrified of men. They were all going to hit me. I was never going to be loved. Sometimes when I showered I could feel the searing hot pain from my past wounds if the water was too hot. But I kept going because I had to.

I didn't have time to break down now. I needed to finish school because my son deserved stability. I needed a career to provide for him and myself so no one else would. I would never depend on anyone again. That relationship was necrotizing. He doesn't even have a relationship with my son. I later figured out that he was on drugs as well as an alcoholic. How did I miss that? I never did any of that! I was so stupid. But I survived. I survived because much like my mentality of that fucked up relationship, I refused to bend anymore. He couldn't hurt me if I didn't let him. I lived my life for my son and myself. I didn't worry about having a partner, I only focused on my son being loved and protected. He's eleven now and knows that I would die for him. He's so sweet and puts others before himself, which I hope won't be his downfall one day.

I did meet my husband in 2008. It was unexpected and perfect. I never realized that I was drowning until he pulled me out of the water. I still have triggers. I don't think they'll ever go away. The hashtag #whyistayed moved me and healed me more. Reading other stories and talking about mine helped. I lost some "friends" when the abuse scandal came out on Ray Rice. I refused to let them bash his girlfriend over something they'd never understand. I can't tell you why I stayed so long, I don't remember the exact moment I was done, but I survived. I'll never be put in that situation again. That's a promise.