7 Tries

Someone told me today that a woman will leave an abusive partner seven times before actually staying gone.

There is a small part within me that is proud that it only took me twice.

Taking Back What The Enemy's Stolen From Me

I still feel anger. Not towards him, but towards those who still embrace him. I realize that God forgives us despite our sin, and He continues to accept us as His children upon repentance, but... The grief that I felt for the things stolen from me through him led me to be angry. That is over though, now, and I don't have anger towards him. Those that still call him their own, however, I can't seem to get over.

The problem is not that they "love" him. The problem is that it feels as though they have chosen to love him over me. I think to myself, "if only they knew the heinous things that happened, then surely they would take the vengeance upon him that I so want someone to take...or at least they wouldn't call him one of their own." I divorced him, and even though I cannot change the fact that he is the father of my children and thus I will always be tied to him, I did change the fact to that he is not mine. However...telling the stories of the almost five years of hidden wounds that turned into scars just isn't something I am interested in. I am horrified by the things that I had to endure, and ashamed of the things I had to partake in. I don't want to remember them, let alone have anyone else remember them for me.

It is confusing and hurtful to me that no one has punched him in the face yet. There, I admitted it. Why hasn't anyone done that for me? If I ever, ever was told that one of my sisters had to go through some of the things I did, I would surely deal with her offender. Who the heck cares if that person was once considered family to you? Am I not of more value than a relationship? Is the purity, security, and life stolen from me not of value?

The comfort I can derive from this is that to God, I am worth it. Somehow, he is able to love the offender while defending the victim. He continues to stand for me. He is able to see the past, see what is still going on, and can love and teach one person while loving and bringing justice to the next. I must learn to have HIS grace be sufficient for me, and to not allow the people around me to affect my destiny...because...they don't affect my destiny.

I am taking back what the enemy has stolen from me. I am taking back my joy, my peace, my freedom, my body, my right to live without sin in my life. I am taking back my dreams, my rest, my attitude. I am taking back my right to have a healthy, beautiful, loving family. I am taking back my right to have a husband who loves me and who treats me as Christ would treat the church.

Every little tiny thing that the enemy stole, I am taking back.

Through Your victory, I can finally sing
I'm taking back what the enemy's stolen from me


Freedom has been won
Death is overcome
Victory is ours and we'll keep singin'


I'm taking back what the enemy's stolen from me
I'm taking back what the enemy's stolen from me

(Taking Back by Worth Dying For)

365 Days Later

One year ago tonight, my children and I slept on the futon of my sister's house. We lived the next few days with our belongings in laundry baskets, me attempting to keep things "normal" for the kids and to keep myself from having a heart attack from the terror of leaving John. It's been 365 days. Tonight, I will sleep in my own bed. Like when I was married to him, I will get up at 0430 hours tomorrow and get myself and the kids around to leave so I can go to work. I will do it on my own, clean off my own car, shovel my own driveway, and pack everyone's stuff. I will still stay up late tonight so I can clean after the kids are in bed.

But this time, this year, things are different. I will be able to turn on the light when I get dressed, I won't have to worry about a child's cry waking him up, I won't get into trouble for using the blender to make my breakfast. Tomorrow, as I work, I won't have to try to balance a bazillion text messages and phone calls asking what I'm doing, where I am, who I am with, and why my tonal inflictions are they way they are. Thank God that stress is gone! Today, I celebrated by taking every single piece of lingerie and other "things" I learned to loathe to the dump. I loaded my van with the few remaining objects in the house that had been damaged in fits of anger and threw them into a deep pit of garbage They are all gone now, never to be looked at by me again.

Today, I've deemed to be Freedom Day. It's difficult to uproot your life and leave a situation even when that is the only option left. Being free, though, is worth it.

I am a survivor, not a victim

The day I left, I was terrified. The night before, he had kept me up very, very late. It was a cycle that was all to common in my household: I come home after 24 or so hours of working straight, I am tired, I get the kids in and to bed (without disturbing him, or at least trying not to), and then we sit on the couch...or he follows me around. No matter what I say or do, he tells me that I don't love him, that I didn't miss him enough while I was working. I reason with him, I am calm. My integrity is questioned, my character attacked. But I know that it's not what I say or do, it's a time thing. Two hours will need to pass before I am allowed to go to bed...

...but I am tired tonight. I haven't slept hardly at all in 48 hours. I have a six month old who I nurse and pump milk for while working, and another beautiful child who just had her second birthday not long ago. I don't even think about the fact that I would love a hug and to be held and to be told I am loved and that he is so glad to see me. I have been ignoring those needs and feelings of mine for a long time, because it's easier to think you don't actually need those things if you are scorned for asking. It's easy for me to still love him, though, and I don't think twice about gently reminding him that we could go to bed, that sleep would help, that I do love him and remind him of the reasons why he should believe this.

I am not allowed to go to the bathroom. I am not allowed to go to bed. I eventually get so exhausted that I am crying. I am scared to have him in my face, to restrain me from even walking through my own house. I am trying to keep it mentally together even though my mind is being twisted to the point it convulses and I want to kill myself. So I finally have a plan...surely, I think, if I go into Amara's room, I could sleep on the floor next to her bed and he will leave me alone so that I can sleep. Surely, he wouldn't wake his daughter up.

Once I have a chance, I make it into her room quiker than his hands or body can stop me. I am quiet, and I stifle the sickness and terror I feel inside, relieved that I will soon be able to ignore it once again and continue being happy and continue loving him. But he doesn't stop. He stands in the doorway and demands that I come out with him. Amara wakes up and is crying. He is livid with me and will not let me sleep, will not let her have peace. I have no choice but to leave the room for the sake of my daughter. So like every other time, I end up giving in and separating myself mentally from him and the situation until it's over and I'm allowed to use the bathroom and allowed to go to bed.

This time, though, we both know. We know our marriage is over, and I cry silently next to him as I pray and I hear God tell me that it is time. I let him hold me, and I grieve that this will be the last time he does, and that I cannot keep going. This was never supposed to happen to me, and surely not to my children. He doesn't ever hold me, and this is how I know that he also knows.

In the morning, I know that he still knows, because he won't leave for work until I promise that I won't leave him today. I feel so guilty for lying. And half of me hopes that I'm not lying, that he will take the van, leaving me only the car which isn't working very well and which doesn't give me the space I will need to pack us up. I beseech God one more time as I lay there, giving him another chance to give me another day, another chance that maybe everything will change. I ask God to make it clear if I am to leave; it would make more sense for him to take the van since it was working, so if he took that, I would stay. If he went in the car, though, a decision that wouldn't make sense, I was to go.

After I heard a vehicle leave, Amara and I went to the door and looked out. And I cried.

It took me a few hours to pack us up. I called my dad, crying and said something about that it was time for me to leave and that we were coming. My family didn't know what was going on. My friends didn't know what was going on. But I couldn't do it anymore. There was no choice. I just couldn't do it anymore. A friend talked to me on the phone for two hours while I grabbed clothing, diapers, food, and toys and threw it all into baskets and into the van. The longer it took, the more terrified I got. My whole body shook.

I wrote a note saying that we were sorry and that we loved him. Amara drew a picture on it. And then we left. This is the beginning of me being a survivor and not a victim.

In honor of domestic violence awareness month