The Uncomfortable Story

A few weeks ago I heard a story about a woman who didn’t survive to tell her story. A woman who was murdered by her lover.

I, on the other hand, am still alive. I am a survivor.

It is incredibly hard to talk about these experiences. It’s hard to listen to them as well but I have a strong belief that shared pain is on the verge of healing.

When I was a child I was told by my aunt the following words:

“Roxana,listen closely, a woman is born to suffer”

Naturally, I said it’s not fair. And that this cannot be true. I remember her describing the way my uncle was bashing her head against the drawers in the kitchen. Yes, I remember her facial expression, her tone, the humid smell her skin had in that hot weather. The stuffy incredibly small kitchen.

I was young. Not even ten. I looked at my mother and she said nothing.

In fact how could she? She was being abused herself.

I said that I would defend myself .

But I didn’t.

I defended my mother…numerous times. I got the slaps that were meant for her. I was ready to defend her and eventually I even threatened my dad that I am ready to kill him if he ever touched her.

From that moment he never hit her again. I was 13.

Now, like every human I suppose, I sought intimacy. I fell in love when I was 20. And abuse started happening . Not the physical one that I was almost imune to but the emotional one. The one that digs deep inside you like a worm, the one that eats away at your foundation, transforming it from stone to sand…slowly, yet with perverse accuracy.

After a year of suffering humiliations, isolation, name calling, slut shaming, and many others I don’t even remember, the physical abuse started taking place. One day it got so bad I almost died. I remember going outside in the streets in the snow, no coat on and unable to believe what was happening to myself. A taxi driver stopped and asked me how I was. When i said the words: “My boyfriend tried to kill me”, I burst into tears. “How did I end up here. This cannot possibly be my life” And indeed I felt like I was watching a horror film. I think the process is called dissociation.

After that followed 3 years of relative peace. I had positive encounters with other men and started to believe that I can have a relationship again.

Until I lived through the most manipulative relationship. This time, after being put down by him in very subversive ways, with polished methods, I chose to disclose some of these aspects to one of my friends.

I came out of there before too late but then all the trauma of my past stubbornly came up to the surface and I started having panic attacks and serious anxiety.

I was a psychological wreck. I remember asking by therapist, choking with crying if this is all I am going to get. That because of my upbringing, I was condemned to abusive destructive relationships.

I can’t forget the pain in her eyes. And it made me realise that I have never owned my pain. I somehow pushed it down because it made me feel unworthy. Guilty, ashamed.

She said that that is not true. That I can and will have nourishing relationships . And I did. I needed someone to tell me that I wasn’t wrong or bad or damaged in such a way that I became hopeless. And most of all, that this was not my fault.

I wonder why people blame the victim. Is it because it’s so uncomfortable to see pain? Real, gruesome, unnecessary pain. It’s easier to blame it, deflect it, deny it…

Now I am still in therapy but I am more than functional. I love my life and I feel a sense of purpose. I am more at peace than I have ever been.

That is why I am organizing a protest.

The voices of the living, especially the survivors, can bring up the unspoken truth of the ones who didn’t survive or are too scared to speak up. And no, I wouldn’t urge everyone to disclose their pain in a messianic attempt to do something. Far from it. It’s hard enough having to live through it and everyone should have the choice to treat their wounds with as much gentleness as they need. This is for me to do.(and others who feel the same and have gathered enough strength) . I know this much : silence only made things worse for me.

And truly it was the voices of others who went through similar facts, the people who disclosed what happened to them alongside with their understanding that gave me strength. I remember so clearly that one of my Facebook friends posted something about domestic violence. And it was almost like a whisper to me… A whisper that made me look closer at the situation I was in. Because you can’t fix something unless you see it and you can’t see it unless you take an uncomfortably close look at it. And I did and leaving that situation gave me my life back.

I am aware that some people can’t escape this horrible situation because they have no place to go. Their community isn’t supportive and even go as far as blaming the victims. I am aware that there are insufficiently developed resources to help victims and support them to recover from such traumatic events.

All I can do is whisper too. I did it many times, although never had the courage to be public about it. I met many women(and men, even though not as often) that went through this horrid experience. And let me tell you : the experience of abuse has nothing to do with social status, race, level of education or anything else. It can happen to anyone and the agresor can have any background.

There were instances in which the victim left the relationship as a result of just being able to be listened to and reminded by me that they are worthy and don’t deserve that treatment.

What was even more debilitating is that, usually, abusive people tend to be popular, charismatic and everybody around them seem to love and trust them . This creates conflict and confusion within both the victim and the people around her. Also, aggressors like to portray the image of the perfect couple. Their social media pages might be full of happy couple photos.

Sometimes stories demand that they are told in 1st person, without hiding behind words and ideas and abstract philosophies. So this is me. These are my wounds.

So, alongside the fact that we should call the bloody police when we hear screams, I urge you to ask people if they are fine if you notice any signs of abuse.

If someone asked me that simple question I would have probably gotten out of there earlier.

One more thing, I want this story, although with gruesome sides and the obvious intention of it being a red signal, to also be one of hope. For only if we have hope can we change this.

As a result of therapy, beautiful friendships and positive love relationships I am a fulfilled person. Let’s hold hands in solidarity for the ones in pain! Let’s be there to show them that we care and we are validating their pain, their anger, their need for help!

Related posts:

Billing itself as a “next generation search engine powered by the community,” PreSearch aims to disrupt the hold the likes of Google have on search engine users by building a community driven…

After enough iterations, a digital system built around the following pseudo-code loop will grow into an AGI or artificial life at an exponential rate: 1. Emit a uniquely identifiable signal to human…

Development methodologies at first glance seem like different options for visualizing the process to launch a product or idea. The visual aid is helpful, but after reviewing the four main…