The First Time He Hit Me

I don't remember the first time either one of my daughters fathers hit me. I am certain that in both cases it was after I became pregnant, which is classic textbook partner abuse. I have to say that the circumstances regarding the abuse in both relationships were so similar that I'm not even going to try to separate the two. Although they are two different individuals, for the sake of this writing anyway, it just all sort of runs together and is the same in my mind. 20 years of fear, shame, guilt. So much energy spent trying to make things right and covering things up at the same time. Makes me exhausted just thinking about it. (Remember that I kept this from everone. Nobody knew anything. Ever. Until I went into counseling around March or April of 2009.)

I do remember the shock at being actually hit. Punched. Shoved against the wall and/or down on the ground. Shock that it was happening. And shock that it always came out of the blue. Even though over time I could begin to predict their moves. I was still always shocked. And I often would forget exacly what led up to, what happened during and then shortly after each attack. Sort of like a blackout I guess. I knew something awful had happened, and I would be in pain all over, but ask me details and I couldn't tell you the sequence of events, what I had been saying or doing at the moment his fist, foot, knee, elbow, head, etc came slamming into my body. Over time I thought maybe the sustained head trauma was causing the blackouts. But the more I study I think it was just a safety mechanism of sorts that my mind was literally able to shut off for a few moments, forgetting the worst parts. But that played tricks on me too, because then I could imagine that it wasn't as bad as it was. It's still all a blur. To this day I can hardly separate the sequence of events, nor the events, when it comes to the abuse. Other things that happened during those 20 years are clear as what happened today.

Yes I've been choked out, had my jaw broken, ankles twisted, bruised a million times on every part of my body. I've tried defending myself, running and hiding, screaming to attract the attention of neighbors. I even locked myself in the bathroom once. And so he got the toolkit out and simply took apart the door knob assembly. Often right after an attack would happen, he would be immediately remorseful, tearfully so even. I felt sorry for him. Of course I forgave him. That's what my Christian faith taught me, to forgive, especially if someone wrongs you and then asks for forgiveness. To withhold
that would be as bad as to have committed the abuse.

So there's a piece of it. I think this is the way it's going to come out. Piece by piece. Like a puzzle. And eventually I'll be able to put all the pieces together and make sense of it. Or not. It makes no sense. How one human being could be so cruel to another, especially one who loved the other so deeply. Ok. That's all for now. Thanks for reading. Thanks for trying to understand along with me.