Breaking Free: A Survivor's Journey Through Domestic Violence
Once I accepted that I was a survivor of conjugal or domestic violence, a term I find more inclusive, I became aware of how easy it is to internalize and deny. We've all heard that violence doesn't discriminate based on gender, race, social status, or religion; everyone is potentially at risk. As long as we keep it taboo, we'll never be able to heal and change.
Speaking with a friend, I realized a common denominator among survivors: we all go through the same process of manipulation, mistreatment, use, abuse, and control, ultimately leading to isolation. We become protectors of our abusers, often neglecting our family and friends to shield them. My friend talked about the need for abusive men to take responsibility for their actions, but I wonder how? How can they when they're often unaware of the harm they cause? Society, religion, and even our families have protected and even encouraged abuse against women.
I remember studying women in religion as part of my women's studies program and learning about shocking practices around the world that excuse violence and oppression as religious practices and beliefs. Forced marriages, dowry-related violence, and female genital mutilation are just a few examples.
How can we expect men to be aware when women continue to be silent victims and accomplices? I protected my abuser; my family encouraged me to stay with him just because he was a "good guy." "He's so jealous because he loves you; if he didn't, he wouldn't be jealous," they'd say. Meanwhile, I felt smaller and more isolated than ever.
I spent seven years of my life in a prison; my own home was my jail, and my partner was the guard. My only friends were his parents, my only outlet was chain smoking, and my only source of freedom was every six months when my sister visited. Every time she left, I'd cry for hours, back in my big cell, alone and sad, always looking down to avoid triggering him, accused of "checking out someone" or having a secret affair.
The psychological abuse was relentless; I hated everything about myself; I was a mere shadow of him. Before I could change anyone, I had to change myself, take a risk, and say enough is enough. It took me seven years and a change of country to feel free again. Oh, Canada, you freed me!
When we moved to Canada, he expected to maintain control, but I had reached my limit. Finally able to spend most of the day with just myself, I was no longer in survival mode. In Miami, we worked together, and I was undocumented, living in fear of deportation; my abuser was also my means of survival. But when we migrated to Canada, and I was no longer in fear of deportation, my body and mind shifted out of survival mode. I had served my time; I was free.
He continued to accuse me of cheating, upset because he couldn't read my mind, and controlled what was and wasn't acceptable during sex, saying, "You move like a whore." I needed to reclaim myself; I needed to know who Paula was.
We separated in December, and the control and manipulation continued for a while. When his old tactics were no longer effective, he started controlling the financial aspects. When we finally filed for divorce, I had to wait a whole year for it to be final. I could have had a speedy divorce if I could prove abuse, but psychological abuse wasn't considered. They wanted bruises, broken bones, black eyes, blood—a broken soul. My broken self wasn't enough.
Of course, I wasn't being abused; I told myself. He loved me so passionately that he was a bit jealous and controlling. What I felt inside was wrong; what everyone else thought and saw must be right. He wasn't abusive; this couldn't be happening to me.
Boy, was I wrong. I was a victim of domestic violence, abused physically, emotionally, psychologically. In a couple of years, I would have a black eye and ear damage to match my broken soul.
