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How to be a Battered Woman

Valor Brown

    You marry a man with a checkered past because he tells you he loves you, and you can’t believe anyone would ever want to spend that much time with you.
    No, he doesn’t want to leave you, but he never lets you leave the house.
    You talk to the t.v. You watch the t.v. You dream of t.v.
    You look for History Channel or Discovery Channel or anything with even a little substance so that you don’t feel as much like your brain is rotting.
    Your brain IS rotting.
    You want books, but you are too selfish, so stop asking for things like books. All you do is ask for things.
    You really feel like your brain is rotting.
    You get pastries, pans, cell phones, and other things thrown at you.
    Your baby that you just spent many hours settling is woken up by screaming and wall punching.
    You say, “Sorry” because it was just his job stressing him out. Things will change. Tell yourself to be more patient.
     You watch him get red in the face and cry and collapse. You feel bad for him, his checkered past, his Mom abandoning him as a child. You try to sweep it under the house, or in the bathroom, wherever you can sweep it.
    You are having “girl talk” with someone; she will say that her husband never throws pans. It will be as if you had just learned of your two hands and that the sky was blue.
    You talk to the t.v. You watch the t.v. You dream in t.v. You see a SafePlace commercial.
    You wait for him to leave for work and that is when you make The Call.
    You don’t want to make a big deal out of nothing, and it’s probably nothing, but you were wondering if maybe you were being mistreated somehow, you ask the person on the other end of the line.
    You make an appointment to talk with someone about your situation, and you plan for the day you will have to lie about where you’re going and who you are going to meet.
    You cry and say that you haven’t seen your sister in so long. You beg and plead. You say that you won’t use any more gas for a long time, but maybe just this once if you could use a little. You tell him you love him so that he will let you go.
    You go to see the specialist and she tells you that she is not a therapist.
    You say you don’t think there is anything wrong, and she sees right through you, but never tells you there is anything wrong.
    You taste the lies as they stickily drip from your mouth when you say: “But it’s just his job stressing him out.”
    You say with a straight face: “Well, he’s never ACTUALLY hit me with his fists.” And, “When he pushes me I don’t get bruises or anything...”
    You drive home feeling like the world has bottomed out, because the world never had a bottom, you realize. It was just a stage with a rotten floor.
    You get home and he checks the gas gauge to see if you went too far off the leash.
    You make excuses and apologize for getting lost, and going too far off the leash.
    You wait until he’s snoring and you plan all through evening t.v.
    You call SafePlace and you wait weeks for an opening.
    You watch Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends, dating shows, car shows, and shows about remakes of other shows. You try to watch anything of substance instead, but can’t find any.
    You feel like your brain is rotting.
    Your brain IS rotting.
    The day comes for you to leave.
    You cry and tell the intake counselor the “Bitch”, “Slut”, and “Whores” of your daily existence.
    You cry more and you tell her about the pots and the pans, and “No, no bruises.”
    Feel like an idiot when you say that because you are. You shouldn’t complain when there is no visible injury.
    Hold your baby and watch him as he sleepily plays with the wooden abacus.
    Manage to giggle back because it’s not his fault. It was never his fault.
    Feel so happy to have your own room, your own sheet (singular), and your own plastic mattress where no one can terrorize you and your baby during the night.
    Look outside the window of your room and see the 12 ft. barbed-wire fence.
    Don’t complain when you have to share a sponge with 25 other people in your section of the shelter.
    Don’t complain when they blast the stereo all night long and keep waking up your baby.
    Don’t say anything to them when they call you “Stupid White Bitch!” as you walk past them determinedly to tell on them.
    Try to hold your tongue when that ghetto bitch tells her baby to “Shut the Fuck Up!” several times when she said only: “Mommy, can I please have some water?”
    Wait in line for cheese, milk, eggs, and Stove-Top Stuffing, or whatever people are willing to donate.
    Always be the last in line.
    Be prepared for everything to be taken by that time, because some people hoard stuff and then throw it away because it’s too much to eat.
    Hate them for it.
    Hate the fat bitches with skinny kids as you see them stuffing their faces with French fries, while letting their malnourished skinny kids with bruised knees go hungry and have to fend for themselves, while listlessly kicking an under-inflated basketball around.
    Hate the skinny bitches with the fat kids who just stuff candy in their kids’ mouths instead of hugging them.
    Hate everyone, but most especially the one who calls you “White Bitch” because her eldest daughter is one of the brightest children you’ve ever met.
    Watch, but don’t move when that same child you could love like your own brings home her science project, and her Mom throws it across the room without a second thought.
    Hate everyone who touches that dirty fucking sponge that keeps you and your son throwing up with food poisoning for weeks on end.
    Feel mixed emotions when you look at how you’ve lost 50 lbs in one month, so that you are no longer fat. You are free, but don’t know if it was worth it.
    Wait in line for food stamps for seven hours with a crying baby only to be told to come back the next day because they are now closed.
    Tell your advocate about the crazy bitches and how they beat their children.
    Feel helpless when you realize that nothing can be done for it aside from reporting it as you have already done.
    Don’t disturb the crinkly plastic mattress you sleep on, so as not to wake the gentle sleep-breathing of your precious baby.
    Hope he doesn’t roll onto the concrete floor again and cry, like you so want to cry.
    Cry. Cry every night you sleep there.
    Feel weak.
    Feel threatened.
    Feel tired.
    Call him up, and he is sorry. He is so sorry. He misses you and the baby terribly and he was out of line. He is going to go to counseling.
    Want to believe him, but figure that just having one crazy person is better than several.
    Get used to more t.v. Just a little more t.v. Dream of t.v. Vomit t.v.
    Get used to more “Bitch,” “Slut,” “Whore,” and variations therein.
    Feel your brain rotting. Reallyv this time it is.
    Watch him become even more volatile and even more suspicious of everything you do.
    Feel like such a fucking idiot because you are. They told you this would happen and this is how it works. The average woman leaves 6 times, which means you have at least 5 to go because you are a slow learner.
    Watch him as he waves the knife at you.
    Listen as he tells you he’s going to end his life as his face flushes beet red like it does when he is out of control.
    Don’t feel sympathetic anymore as he collapses on the ground and pulls the phone cords out of the wall.
    Listen to him tell you, you can’t leave the house unless it is in a body bag.
    Watch your baby’s face, completely soundless and wide-eyed with fear, as you try to flee barefoot with him in your hands.
     Look for a porch light or anything in the neighborhood where all houses are the same beige. No friends in any of them you will realize while barefoot and desperate.
    Realize there is no time to think and you can’t run faster than a car.
    Don’t watch your baby’s face as he drives on the lawn trying to run you over.
    Believe him. Believe him. Believe him. Believe him.
    Stop.
    Tell all of your shit at the protective order hearing.
    Copy and type all of your shit and tell it again when you apply for scholarships.
    Copy and type all of this same shit and tell it again when you try to get a divorce.
    Copy and type all of your shit and tell it again when you apply for apartments, schools or anything else requiring a signature.
    Know what the girl in group therapy is talking about when she says: Why do we always have to air out our shit?
    Take money management classes with other survivors and see their faces light up as they learn how to improve their credit and balance their own checking accounts.
    Hear the stories of other women (former bitches). Hear about the rapes, the butts of guns, and forced prostitution.
    See them differently.
    Cheer them on when the ones who held their heads down start to walk straighter.
    See them see you differently.
    Want to hate men, really want to hate them.
    Look at your son’s face, and know you never will.
    Watch the sunrise in his smile.
    Never, EVER look back.
    Ignore the crazy bitches and their children this time around. Nothing will stand in the way of progress and healing.
    Befriend the other survivors because they are.
    Lean on them as they lean on you.
    Write letters and songs even if it is a waste of time.
    No longer care that it’s a waste of time.
    Know that it isn’t a waste of time, but instead it is your voice. Let it ring even louder next time.
    Do your homework by the bathroom light; by the pervasive streetlight; by any light because it’s your ticket out of here. It’s your ticket to any place you choose.
    Carve out a new life for you and your son, out of ash, out of air, out of the love for him that kept you together those many months.
    100. Find the threads. Find the lessons. And look back with a new set of eyes.

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