The National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (NCADV) says that, on average, nearly 20 people per minute are physically abused by an intimate partner in the United States. That is more than 10 million women and men in one year. Oklahoma ranks first in the nation for reported domestic abuse, approximately 49 percent of the women and approximately 41 percent of the men have been victims of domestic violence. I was one of those women.
The NCADV describes domestic violence as willful intimidation, physical assault, battering, sexual assault, and/or other abusive behavior perpetrated by an intimate partner against another. Domestic abuse often goes unnoticed and unreported until it is too late. According to the 2021 NCADV Annual Report, there were 138 fatalities in Oklahoma due to domestic violence. I could go on and on about the statistics, but when I first decided to share my story, it was because a young woman told me her husband said when he hit her, it didn’t count if he didn’t leave a mark. WRONG! It counts every time you put her down, every time you threaten her, and every time you put your hands on her in anger.
The effects of domestic violence, whether physical or mental, do leave marks. It leaves scars that may never completely heal and will take years to overcome. I lived in an abusive marriage for nearly five years, and let me tell you, the physical wounds healed much faster than the psychological wounds. It took me years to recover mentally, and there are still times when some of that old life creeps into my new life. Instead of quoting more statistics, I will tell you a story of a young woman and her struggle to free herself from an abusive relationship and move on with her life in a happier, healthier, and overall good relationship. I will tell you my story.
In December of 1981, we were married. I had five months of school left, but I was 18 and thought this was the one for me. I realized years later that the abuse started almost immediately after we started dating and continued throughout our marriage. So we will begin with the dating period. I met him the day school let out my junior year. He was funny and kind of a wild guy, not like anyone I had ever dated. He was a high school dropout, had longer hair, and rode a motorcycle everywhere. We casually went out a few times, and he always seemed to be super attentive to whatever I wanted. He would bring me flowers and buy me cards and was a little jealous at times but never seemed to be too overly protective. I thought it was great.
Then he gave me his class ring to wear. Things started to change. I was his. He wanted us to get married soon, but I was still in high school. I talked to my mom, and we decided it was best to wait until after I graduated. But he kept pushing me to marry him. He was misunderstood by everybody, his parents, his friends, his old girlfriends. He would tell me how miserable he had been before he met me, and I (of course) was going to make everything better for him. We would have a perfect life together. He told me he was going to join the Navy and wanted us to get married before he left for boot camp, so I agreed to marry him as soon as I turned 18, so we didn’t have to have my parents’ permission. This was the first of many lies.
When we had our first really big argument, I should have known that something was terribly wrong with this guy, but I opted to dismiss the signs. He would change for me. I just had to show him how much I loved him. That first fight was a definite control thing, but I thought he was being super jealous over something as dumb as hearing a man’s voice in the background when he called me that day. It was my Dad and his friend visiting, but he was sure I was seeing someone else. When I had finally argued the point until I was furious, I got in my car to go home. I started the car and began to drive off when he grabbed the door handle, and it jerked him off his feet.
I thought I ran over his leg. He rolled over into a fetal position. All I could think was, “I’ve killed him right here in his parents’ driveway.” I yelled his name several times as I jumped out of the car to see if he was okay. He didn’t answer, just moaned. I ran to him and grabbed him to roll him over and see if he was okay. As soon as I touched him, he began laughing and hugged me. He got me to stop. We argued a bit longer, but eventually, I gave in to his poor pitiful life story and promised again that I would always be there for him. There were many other instances, but all ended the same way. I would feel sorry for him in the end, and I knew that I could make him happy. We continued dating. Stick around. I have lots more to tell you.
