The night had been rough, to say the least. I had endured three hours of being held down on my couch. Head jammed down, repeatedly smashed into the cushions with fists, with more threats of violence if I attempted to stand up. My phone was smashed against the wall; my face was just as devastated. Three hours of listening to why I was not lovable, why I deserved to be held prisoner in my own home. I had called him a liar. I had called him out and now I was stuck on the sofa with a black eye, a gash on my cheek and handprints on my body. It did not make any sense to me. He was a liar. Of course, he was a liar, I had proof, I showed him proof, but it did not matter. I had wounded his fragile ego and he was determined to make me beg for forgiveness.
He asked me if I liked breathing as he sat on top of me, razor blade to my cheek. Pain and fear ripped through me as my skin tore. In my mind, I kept screaming “Yes! Yes! I like breathing and YES! YES! I wanted to continue to do so”, but no words would come forth. I stared at him. Broken, bruised and afraid, I just wanted to give up and give in. I no longer prayed that God would change him, make him see what he was doing to me, my prayers were more desperate now, pleading for him to just take my life. I was tired of fighting and tired of living. I kept repeating that I wanted to live and at the same time struggling to find the will to do so.
I sat there. I could not speak; no words and no movement would make the nightmare end. I had to wait him out. I had not slept, and he had been jacked up on meth for three days straight. His paranoia was showing, his psychosis coming in waves of verbal abuse mixed with violence. He called my work, talked to the HR director and convincingly told her that I had been in a car accident and would be unable to come to work. I could have screamed that it was a lie, I could have yelled for her to call the police, but I sat there instead. I was devastated. He had been abusive before but had never taken it that far, and these new marks on my skin were visible. He was always so careful to protect himself, making sure that most of his abuse was mental, and that the bruises he left were easily hidden away.
Now people would be able to see me and know that I had been hurt. I looked like an abused woman. He had cut my face, left a permanent mark on my skin for the world to see, and I knew there was no amount of downplaying that could change the fact that I, the strong and independent woman, was in too deep.