I finally realized she had to deal with her shortcomings, like I had to learn to deal with mine. By taking control of me, it gave her the sense of security she lacked in her relationship with her mother, the relationship Candy swore would never be hers.
I’m in a new relationship now with a wonderful woman who appreciates me, as I do her. While we’re taking things at a leisurely pace, I have a feeling this one may be the one to last a lifetime. Never again will I allow someone to make me feel unworthy.
Never compromise your happiness for someone else.
Shonda Cheekes is the author of Another Man’s Wife and the upcoming sequel In the Midst of It All coming in May from Strebor Books International. She is also the author of the novella “Lessons Learned” in Blackgentlemen.com. She resides in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband and children.
VICTORY BEGINS WITH ME
DYWANE D. BIRCH
How did it all begin? Well, I know the answer. Still, I’ve often asked myself that question over and over, trying to make some sense out of the craziness I allowed—yes, allowed being the operative word—myself to live through for almost three years of my life. You see, I had willingly given away my heart, body, and soul to a man who was controlling, verbally abusive, and physically combative. In other words, he beat the shit out of me. Excuse me for cursing. But I don’t know any other way to say it without sugarcoating it. In a nutshell, the bastard would beat me with his fists like I was a man on the block. He was a man who hated women. And I was, ironically, the woman who loved him.
You see, I spent those horrible years of my life covering up bruises, and telling many stories to explain my misery away. I was scared to tell anyone the truth—let alone face it—that I was a victim of domestic violence. Out of embarrassment. Out of fear. I closed the windows to my soul, losing myself in a kaleidoscope of emotions. I foolishly gave a man I loved—a man who knew nothing about loving me—the license to control, intimidate, and threaten my total being as a woman.
Why? Because I allowed myself to get sucked into a disturbing fantasy that he was the only man for me. I allowed myself to believe that without him in my life, I would be nothing. But the truth of the matter was: I was someone who allowed him to treat me like nothing. I didn’t demand he respect me. Instead of walking away the first time he raised his hand to me, I stayed, hoping it was an isolated incident. But it never was. And still I stayed.
For those of you who may not know, time clock statistics state that every nine seconds a woman is abused in the United States. It is also said that one-fourth of all women in the U.S. will be abused by a boyfriend or husband sometime in their lifetime. And that thirty percent of all women who die—by homicide—are killed by the men in their lives. It’s disheartening when I think back on how I was one of those women. Battered, frightened, alone, and on the brink of death. Stripped of my self-worth, and robbed of my dignity. But somehow, somewhere, I found the strength, and courage, to break free from the grips of abuse. And became a survivor.
And so here is where my personal journey through pain and abuse ends, and my humble road to self-discovery begins… hopefully, my story—the tears I shed, the hurt I felt—will free another life from the chains of domestic violence.
So, again, how did it all begin? It began with a dance: A rump-shaking, finger-popping, hip-grinding, sweat-it-all-out night on the dance floor at the Freehold Elks with one of the finest brothas in the place. Tyquan Arlington. Six-f
our, chiseled, dark-chocolate coated, with piercing brown eyes, and a smile that would melt the snow-capped Alps. But little did I know that beneath the surface of his playboy charm was the temperament of a rattlesnake. Dangerous.
One dance led to another, then another, and before I knew it, it was “last call for alcohol” and time for me to go. Ty, as he liked to be called, walked me out to the parking lot to my car where we stood for another half-hour talking and laughing.
“Damn, Girl,” he said, licking his lips. “I’m really feelin’ you. I dig your style.”
I smiled. “I’m feeling you, too,” I responded, looking him dead in his dreamy eyes. “But I’m not in the mood for no drama.”
“Nah, Baby. I don’t come with drama. Just a whole lot of good love.”
He smiled, flashing his pearly whites. He was sexy. And I definitely wanted to get to know him better. But I wasn’t going to press it. I had recently gotten out of a two-year relationship with an idiot who actually thought he could have me, along with his three babies’ mamas. Wrong answer. I was tired of wearing my heart on my sleeve and having it stomped on, then thrown in my face. A relationship with another man was definitely out of the question for me. Period. But here it was, almost two a.m., and I was standing outside flirting with a man I’d known for less than three hours.
Anyway, I already knew if he pushed up and wanted the digits, I’d hit him with them. If not, oh well. I’d catch him around some other time.
“Well, it was nice talking to you,” I said, pressing in the code for my car door.
He held it open, then closed it once I had slipped in behind the wheel, and rolled down the window. I started up the engine.
“Damn.” He sighed, leaning his body into the car. The crisp scent of his Dior cologne enticed me. He lowered his voice. “I can’t let you get away just like that. Let me get your number.”
I grabbed a pen from out of my glove compartment, then took his big, warm hands into mine and wrote my numbers—home phone and cell—down in his palm.
“Yo, that’s wassup,” he said, grinning. “I’ma holla at you.” He lifted my chin with his finger, then kissed me lightly on the mouth. “You gonna be mine,” he said, kissing me again before stepping away from the car.
I smiled, licking my lips, then slowly backed out of my space, pulling out of the driveway and heading down Throckmorton for Rt. 9 North.
The next day, he called and we talked on the phone for almost three hours. I learned he was originally from Brooklyn but had been living out here in Jersey for the last two years. He was single. Had a J-O-B. Had a car, and his own place. No children. Hmm. No woman, no baby mama drama. The more he talked, the more I liked.
By seven o’clock that night, I was sitting across from him at Freshwaters in Plainfield, having a delicious soul food dinner. By eight-thirty, we were off to a movie at Perth Amboy Cinemas and by midnight, I was back at his townhouse in Matawan being licked from head-to-toe, from front to back. He had loved—let me rephrase that—sexed—every inch of my body incredibly.
However, had I known my whirlwind beginning would have a tumultuous middle and a devastating ending, I would have run for cover without blinking an eye. But he was smooth. In a matter of weeks, I had gone from being single and free to being Ty’s girl. We were inseparable. He’d say all the right things, and do all the right things. He’d tell me how beautiful I was, how I was the only woman for him. He wined and dined me constantly, and bought me flowers “just because” almost every day. He held open doors for me, rubbed my back, massaged my feet, and continuously made love to my mind and body all night long. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me.
Then as the weeks collided into months, the flowers stopped, and all of his gentlemanly qualities seemed to slowly disappear. He became more demanding, and increasingly possessive. The signs—no matter how subtle—were definitely there. I just refused to see it for what it was. At first I thought his jealousy was cute. But then it became aggressive and began to border more on the crazy end of the spectrum.
He didn’t care where we were. In public, behind closed doors, it didn’t matter—he’d make a scene if he thought I gave another man eye contact or if a brotha spoke and I cordially smiled. He was really beginning to wear my nerves thin with his constant accusations. No matter how many times I tried to reassure him that I was committed, and faithful to him, he still questioned my trust. I was in a no-win situation.