Breaking the Cycle

I crawled up in my queen-sized bed and cried myself to sleep, waking up in the middle of the night to someone stroking my face and hair. I screamed. Ty had found a way to break into my apartment, leading me to believe I didn’t know what else he was capable of. But little did I know, I’d find out, sooner rather than later.

Nevertheless, he apologized relentlessly, and after two weeks of giving him the cold shoulder, I ended up giving in. I missed him. Besides, he said he’d never do it again. And I wanted to believe him. I needed to.

Weeks slid by without any further aggression. And in the midst of us being the loving couple again, he somehow convinced me to give up my place and move in with him, saying he needed to wake up to me in his bed every night. He professed his undying love for me on bended knee, slipping a beautiful engagement ring on my finger, then making spectacular love to me. I was strung. And against my better judgment, I did just what he wanted. I gave up my own space. I didn’t realize how big of a mistake I had made until it was too late. Unfortunately, I was already playing housewife. I had already given him control.

Interestingly, he did everything he could to make me feel comfortable. He even went as far as getting rid of most of his furniture and allowing me to decorate the house the way I wanted. I had to admit, the first six months were wonderful. I was truly happy. Or so I thought. But when you’re blinded by what you think is love, you can only see as far as your heart will let you. Which, in my case, wasn’t very far. I was looking at life—my life—through cloudy, smudge-stained lenses.

You know. I realize now that Ty was a really disturbed man. But back then, I justified his behavior, believing he’d see how much I loved him once we were married. Once we made our vows to love each other til death did us part, he’d see that he was the only man for me. Silly me. Humph. I can vividly recall the first time he looked me in my eyes, after rocking my body for the third time that night, and whispered in his deep, delicious voice, “If you ever try to leave me, I’ll kill you.”

I nervously laughed. “Ty,” I said, slapping his arm, playfully, “you so silly.”

He didn’t crack a smile. His eyes bore into me, causing a chill to go up my spine. “Nah. Word is bond. I’ll kill you before I ever let you leave me.” He spoke deliberately. Purposefully. And it frightened me. But I let it pass the minute he climbed back on top of me, slipping his manhood back inside of me. I gasped. However, the look on his face told me he’d love me to death, or at least try to—figuratively and literally.

Two weeks later, he threw—Umm, maybe threw is the wrong word to use. It sounds a bit harsh. Let’s use his words, he accidentally pushed—me down the stairs, causing me to break my arm and ankle. When he drove me to the hospital, I lied about my injuries. I told them I had fallen down the stairs. The doctor looked hard at me, then shot a look over at the nurse, but neither said a word to contradict my story. Nevertheless, I spent eight weeks with both my arm and foot in casts because I didn’t feel like having sex.

Even after that, I hadn’t planned on leaving him. Not yet, anyway. A part of me still wanted to believe that he would change. That we could get through this. If I just didn’t do anything to upset him. Time and time again, I rationalized his anger and resentment. His quick and sudden mood swings had to be because of something I said, or didn’t say. Something I did, or didn’t do. Something I forgot to do. Something I forgot to say. There was never any rhyme or reason for his rage. It would come in cycles.

We could go for weeks, even months, without any arguments. He’d be the most loving and attentive man I could ever ask for. Then, out of nowhere, something real or imagined would trigger his rage, causing the gates of hell to open and ending up with me being thrown around, kicked around, and beat around until he tired out. It was a ritual that I had numbed myself to. If I could just weather the storm, I kept telling myself, there’d be brighter days. But each time he slapped me, punched me, or stomped on me, he’d rip away another strand of my being.

I had had enough of his abuse. I was tired of being his punching bag. So, I gradually withdrew from him emotionally and mentally. I became detached. But it only heightened his paranoia, and fueled his insecurities. He must have known something was going through my mind because he had taken all of my clothes—every stitch I owned, including shoes and underwear—and either ripped them up or cut them up before throwing them in the trash. When I confronted him, he punched me in the mouth, splitting my lip. Blood spurted out.

“Owww!” I cried out, grabbing my mouth with my hand. “Why do you have to always put your hands on me? Why?”

He hit me again. I screamed. He hit me again, causing my head to hit the wall. He ripped my clothes off of me, then dragged me down the stairs by the back of my hair.

“You wanna leave. Then take your bare ass on,” he said, opening up the front door. I screamed in agony. He kicked me in my back, then continued punching me until I lost the will to fight back. He was going to kill me. And I had no clue why. He picked me up and tossed me outside in the snow, butt-naked. As if that wasn’t enough, he spit on me. “Fucking bitch.” He walked back inside, slamming the door and locking it, leaving me out in ten below zero weather to freeze to death. Humiliated.

I remember lying in that snow, promising myself he’d never put his hands on me again. I half-crawled and half-dragged myself across the ice and snow to the next-door neighbors’ and banged on the bottom of their door, pleading for someone to help me.

Finally, the door opened and I passed out. When I came to, I was in the hospital suffering from a concussion, two broken ribs, and hypothermia. The doctors probed me. The social workers interviewed me. The police interrogated me. Everyone wanted to know what had happened to me. But I refused to give them any information. You see, New Jersey has very strict domestic violence laws. If there are any signs of physical injury, the police must arrest the abuser. Even without witnesses, or injury, the abuser can still be arrested. I didn’t want to see Ty in trouble. I just wanted the fighting to stop. Was there anything wrong with that?

Well, Portia, my sister, thought so. She was livid. “What the hell you mean, you don’t want to get him in trouble? Fuck him. He could have killed you.”

“But he didn’t,” I rebutted, desperately trying to reason with her. “I made him angry and things just got a little out of hand.”

“A little out of hand,” she repeated, clearly disgusted. “He beat you, stomped on you, ripped your clothes off, then threw you outside in the fucking snow. I’d say that’s a whole lotta ‘out of hand’ as you say. You have nothing to do with how he acted. His anger is his shit. Not yours. Angry or not, he had no fucking business putting his damn hands on you. If you won’t do something about it, I will.”

“Portia, please,” I said, crying. “I don’t want to rehash this. I don’t want the police involved. I just want to go on with my life and forget it happened.” A waterfall of tears fell from my puffy eyes.

She sat on the edge of the hospital bed, wrapping her arms around me. “I know, Sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” I started bawling. “That’s right, let it out. I know it hurts. If you don’t want to sign complaints right now, it’s okay. You just get some rest, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I nodded, my head in her chest. My spirit was crushed. My heart ached. How could he do this to me? Why? What did I ever do to deserve this? I must have cried for another half-hour or so before Portia left me. She didn’t want to leave me alone, but I promised her I’d go back to her place once I was discharged. Sadly, I didn’t. Ty had waited until she was gone, then came into my room. He broke down in tears, begging me not to leave him. Pleading with me to give him another chance. Asking for my forgiveness. My heart went out to him. For the two years we had been together, he had never cried before. Had never shown any emotion, other than anger. His tears seemed genuine. His promises seemed sincere. I loved him.

Unfortunately, my decision to stay with him put a wedge between my sister and me. She thought I was a “damn fool” but it didn’t matter. I was a grown woman, and I was going to do whatever I wanted, with whomever I wanted. Regardless. No matter what she said, I was going home to my man. She hugged me, and handed me a card. I glanced at it before stuffing it into my purse. It read: 1-800-799-SAFE. It was the number for the National Domestic Violence Hotline, a hotline center that provides victims of abuse, information about resources available to them to ensure their safety. I hugged her again, hoping I would never need to dial the number.

The beatings stopped. But the verbal and emotional abuse continued. His behavior and moods were unpredictable. One minute he was ranting and raving about how much he hated me. How sick I made him. The next minute, he couldn’t live without me. He’d smother me with affection. I thought I could handle it. But his words would cut into me worse than his fists ever did. Those wounds were always much deeper. I was sick of riding this emotional rollercoaster with him. I was ready to get off. I had had enough.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was the night he came home in one of his oversized toddler tantrums, cursing and screaming because I hadn’t gotten around to cooking dinner.

“Ty,” I said, heaving a sigh, “I’m not feeling well. I’ve been throwing up all day.”

“And?” he asked. I leaned over the kitchen sink, holding my head. “What does that have to do with your lazy ass not having dinner cooked?”

“I’m tired,” I explained.

“And I should fuck you up,” he snapped.

Right at that moment, my sister’s las