SHE&HER...
Last weekend we celebrated Womens’ Day and were reminded of the high-levels of abuse and discrimination women face on a daily basis. I sat down wanting to write, wanting to relate stories of those who’d experienced physical abuse and had shared their stories with me. In attempting to tell their stories as authentically as I could, it worried me that I was excluding all other forms of abuse against all genders. I finally decided to make it a short series; each week I will be telling stories of different kinds of abuse experienced by people whom have shared their stories with me throughout the different stages of my life.
Today I tell the stories of these ladies. The stories of SHE and HER; my friends.
*SHE…
“Early today I confronted him about not spending all our money on booze. He has to save some for the child; school is opening in two weeks. At a point of desperation I hid his bank card while he was showering, when he was finished all his clothes were neatly ironed, lying face-up on the bed. He liked getting dressed before a mirror, his audience, checking himself out after each item. Then he grabbed his wallet.”
“S’thandwa Sam (my love), I’ll be back later, just going to chill with olova (the guys) kancane ( for a little while). Don’t go anywhere; someone has to look after the child because Ma is going to her friends later.”
“He kissed me on my forehead and handed his mother R300 from his wallet.
I stayed behind with his sisters and had a couple of drinks, trust me when I say I was not drunk but the fury I saw in his eyes as he entered the bedroom door three hours after he left, made me wish I was. He was pouncing towards me; I had just put my pumpkin to sleep. The reek of cheap perfume, stale tobacco charging towards me with him. He locked the door and pushed me against the wall.
“Yey’wena sfebe(hey you bitch) where is my bank card ? Who do you think you are? You think you run me?”
“First it was the usual slap, this meant I still had a chance to calm him down and explain.”
“Baby, we spoke about this, we need money for her school, she’s starting grade 1 it will be expensive.”
“He didn’t listen to me; he started to strangle me and threatened to shoot me with his gun if I did not give him his bank card. He’s a police officer you see, and I understand that sometimes it gets too much for him. Seeing all those gruesome situations: raped six-month year olds, ninety year-olds, women with bleeding face, and murder scenes. Yoh, it must be so hard and besides I’m just a sales-girl, what do I know of such difficuly. I do know he doesn’t mean to hit me; that why I don’t really classify it as abuse. It’s all the pressure from work, and I’d hate to see him break, or see our little family break. I love him. He’s just drunk again, and angry, and not himself right now.
“It doesn’t change that I was terrified, it’s always terrifying. My child woke-up and started screaming at him, pulling at his leg and to my rescue someone kicked the door open. It was his mother and she was furious that I had started all this drama; reminding me I should know better because I know what he’s like when he has been drinking.”
“You’re scaring the child! You should have just given him his bank card, now look! You’ve woken the child, arrgh man nx!”
*HER…
I knew from the beginning that he was married. I didn’t tell her this though, that rosary hanging from the door greets me first whenever I come here.
The faint shade of untanned skin was prominent on his ‘ring-finger’. That day, he was wearing his gold-band on his right-hand and denied being married. I didn’t argue with him, I chose to believe him and chose to lie to myself. I realize this now; after the end. It’s a truth I had to take responsibility for, but it does not excuse his behaviour.
This counsellor lady keeps trying to make me realize this, but I think counsellors need more first-hand experience. My near death experience cannot be unpacked in an hour-a-week session; how trite.
There is a level of fear one needs to ingest in order to be able to understand, to truly empathize with the pain that was caused to me. No number of classes in counselling will root this unnerving experience. Blow after blows; believe me, you start getting used to them. A dangerous comfortability in knowing when to anticipate them. Timing situations as they escalate, expecting the moment of impact.
He always preferred my stomach, only he would see the bruises. First black, then navy and later toning into tiny splinters of purple blood clots.
Our daughter has a dress similar to this, with cute tiny purple polka-dots. I always remember her wearing that dress when I examine this stage of bruises after bathing. How can I tell this lady this? How will she understand such intricate detail?
Objects were introduced three months ago. It was his brown belt if I remember correctly, can’t really keep count. I had asked that my child be treated the same as he treats the children he has with the wife.
This lady, she always looks at me with sad eyes and I wonder if she realizes or if that’s what she was taught at school. “Smile slowly; slant you head side-ways; lean forward and speak quietly,” they probably instructed them in school; training they call it. Training to deal with victims like me. It’s annoying; it makes it hard for me to tell her about my pain, the pain he caused and how I hate myself for letting him do so.
She says I need to take responsibility of that, and ‘let go of the guilt’. Referring to this guilt like it’s a friendship gone wrong; a companion I once loved who has now turned on me and backstabbed me; and I must somehow realize this like a lover scorned. Just let go; how simplified.
This is what I mean by ‘she cannot relate to my pain’, the pain of nearly dying, feeling pain creep all over you and numbing the core of your being. Would she counsel me the same if she had experienced this pain? I wonder again. I think I would counsel myself better because I understand this pain. I carry it and navigate my world with it. Who better to beat it? Really;
Who better to beat it; beat it to a pulp.
