This past week, I sat in the Domestic Violence Unit.
I’ve never been to the DV unit and the last time I was in Family Court it was under much happier circumstances. Now I’m carrying around a name like an anvil and a story straight out of the pages of a thriller.
I sat alone, with kind probation officers taking my statement and offering me mints. They had smiles, but their eyes were sad. Their faces expressed both the sorrow of the circumstance and gratefulness in our speaking out. But thank God they had smiles.
I saw a mother sitting with her special needs son. I saw a middle aged woman sitting alone by herself. There was a girl sitting beside a friend. None of them wore a smile. We all sat beneath the same yellow light, in the same windowless room, waiting for our names to be called. It was quiet, a stark contrast to the noise in my head.
As I sat there, I wondered what circumstances led each of us to share the same space that morning. What sorrow were they hiding? Are they crying themselves to sleep at night? Are they even getting sleep? Do they work? Are they trying to prove that they won’t let their personal life interfere with their ability to perform a good job? What places do they avoid? What songs give them shivers? What sends them instantly back to their place of horror? How long did it take them to discipline themselves to wake up each morning? Are they what society would deem successful, normal, accomplished, and put together – struggling under the weight of the stigma of who they are and what they are? Broken. Unfortunate. Statistic.
I spend community with support groups. I cry for them and their pain. I cry and think thank God that is not me. I cry and thank God it’s not that bad. But then I cry for me too, because it is bad.
I once thought I understood this world. I read it in black and white text, and waited for the red marker telling me whether or not I passed or failed the test. It was clean, and neat. “Right” made sense. Now all I see is gray, and what was once stories and theories have been lifted off the pages and became my reality.
There’s no longer a “them” but an “us”. As I look at their faces, I see my own.
Instead of comparing our pain, I think instead how much better it is to just meet each other where the other is at and support them through their journey, and embrace them as they support me through mine. While we may not share the same circumstance, we share the same pain:
Broken marriages. Failed relationships. Self-criticism. Fear- always the fear. Fear of what others think. Fear of him. Shame.
That is the lie that we taught ourselves. But I’ve learned a truth. We each carry a shame that is not ours to carry.
Violence is not socio-economic class. Violence is not something that happens to race, one gender, one age group. Violence is not the consequence of something we did. Not all violence is visible. Not all violence is directed at us, but at those we love. Sometimes violence is inflicted by the perpetrator against themselves.
I’m tired of the secrets. I’m tired of the stigma. I’m tired of making choices for the benefit of someone else. I’m tired of meeting good people weighed down by what other’s did, afraid of their own shadows and their own voice. What’s kept in secret has the power to control.
As I walk this new journey, I’m thankful for those who have walked by my side – both past and present, no matter how long the duration.
This is my story, and I’ll write my own ending.
I’ve never been to the DV unit and the last time I was in Family Court it was under much happier circumstances. Now I’m carrying around a name like an anvil and a story straight out of the pages of a thriller.
I sat alone, with kind probation officers taking my statement and offering me mints. They had smiles, but their eyes were sad. Their faces expressed both the sorrow of the circumstance and gratefulness in our speaking out. But thank God they had smiles.
I saw a mother sitting with her special needs son. I saw a middle aged woman sitting alone by herself. There was a girl sitting beside a friend. None of them wore a smile. We all sat beneath the same yellow light, in the same windowless room, waiting for our names to be called. It was quiet, a stark contrast to the noise in my head.
As I sat there, I wondered what circumstances led each of us to share the same space that morning. What sorrow were they hiding? Are they crying themselves to sleep at night? Are they even getting sleep? Do they work? Are they trying to prove that they won’t let their personal life interfere with their ability to perform a good job? What places do they avoid? What songs give them shivers? What sends them instantly back to their place of horror? How long did it take them to discipline themselves to wake up each morning? Are they what society would deem successful, normal, accomplished, and put together – struggling under the weight of the stigma of who they are and what they are? Broken. Unfortunate. Statistic.
I spend community with support groups. I cry for them and their pain. I cry and think thank God that is not me. I cry and thank God it’s not that bad. But then I cry for me too, because it is bad.
I once thought I understood this world. I read it in black and white text, and waited for the red marker telling me whether or not I passed or failed the test. It was clean, and neat. “Right” made sense. Now all I see is gray, and what was once stories and theories have been lifted off the pages and became my reality.
There’s no longer a “them” but an “us”. As I look at their faces, I see my own.
Instead of comparing our pain, I think instead how much better it is to just meet each other where the other is at and support them through their journey, and embrace them as they support me through mine. While we may not share the same circumstance, we share the same pain:
Broken marriages. Failed relationships. Self-criticism. Fear- always the fear. Fear of what others think. Fear of him. Shame.
That is the lie that we taught ourselves. But I’ve learned a truth. We each carry a shame that is not ours to carry.
Violence is not socio-economic class. Violence is not something that happens to race, one gender, one age group. Violence is not the consequence of something we did. Not all violence is visible. Not all violence is directed at us, but at those we love. Sometimes violence is inflicted by the perpetrator against themselves.
I’m tired of the secrets. I’m tired of the stigma. I’m tired of making choices for the benefit of someone else. I’m tired of meeting good people weighed down by what other’s did, afraid of their own shadows and their own voice. What’s kept in secret has the power to control.
As I walk this new journey, I’m thankful for those who have walked by my side – both past and present, no matter how long the duration.
This is my story, and I’ll write my own ending.