Breaking the Cycle

t phone conversation played in my head. “Girl, if you don’t leave his ass, he’s gonna end up killing you.” I tried to brush off her remark, but something I had read in a pamphlet she had given me a few months back flashed at me: Women who leave abusers are at seventy-five percent greater risk of being killed than those who stay. I shuddered. If this were true, then it was safer for me to stay.

“It’s not that bad,” I said, trying to minimize, once again, his aggression. “He’s just under a lot of stress at work. No relationship is perfect.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she snapped. “When are you gonna stop making damn excuses for his sorry ass?”

“Well, at least he’s not running around cheating on me like Lester,” I retorted, feeling like a fool for letting the words fall from my lips. I could visualize her rolling her eyes up in her head.

“Ugh! What’s worse, a man who cheats on you or one who beats on you?”

Sadly, I didn’t have the answer.

“Can we not get into this right now?” I said, getting frustrated. Nothing I said would make sense to her. She’d just never understand. “He loves me.”

“Persia, that man doesn’t know the first thing about loving you. The only thing he loves is controlling you. You need to wake up.”

“No, Portia,” I said, getting frustrated, “I just need you to be there for me.”

She sighed. “I am. But I’m also worried about you. Persia, you need help. I only hope you realize it before it’s too late.”

A part of me knew what she was saying was true. I was aware of the fact that domestic violence was the leading cause of injury and death for women in the U.S. But at the time, I couldn’t let go. I wasn’t ready.

My reverie was broken by the slamming of his fist into the back of my head. He yanked me around. “You hear me talking to you?”

“Oww, Ty,” I said, trying to squirm my way out of his grasp. “You’re hurting me.”

He raised his hand over his head, then stopped in midair. “I should break your damn face.”

“Please, Ty,” I whined, raising my arm to shield myself from any potential blows. “I would have had dinner cooked for you, but I’ve been in bed all day. I’ll cook something now. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

He sucked his teeth. “I don’t want you cooking shit until you go wash your stinking ass. You look a mess.” He let go of me, walking into the living room. He plunked himself down on the sofa, fuming. “Ugly ass bitch can’t even have my damn dinner cooked. What the fuck.”

I cringed. Ugly ass bitch, I repeated the words in my head. It wasn’t so much what he said that hurt because he had hurled hurtful names at me in the past out of anger. It was the contempt in his tone that stabbed me, piercing open new wounds and reopening old ones. I was sick as a damn dog. And he could care less. My sister’s voice followed me, trampling through my thoughts as I dragged myself up the stairs with tears swelling in my eyes. Persia, when are you gonna wake the hell up? You deserve better. Look what he’s doing to you. I went into the bathroom, flipped the toilet lid up and hugged the bowl, throwing my guts up. “Oh, God, please don’t tell me I’m pregnant,” I mumbled before quickly dismissing the thought. We always used condoms. It had to be a stomach virus. I got into the shower, wondering how one goes from loving everything about you to saying hateful things about you. It just didn’t make any sense to me. I was leaving him. I had to. For my own sanity, I had to find the strength to walk out that door and never look back.

For months, the idea of leaving him had surfaced and resurfaced, twisting its way through my subconscious. But I was afraid. So, I’d shake it off, pushing it far back in the corners of my mind. Out of fear. You see, I had tried to leave him once before, about a year ago. But he followed me everywhere I went, badgered and harassed me. Came to my job, hid in bushes, even broke into my apartment. He did everything he could to make my life miserable. Finally, I ended up giving in. I didn’t want to see him in jail. And I was afraid he’d carry out his threats, particularly the one to hurt my sister and her children. I believed him. Portia was fourteen years older than me with two daughters, ages twelve and ten. Since both our parents were deceased, Portia and I were all each other had in terms of family. And he knew this. He knew how close we were. And how I’d do anything to protect them, even if it meant sacrificing my own life. He knew I could never live with myself if something happened to her or my nieces. So I went back to him. Hoping. Praying. Willing myself to believe that he’d never have another reason to blacken my eyes or bust my lip again.

To keep peace with him, I made myself crazy trying to figure out what would or wouldn’t set him off. If I wore makeup, he’d think I was out hoeing around. If I didn’t wear any, he’d say I looked like shit. If I cooked something he didn’t like, he’d dump it in the sink or in the middle of the floor. If I asked him what he wanted me to cook, he’d tell me to get a brain. I was damned if I did, and damned if I didn’t. There was just no winning with him. Something had to give.

I stood in the middle of the shower that night and sobbed uncontrollably. My life had spun out of control. I didn’t know why I had let it happen. I didn’t know how I was going to undo what had already been done. But the one thing I knew, I wanted my freedom. However, every time I thought about my life without him, I’d get a sharp, agonizing pain in my heart. It hurt more than the beatings. I loved him more than I loved life.

Then I got a phone call that would change the course of my life. My sister was moving to Atlanta in three weeks. Her job had relocated and she was offered a management position in Marketing and Advertisement with Coca-Cola. Hearing that was like music to my ears; a ton of bricks had just been lifted off my shoulders. She and her children would be far away from Jersey and out of harm’s way. Ty would never be able to threaten their lives again, if and when I decided to leave him. But right at that moment, things were going well with us. I was staying. And yes, I was confused.

“And I want you to come with us,” she added.

I was stunned. “Thanks, Portia,” I said, mentally preparing my list of excuses as to why I wouldn’t be able to relocate. “But Atlanta is just a bit too far south for me. I’m a Jersey girl.” I couldn’t come out and tell her that there was no reason for me to leave right now because Ty hadn’t raised his hands to me or cursed me in weeks. I couldn’t tell her that I was getting married. Not yet.

“Look, before you write the idea off, come out and see for yourself. Stay a few weeks, then decide. If you don’t like it, you can always come back. At least think about it.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

“Promise.”

“Yes,” I said, crossing my fingers. “I promise.”

“The change will do us both some good,” she said, smiling through the phone as if I had already agreed to pack up and go along. “You just wait and see.”

I nodded. “Change is always good. I’ll give you a call in a few days.”

“Persia.”