Twenty-four is the number of stitches I had across my ear and neck when he disfigured me for life by ripping my ear away from my face. Three is the number of pregnancies I lost as a result of his beating me. Five, 14, and 17 are the number of weeks along I was when I miscarried. Five times I remember being knocked unconscious. Two surgeries. Forty-two pictures that the police took to document my bloody bruises and welts. Zero is how often I called 911.
Sixteen months is how long it’s been since I gathered the last of my strength, left my abuser, and reached out for help. Nearly five years is how long I spent with him. And 36 is the number of days I’ve missed work since July because of court dates, meetings with the District Attorney’s office, time at the safe house, and continued mental-health care stemming for his abuse.
On January 26, my ex-boyfriend got out of jail again. He was arrested for felony stalking, harassment and misdemeanor violation of a no-contact order—all in relation to me. He’ll be arraigned later this week.
Today is the day I share my story. Not to seek pity or make people feel uncomfortable, but to save lives and to give other women courage. Leaving an abuser can be lethal. But the odds are even greater if you stay with him or her.
My nightmare began, like it does for many, as a fairytale. Finally, I had met someone who understood me. He had similar goals, enjoyed mutual hobbies, and adored my quirks. Having met through an ex of mine, I knew Mike six years before we started dating, and I thought I knew him fairly well. Everyone in our group of friends respected him.
I didn’t question Mike when he moved quickly in our relationship. I hardly had time to digest any of the numerous red flags. He was possessive, unemployed, easily angered but quick to apologize. He needed me. Within three months he had moved in.
Quick to defend him, I was so preoccupied with his perceived misfortunes—joblessness, homelessness, financial trouble, even his drinking problem wasn’t his fault—I didn’t see how dramatically my life was changing. I was becoming increasingly isolated.
He no longer innocuously suggested I change certain habits, and he stopped pretending to share my goals. The façade of a harmonious fairytale was replaced with accusations of infidelity, verbal abuse, and finally, physical abuse. In the midst of this, I fought emotional battles inside my head over how culpable I was for the dysfunction in our relationship. Any time I would want to discuss his actions, or behaviors he would start his escalating rants in response by saying, “Well, what did you do?”
What did I do? Sometimes he would snap over someone speaking to me in public. Occasionally he would pick a fight about why my phone had a password on it—certainly I must be cheating. He broke 11 phones during our relationship. His excuses for violence or belittling were always because I failed him in some way. Gaslighting is a common manipulation tactic abusers use to control their victims. Mike slowly began making me question my own intentions and sanity. I was told I misunderstood, misheard or made things up. No one would believe me, he said, my reputation precedes me. I was crazy.
It felt like life was happening in slow motion, in an out-of-body experience, when he had a fistful of my hair while he was smashing my face into the console of his car. I could feel each hair as it ripped out of my scalp, and I remember it sounding like Velcro peeling apart.
His car was swerving in the wind as we barreled up I-25 into Wyoming from Colorado, speeding. I felt my forehead tapping the dashboard as I regained consciousness hearing him beg and plead that I wake up. He must have thought he killed me. Blood was everywhere in the car, and eventually I would realize it was coming from the right side of my head.
I neither reported this incident that disfigured me, nor did I leave him. A month later he was arrested for, and later convicted of, interfering with a 911 call, and for domestic violence. I had tried to call the police dispatch to get him to leave my house, but he broke my phone mid-call. When police arrived and found him attempting to leave, he claimed I was abusive. The cops saw my injuries, which weren’t consistent with his claims, and arrested him.
The next two domestic violence charges stemmed from calls I did not make. One time, a neighbor saw him drag me outside by my hair and called the cops. Another time, a different person called the police, claiming I owed Mike money and accusing me of attacking him. Again, the cops saw my injuries and issued warrants for his arrest.
Each time, I denied the violence and defended him. The fear of retaliation was my oath of silence. Leaving could be deadly, revenge would be brutal, public humiliation would be ostracizing. My silence ensured his control.
Then finally, I broke my silence after spending two days captive in my own basement. Mike promised to kill me. I hoped he would, I was already buried above ground. However, I had formed clandestine bonds with women at school and work who noticed the signs I was being abused. I had also confided in two close friends throughout the relationship. Those women saved my life.
One thing we found in common was we were all the victims of domestic abuse at some point in our lives. I was astounded to hear so many other strong, intelligent, wonderful women had survived the trauma of abuse. It had not dawned on me that there other people going through what I was going through—I certainly felt alone. That surprising support empowered me to leave and to heal.
Looking back, I wish I had paid attention to the red flags in the beginning of the relationship: his possessive behavior, the way he controlled my time, and how he quickly began isolating me. I was not as educated on the patterns of abuse as I am now, but my gut instinct told me something was very wrong.
It hasn’t been an easy 16 months. Since I left, Mike has stalked, harassed, and threatened me. My home is now equipped with six security cameras, new storm doors with deadbolts, and motion activated flood lights. All of these precautions help ease my anxiety about him being free, but the truth is, none of these precautions can stop him from finding me to hurt me. Any time I walk to my car, shop for groceries or let my guard down, I open myself up to potential harm. I understand that sharing my story can be a catalyst for retaliation from him, but in the end it is worth it to break the silence and raise my voice for those who can’t.
— Josephine Lynch is an artist and a medical assistant.