For the last eight years of my fifteen-year marriage, I was being used and abused. I saw my children being held back from social development. I saw our finances going into a deep, black hole. My health was suffering. My husband would not agree to counselling. I was becoming afraid of my spouse - the man who was my mate and partner.
I started writing as a form of expression, consolation and escape. I started to question his intentions and actions. I started to speak up.
I nearly lost my life.
The knife that cut me also cut the cords that bound us to a dark and hopeless existence. Due to the actions of my children and neighbours calling 911, help arrived quickly. Due to the aid of paramedics, doctors and nurses, I survived.
Due to the compassion of my family, friends and workplace, I was able to find a new home for my three children and start a new life.
Domestic Abuse
I soon met people - writers - who had lived through a similar hell and survived to write about it. They wanted to tell their stories. They wanted to educate others. I got to better know the first wife and hear her stories. What similarities there were.
I met people who went to lengths to see that justice would be served. Even though I was dragged through the mud in an unnecessarily long trial, I struggled to keep my dignity. After the ordeal, I was invited to tell my story during a special broadcast on a local television station.
It will be a long time before I can trust and love again. In the meantime, I have my paper and my pen. Oh, yes... I also have this awesome Mac.
