In my first year at college, I quietly took my place in a crowded classroom, settling into a middle seat. My gaze fell on the blank notebook page as I began to jot down notes about geology — a subject that has long since faded from my memory. My unkempt hair was hidden beneath a grimy white cap adorned with a bright red emblem of Ole Miss, even though I was attending a university in West Virginia, nearly ten hours away from home.
The night before, my then-husband had been furious. His anger was a constant, a storm waiting to unleash violence on any weak spot of my being. I still recall the first time he struck me — not with a fist, but with a remote control that collided with my forehead. Tears streamed down my face, not from the impact but from the shock of betrayal. I thought I had left behind the memories of abuse I endured as a child, but I was wrong. My yearning for stability and belonging led me back into another form of torment.
After the remote incident, a pattern emerged — violence, followed by apologies, a few days of calm, and then another explosion of rage. Each episode was accompanied by the same hollow promises: “I didn’t mean to. It won’t happen again. I love you. You make me so angry.” The blame shifted to me, as if my very existence provoked his fury.
As my first semester began, he became enraged over my economics class — not our finances but the mere fact that I was in a large lecture hall. His jealousy erupted in accusations of infidelity. I dropped the class, choosing to hold onto my job to support us, convinced that education was the key to a better life. We’d married on New Year’s Eve in 1999, and our honeymoon was a brief respite before the chaos returned, filling our old farmhouse.
One cold March night, shortly after my 19th birthday, everything went wrong again. I returned home with cold fast food, and my husband’s anger erupted. He hurled fries at me, and in the ensuing struggle, he struck me, darkness engulfing my vision as pain shot through my face. I felt the warm rush from my eye, but it was merely the result of burst blood vessels rather than an actual wound.
Pinned between him and the furniture, I was helpless as he struck me again. I wanted to scream for help, but he yanked me by my hair, leaving me with a fistful of my own locks when I finally managed to escape. As I reached for the phone, he tore the line from the wall, storming out after snatching my keys. What he didn’t realize was that I had hidden a spare key weeks before, a small lifeline in the shape of a Toyota Corolla key.
I knew he wouldn’t return that night; he would unleash his wrath in the morning. At 4 a.m., I got up, sore and bruised, and meticulously applied layer upon layer of makeup to conceal my injuries, hoping to hide the evidence of the night before. I pulled on that Ole Miss cap, keeping the bill low over my eyes as I drove to class, too ashamed to meet anyone’s gaze.
As I sat there, replaying the night’s violence, I made a decision. I couldn’t go back. I was three months pregnant and unable to protect myself, let alone a child. I called my parents, knowing their home was a refuge where I could go unnoticed. I filed for a restraining order and a divorce, returning with the police to collect my belongings. Tragically, my pregnancy ended after that last fight; my child never had a heartbeat.
That Ole Miss cap was never worn again.
Fifteen years passed before I found the courage to share this story. I spoke about it briefly with a counselor specializing in domestic violence, and later, I opened up to my current husband, the one who truly loves me. As October brings Domestic Violence Awareness Month, I hope that by sharing my experience, I can encourage anyone trapped in an abusive relationship to seek help. Love should never hurt; real love is patient and kind.
For more information on domestic violence resources, visit the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence. If you’re looking into home insemination options, you can find helpful information at the CDC. And if you’re interested in home insemination kits, check out this resource for a baby maker home intracervical insemination syringe kit combo.
To those in similar situations: you are not alone, and you deserve support.