Every Little Bit Helps
I met a woman yesterday through a friend of a friend type situation. She is currently dating this friend of a friend and we had a chance to talk over dinner last night. One of the first things out of her mouth were, "I'm so thankful I met Mark. He would never try to kill me."
I was taken back. What did this mean?
Some people need no prompting to tell you their life story. She was one of these kinds of people. In less than ten minutes, I'd learned all about her past and her unfortunate knack for choosing men who will beat her to a pulp and try to kill her.
After listening to her for a while, I asked her. "So at what point did you decide that being beaten was okay? I always hear about women staying in abusive relationships, but never met one, so I have to ask. Why did you stay?"
I had a million "theories". None of them were correct.
"He needed my help. In the beginning, he was nice. But the longer we were together, the more controlling he became. The first time he hit me he said he was sorry and it would never happen again. But it did. By that time he had verbally tore me down so much that I believed I deserved to be hit and so I took it. I didn't want to, but he was disabled and I felt sorry for him. If I didn't take care of him, who would?"
You need to know that this young lady was beautiful. She had a good job. Was worldly. But somehow, some way, she thought this was the life she deserved.
"I saw my momma gettin' beat growin' up so it wasn't nothing new. I was the only one workin', so if I left, he'd have nothin'. I couldn't leave him like that, so I stayed. And then one night he tried to kill me."
I hate to imagine what my face looked like at this point, but I'm sure my mouth was hanging open. Here we were in a nice restaurant, and I'm looking at this young lady, who I just met, tell me this horrible story.
"That's why I'm so thankful I met Mark. I never knew I could have a different kind of life."
I asked her how she escaped.
"He went to prison. I knew I had to get out of the house before he got out or else he'd kill me for real, so Mark helped me. Now he's out, I'm gone and I pray every day that he doesn't find me."
I pray for that too.
It sounds ridiculous to compare anything to this situation, but in my mind, I couldn't help but think how one slap, one hate-filled comment, one kick to the rib cage could mark the beginning of a pattern. In the beginning, when she was hit the first time, it must have seemed like an out of the ordinary experience. But soon, it became an every day thing that she grew accustomed too.
Like most addictions, there is always a before and after. Life before counting calories. Life before heroin. Life before being an abused wife. SI is the same way. There was a time before the knives, the razor blades, the rope. But at some point, the baby steps turned into a full-fledge run head long into destructive behavior.
Every little bit helps: every hurt, every negative comment, every beating, every broken bone.
Each one by themselves are isolated incidents. But you put them together, and all of a sudden you are dealing with something completely different.
I am supposed to see this young lady again this weekend at the lake. Our mutual friend has a boat and I expect there will be more time for confession and reflection.
"I never thought I'd get out of there alive. I thought he'd kill me for sure. But he didn't. I'm still here. I don't know what will happen tomorrow, but today I'm safe."
I couldn't have said it better myself.
I was taken back. What did this mean?
Some people need no prompting to tell you their life story. She was one of these kinds of people. In less than ten minutes, I'd learned all about her past and her unfortunate knack for choosing men who will beat her to a pulp and try to kill her.
After listening to her for a while, I asked her. "So at what point did you decide that being beaten was okay? I always hear about women staying in abusive relationships, but never met one, so I have to ask. Why did you stay?"
I had a million "theories". None of them were correct.
"He needed my help. In the beginning, he was nice. But the longer we were together, the more controlling he became. The first time he hit me he said he was sorry and it would never happen again. But it did. By that time he had verbally tore me down so much that I believed I deserved to be hit and so I took it. I didn't want to, but he was disabled and I felt sorry for him. If I didn't take care of him, who would?"
You need to know that this young lady was beautiful. She had a good job. Was worldly. But somehow, some way, she thought this was the life she deserved.
"I saw my momma gettin' beat growin' up so it wasn't nothing new. I was the only one workin', so if I left, he'd have nothin'. I couldn't leave him like that, so I stayed. And then one night he tried to kill me."
I hate to imagine what my face looked like at this point, but I'm sure my mouth was hanging open. Here we were in a nice restaurant, and I'm looking at this young lady, who I just met, tell me this horrible story.
"That's why I'm so thankful I met Mark. I never knew I could have a different kind of life."
I asked her how she escaped.
"He went to prison. I knew I had to get out of the house before he got out or else he'd kill me for real, so Mark helped me. Now he's out, I'm gone and I pray every day that he doesn't find me."
I pray for that too.
It sounds ridiculous to compare anything to this situation, but in my mind, I couldn't help but think how one slap, one hate-filled comment, one kick to the rib cage could mark the beginning of a pattern. In the beginning, when she was hit the first time, it must have seemed like an out of the ordinary experience. But soon, it became an every day thing that she grew accustomed too.
Like most addictions, there is always a before and after. Life before counting calories. Life before heroin. Life before being an abused wife. SI is the same way. There was a time before the knives, the razor blades, the rope. But at some point, the baby steps turned into a full-fledge run head long into destructive behavior.
Every little bit helps: every hurt, every negative comment, every beating, every broken bone.
Each one by themselves are isolated incidents. But you put them together, and all of a sudden you are dealing with something completely different.
I am supposed to see this young lady again this weekend at the lake. Our mutual friend has a boat and I expect there will be more time for confession and reflection.
"I never thought I'd get out of there alive. I thought he'd kill me for sure. But he didn't. I'm still here. I don't know what will happen tomorrow, but today I'm safe."
I couldn't have said it better myself.