recollections
The first time he hit me, it was because I antogonized him by tossing water on him. He had been drinking heavily throughout the night, and when I did that I got a back hand to the face, just to be dragged by the back of my shirt into the next room. I called 911, as he fled, and as I rose to my feet to leave the home, the 911 operator asked if anyone else was present. I began walking up the steps to leave the house, and answered with, âyes, his step father was here in the room I was dragged to.â As I tried making my way to the front door, his step father attacked me. Triggered by my response to the question I was asked on the phone. He gripped my pony tail, which was already loose from the altercation I was leaving behind. He began punching me in my head, never losing grip of my hair, my face slamming to the steps with each blow to my right side. He picked me up by my hair and all I could think to do to help escape his grip was to spit on him. That thick, white saliva that produces itself only in times of pure chaos. âSpit on his glasses, so he canât seeâ I thought. I did just that which made him wipe his face, freeing me for a moment to make it to the door. He shoved me down the front steps of the house and as I stumbled up from the grass, the police car arrived. I was 21, living alone, and didnât have medical insurance. The officer demanded I go to the hospital because I was bleeding and badly bruised, despite my fear from not being insured. I left the hospital that night and received a phone call from the police department. I was charged with harassment and the man who attacked me was not the one pressing charges: the police officer who was his long time friend was. Ya see, this step father was always cooperative with the township, because his stepson had frequent encounters with the law while growing up. I appealed my case twice, represented myself in court with photos of my injuries, all while being threatened with 90 day jail time and a record. I still pled not guilty, despite my fear ofGoing to jail. In my mind, I knew I did nothing wrong, and pleading guilty was a compromise of my own truth. In a room full of men, I was charged. I didnât get sentenced with the jail time, but I was forced to pay a hefty fine, including the medical bills because I didnât win my appeal, and accrued a charge on my record. This is minimal, with respect to the harm done to women who speak up. As I write this,I have paused numerous times askingMyself, âdo I sound like Iâm victimizing myself here?â and THAT is the stigma that follows women who have been abused/assaulted in ANY form and try to tell others of their experiences. If you think anything in my statement is untrue or sensationalized, YOU are part of the problem.















