Week 7

Photo taken by me in Australia

“You cannot heal with the perpetrator that traumatized you”.
Ain’t that the truth.

Welcome to week 7.

I’m sorry if week 6 left you feeling uneasy but this was my life. Actually, I’m sorry if every week has left you feeling this way. I must have been cursed from a previous life because I suffered for so long. But I’ll go into further detail on the story that is my life as the weeks progress.

As always if you’re new to my blog please start from the beginning introduction so the timeline makes sense.

If you follow my Instagram and Facebook you would see in my last post that I was worried about how I would feel having to dive back into my trauma. I am worried. But I’m also indulging in self-care today so I’ll be okay. I’ll always be okay.

It’s actually only a couple of weeks ago to the date, 8 years ago that I was stabbed and had my throat cut. So, it’s a sensitive time of year for me. 7 July 2011.

Please read this post with caution and contact a mental health service or mental health professional if it triggers you.

So, I’ll continue on from last week…

For 24 hours I lye in blood and urine soaked sheets. My pants are soaked in so much blood you could have wrung it out like washing. I was helpless and alone. I started to accept that my life would be cut short and that I would die alone.

24 hours past and I was still alive. So, I went back to what I’ve always done. I fought to stay alive.

Despite the pain I willed myself out of bed and walked 10 meters to the bathroom. I washed my clothes and then my body. I couldn’t bend my leg and every time I looked at the wound my body would go into shock and start shaking. That shower felt like it took forever.

I was barely walking, trying to change my sheets.
My parents see me out of the room and notice that I’m not walking properly so I told them I fell off the corner of my bed and fell on something. They believed me. Seriously, how can you be so gullible? You saw the wound, how can you believe I fell off the bed and did that? Whatever, it’s your safety that matters not mine.

I spent the next week hobbling, wondering if I could ever walk properly again, wondering if I could ever run again.
When that first week passed, I met up with a friend. I told her what happened and she was sympathetic to a degree. We went to the hospital and said I fell onto a metal pole. Got my shots and had my wound cleaned up.

FW returns. He’s not apologetic, just shocked that he was “powerful” enough to stab someone when really, he was a grown man weak enough to stab a minor.

His new joy was punching my stab wound because it would knock me to the ground and leave me in immense pain.

He asked that I don’t tell his family what he did to me. His family cared for me but also knew that there was domestic violence in our relationship. They were accustomed to this it in their own lives so it was just normal to them.

8 weeks. For 8 weeks I had to use my right leg and drag my left leg, 8 weeks FW friend loaned me crutches, 8 weeks I had to rely on FW to help me get around town whilst he still beat me to a pulp.

I had given up on life. I had finally submitted to FW. I knew my days were numbered and that every day I would suffer. He would always find some excuse to hurt me, even then he wouldn’t need an excuse he would just do it.

The raping got worse. He wasn’t just using his penis, he started to use objects. Objects so big it would be leaving me bleeding. I used to watch the blood on the shower floor as I would curl up into a ball under the shower and cry.

He would burn my vagina with cigarettes as though it was an ashtray on a regular basis. I still have scars to this day from it.

He would try to burn my eyes with cigarettes and get so close I could feel the heat against my eyes.

He would throw lit cigarettes at my body.

He would throw knives at my body.

He would beat me till I was bloody and bruised and suffocate me till I blacked out.

He did all of these things and I didn’t fight back. I stopped fighting back because I didn’t see a way out.

He would spend all of my money, choose what I could wear, how I could look each day. I had no control over my mind or my body. I was simply a vessel made to be tortured.

I was a slave. I did everything he said without hesitation.

I stopped fighting back when he would rape me. I just succumbed to it and had sex upon demand just so I wouldn’t be beaten.

I spent every day wishing he would kill me. But every day I lived and I suffered.

FW revealed that he was attracted to men as well and that he would like me to live out his fantasy of sleeping with other men. He would make me write sex stories for him to masturbate to when I wasn’t around. I would have to think of new ideas every day and send paragraphs of what felt like a porn script to him for his pleasure.

After that FW went too far. He pimped me out only for the benefit of hearing what happened. I was dead inside.

I would pray and ask the lord why he would put me on this earth to endure such pain and of course, I wouldn’t get an answer.

Dead inside.

Would I reach the age of 18 to finally leave this man and report him to the police, or would I die and be another statistic of the domestic violence death rate?

FW also used to starve me. He would eat my meals and leave me with next to nothing.
I looked like a ghost, covered in scars, bruises and welts.

The only thing that would bring me joy was spending time with my dog. She was my best friend. I could tell her everything and receive licks and hugs in return. I had her since she was a puppy and we would do everything together, up until I was stuck with FW. She was the most precious thing to me.
FW beat my dog resulting in her requiring surgery. I tried killing myself because I couldn’t stand to see my dog in pain. She thankfully recovered but this meant I couldn’t spend time with her out of fear that FW would harm her again.

I had nothing and no one.

I tried reaching out to some of FWs friends’ partners. They sarcastically asked if it was part of my culture that I let a man beat me and laughed at me. No, it’s not part of my culture and, as women you should be helping me not tearing me down. I was defeated.

If FW would beat me in public I would scream for help and yet no one would stop to help me. Fuck you all.

I was quiet as a mouse, only speaking when FW would let me.

Every evil thing that you could ever possibly imagine happening to a woman happened to me. All I could do was wait for the years to pass until I could be a legal adult and report him to the police.

Then finally something beautiful came into my life. Something worth fighting for.

I’ll tell you all about it next week.

Please note that this is only a summary of my life. There are many things I can’t mention and wouldn’t mention unless I wrote a book and was prepared to face the consequences.

Like I said earlier if any of this has triggered you please seek professional help and contact a mental health service.

See you next week.

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