Breaking the Cycle

My sister stared at me with sadness in her eyes. Her tone softened. “You don’t need him or any other man. I’m telling you, Persia, you can do it. Look at me. I’ve done it.”

I stared into my sister’s almond-shaped eyes, lovingly admiring her beauty and strength. And wished I could have been more like her. Independent. Focused. Self-defined. She refused to settle for anything less than what she demanded. And she refused to let a man define who she was as a woman. Period. She had caught her husband with another woman and walked out on him after ten years of marriage and two small children, never looking back. And was happy. I wanted to feel what she felt.

We talked for another hour or so before I headed home. I didn’t know what I was going to do, or how I was going to do it. But one thing was for sure: I had to do something, soon. I saw Ty’s car in the driveway, glanced down at my watch. It was 9:30 p.m. I had been gone for over six hours and had forgotten to call home. Anxiety beat in the pit of my stomach. The house was pitch dark. I peeled myself out of the car and made my way to the door, hoping he was asleep. I stuck the key in the door, turning the knob, then walking in. My heart was heavy. I flipped on the light.

“Where the fuck you been?” he snapped, jumping up out of the chair. He lunged at me. I backed away.

“I-I—”

“I’ve been fucking calling you all damn day.” He grabbed me by the arm. “Where the fuck were you?”

“Ow, Ty. You’re hurting me,” I said, wincing. “I was with Portia.”

“All damn day?” he barked, glaring at me. Twisting my arm.

“Owww. Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you answer you cell?”

“Because I forgot to bring it with me.”

“Bullshit!” he snapped, slapping me. “I wanna know who the fuck you out there whoring with.” I held the side of my face in my hand.

“No one,” I said, holding back tears.

Everything my sister said pounded through my head. No matter what I said, or tried to do, Ty would never change. He would continue to treat me like shit, as long as I let him. I yanked my arm from his grasp.

“I’m tired of you putting your hands on me, Ty. I’m tired of you accusing me of doing things I’m not. I’m tired of you mistreating me. And I’m sick of you talking to me any kind of way. I’m leaving you.”

The veins in his neck and forehead expanded. His eyes dilated. I held my breath. And stood my ground. I was through. I tried to open the door to get to my car before he hit me again. But he caught me, swinging me around, then punching me in the face.

I screamed. Yelled for help at the top of my lungs. “Please, Ty. Stop! Help me.” He hit me again. Blood splattered from my lip.

“You wanna talk slick, Bitch. You wanna get brand new, talking ’bout you leaving me. Didn’t I tell you I’d kill your ass before I let you go?”

His fist felt like steel pipes hitting against my flesh. My vision blurred. He wrapped his hands around my throat, choking me. I gasped for air, felt around for something to grab, anything to get him off me. I felt something. I reached for it, fighting for my life. It was a crystal ashtray. I grabbed hold of it and smashed him in the face with it. He let go of me. I hit him again, then ran out the house, yelling for help. He ran after me. But I was already at the neighbor’s door, banging. Kicking. Screaming. No one answered. He yanked me by the back of my hair, punching me.

“Please, Ty, stop! I’m pregnant. You’re going to make me lose my baby!”

He just blocked everything out and continued to beat me, slapping and punching me. All my sister said was going to come to pass. I would never live to see the birth of my child. He was going to kill me, and there was no one around to save me. Everything began to fade in and out. In the distance, I thought I heard the faint sounds of sirens. A burst of colors swirled through my mind. My life was about to be taken from me, along with everything else. What did I do to deserve this? Nothing. I was slipping. The only thing I did was love a man who didn’t love me. I closed my eyes, preparing to embrace death.

“Stop! Police!” is the last thing I heard before the world around me darkened.

It’s been well over a year since that whole ordeal. And I’m happy to say that I’m safe and sound in Atlanta, and thankful that I’m here today to share my story. I’m grateful the neighbors called the police. Had they not gotten there when they did, not only would Ty have taken my life, he would have taken the life of my beautiful son. Yes, I had a healthy baby boy, Parrish Arlington Swanson. He is my pride and joy.

Although my physical wounds have healed, the scars are still there as a constant reminder of what Ty put me through. But the one good thing, I will never have to worry about him hurting me again. He has ten years behind bars to sit and think about his abusive behavior. And hopefully, during that time, he’ll get some help for his anger. And self-hatred. I loved him the best I knew how, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to love me first. And I do now.

Ty knows about my son. But he’ll never have an opportunity to know him as his father. I petitioned the courts to have his parental rights terminated, and won. I know it will take me a while to get past what I went through with him. With the help of my therapist, I’m sorting through my baggage, peeling back my past one layer at a time. And I’m stronger than I ever imagined. I still have a long way to go. A part of me misses him. How could I not when every time I look into my son’s face I see spl

ashes of him? But I’m okay with it. My son may have Ty’s genes, but he will not be anything like him. I will make sure of that. He will know how to treat a woman. Love a woman. Respect a woman. He will know never to raise his hand to any woman. Period.

You know. Despite everything, I have forgiven Ty. And I wish for him to find the peace that I have found. I can’t control how another person thinks, acts, or feels, but I can surely control how I respond to it. From this day forward, I control whom I let in my life and to what degree. And the one thing I’m sure of, no man will ever again beat me with his hands or his words. I will not allow another human being to have control over me again. No man will ever again define or re-define me as a woman.

Yes, I lived through it, for whatever reasons. But I have made a conscious choice to move past my circumstance of tragedy. And now I am free to love me. Free to just be.

And it’s a beautiful feeling. For the first time in my life, I finally realize that I do not have to ever be a victim of anything, because victory begins with me.

Dywane D. Birch, a graduate of Norfolk State University and Hunter College, is the author of Shattered Souls and From My Soul to Yours. He has a master’s degree in psychology and is a clinically certified forensic counselor. He lives in New Jersey where he continues to work with incarcerated young adults while working on his third novel.