Christmas Crazy. Again.

Just moments after I first set foot inside a domestic violence shelter, I realized something -- domestic violence doesn't have a face. You can think you know what "type of woman" will end up in a violent situation, but the reality is anyone can. Every time I helped an agency run a demographic report or churned through their data, I saw how little the woman they support had in common.

Possessing the knowledge that DV doesn't have a face is why I wasn't surprised to learn that one of the kindest, smartest, and seemingly most confident women I know had a story. Her story is very much so her own, but yet I've heard over and over again.

Her words are below. They're a very small part of her story. More of it is here.

I'm sharing her words because sometimes I think it's too easy to look away from domestic violence. We hear about things that have happened, and ignoring them seems to be the quickest way to make them go away. If we don't look at the videos of Ray Rice hitting his wife, for example, it's simple to focus on the football.

But we need to look.

And we need to help break the cycle.

There's a lot we can do to help break the cycle of domestic violence. One small thing is to show the kids who have entirely too much experience with violence that there is another way. There are people who care about them. They do matter.

It's Christmas Crazy time. Let's help break the cycle.

Amazon Wishlist

************************************************************

Thank you for sharing your story, V. And thanks for always being one of those people who strives to create a world that's a little bit better than the one we knew yesterday.

A few days before the end of the semester, as I worked on a research paper in the living room, he came downstairs and sprawl out on the couch beside me. I had my work spread out over the coffee table and beside me on the couch. The standing floor lamp was adjusted so that I could see every single paper in the same light so as not to miss one detail in putting this paper together.

I'd spent so many years of my life, about ten by this point, running away in search of myself, that I had no idea who or what I was searching for. I always knew 'this isn't it' though. Now at my fourth college, already with a journalism degree that I didn't want to use, but enough credits in theology, literature, and psychology to start my own heady religion focusing on the analytical literary theory of modern day America, I was at it again, back to school, majoring in writing. I was close this time, too, to picking up another degree. This small liberal arts college seemed a good fit for me. I was making a few friends and found professors who offered committed support, I was playing in a band, I was really exploring my artist nature
- hell, I'd fitted an entire runway show earlier that year at the University with every piece born of my sewing machine, patternless. Yet I still carried the ever-engrained mantra of 'not good enough' which also included, 'no one will ever love you' and that southern standard, 'know your place,' in my mind.

He impatiently sat and waited for acknowledgement.

After a minute, he leaned over and with his foot, pushed the light a foot from me and out of my reach. I got up, moved it back, and sat back down.

I'm trying to finish this paper. It's due Tuesday. I've been researching for weeks and I just need to put it together.

After a minute, he leaned over and with his foot, pushed the light a foot from me and out of my reach. I got up, moved it back, and sat back down.

Seriously, what are you doing? Why are you doing that? Please stop. I'm doing homework.

After a minute, he leaned over and with his foot, pushed the light a foot from me and out of my reach. I got up to move it. With my back toward him, he shoved me, forcing me into the living room window. My craft table broke my fall, along with tiny jars of necklace clasps, chains, pendant backings, and pins and needles, thimbles, boxes of beads, buttons, and charms, various types of scissors, a collection of ribbon, wire, wire cutters, burlap string, chalk, charcoal, pastels and oils, X-Acto knives, ephemera, card making materials, and my handmade paper of all shapes, colors, styles, and sizes for jewelry and art yet to be made.  My ready to launch etsy store was in shambles, a complete disarray on the floor around me.

I'd hit my head on the corner of the table, as I plunged to the ground taking everything down with me. My forehead was already starting to swell around the wound. I sat disoriented, not from the force of the shove, not even from the fall to the floor and the tiny pin pricks the met me on the ground, but the shock of what had come over this person to cause him to react so violently toward me. I'd done nothing to incite this, nothing to warrant this impromptu cage match in my living room. An unsolicited and unrequited game of slaps. but from behind, against a girl, that you supposedly love.

My god. What the hell. What. The. Hell.

He kneeled down and wiped his forearm across the coffee table, sending my books to the floor and my papers flying into the air. What papers he missed, he picked up and tore to shreds. By the time I'd made it to my feet, speechless and beyond anger and amazement to try and salvage anything I could, he'd run up the stairs into his office, slamming and locking the door behind.

I took a deep breath and with hands to my temples, shook my head. Tears welled up and silently slid down my cheeks. I felt the round lump growing on my forehead and I ran my fingers back and forth over it, from one side to the other, over and over.

Now I have to clean all this up.

Comments

[Caitlin Spearson]

Thank you so much for putting this together. The holidays can be such a busy time, and this forces me to stop and think of others in such a wonderful way. Shipment is on it's way to the center!

Caitlin.
www.MeetTheSpearsons.com