Serena’s story: Sunrise, part 3/3

This is the last of a three-part story of one brave woman, Serena, and her experience with–and survival of–domestic abuse. If you are new to this series today, read part one here. You can read part 2 here.  Also, a quick warning to those who suffer (or have suffered) domestic violence: this series might trigger post-traumatic stress symptoms. If so, please seek a friend or counsel or support from local agencies available in most every community for help and a safe haven. Be sure to visit Serena’s blog, I’m just a girl who loves God and shoes.

Serena’s story, part 3

One year later …

This morning I stirred to the same music coming from my same alarm clock, only this time I awoke refreshed after eight hours of uninterrupted sleep in my cozy apartment.

It is no longer a chore to get out of bed each morning; my future is bright with my ex-husband out of my life.

But he remains in my mind. I’m still haunted by nightmares and flashbacks of our time together. At the sound of a familiar song on the radio or the sight of his favorite candy at the store, I am transported to a time in my life that I long to erase. But it remains a reality, one I’m slowly accepting.

My eyes open to see two gray balls of fur—Sophie and Cloe, my kittens— cuddled next to me. Together, we jump out of bed and face the day with courage and playfulness.

I learn much from them as my roommates and closest companions. Perhaps most profound is that though they may not understand why I make them do something, they typically do it with eagerness. Their lack of understanding is overshadowed by their love and trust for me as their caretaker.

I will never claim to understand why God allowed me to endure an abusive marriage for almost two years. But I do love and trust my Protector, who brought me through.

Now I face each morning with expectancy and anticipation for all that God has for me—beginning with a beautiful sunrise that provides light, life and hope.

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On one of her own blog posts, Serena talks about a book that has helped her on her healing journey. Serena writes, “I’ve never thought of myself as a survivor.  But a book I’m reading is challenging me to think otherwise. It’s called On the Threshold of Hope by Diane Mandt Langberg.  If you or someone you know has been the victim of sexual abuse, read this book.  I’ve read other books on the topic, but this one is well worth the tears it prompts.”

Other important resources:

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1.800.799.SAFE (7233) 1.800.787.3224 (TTY) Anonymous & Confidential Help 24/7

IMPORTANT Domestic Violence safety tips

Serena’s story: Under the camouflage, part 2/3

This is the second of a three-part story of one brave woman, Serena, and her experience with–and survival of–domestic abuse. If you are new to this series today, read part one here. Also, a quick warning to those who suffer (or have suffered) domestic violence: this series might trigger post-traumatic stress symptoms. If so, please seek a friend or counsel or support from local agencies available in most every community for help and a safe haven. Visit Serena’s blog, I’m just a girl who loves God and shoes, sometime soon. Together, Serena and I pray this series will give someone, somewhere, the hope they need to seek help . . . and at the very least, to know they are not alone.

Serena’s story, part 2

His late night / early-morning escapades often resulted in him sleeping through meetings and prayer breakfasts. Concerned church members would call, questioning his wellbeing. I was always amazed at the excuses he offered, but somehow the only people who caught on were my friends.

I rarely got to spend time with them, but when I did I was interrogated afterwards as if I had witnessed a murder. I had to account for everyone present and what was said. I quickly learned to not mention any men in attendance because they would immediately be accused of being in love with me, even when they were happily married and twice my age.

Somehow, I was always made to feel guilty for wanting to spend time with anyone but him. His warped view of normalcy was shocking—to me and the Christian counselor to whom I eventually dragged my husband. By our third session, they shouted at one another while I sobbed. It was obvious that counseling, and my marriage, was failing miserably.

I was ready to close the proverbial door on our marriage—just as I closed the bedroom door behind me and tiptoed down the stairs that morning. Relief swept my body as I reveled in the sound of silence, the calm before the storm of life.

As I munched on my bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats—his cereal of choice—I glanced out the window to see the sun peeking over the horizon.

Light.

Life.

Hope.

I took a deep breath, as if I were soaking in a new life with the freshness of the morning air. It was a new day, one that had not yet been tarnished by petty arguments or unwarranted criticism.

It was another day with infinite possibilities, but to me it was a day like any other: I awoke next to a man who killed the love I once had for him. I was trapped between my fleshly desires of divorce and my faith that seemed to refute it.

I pondered it all on my drive to work. I had every reason in the world to condemn a God who would allow such pain and deception, yet He was the only One who could calm my soul when the storms around me raged.

I cried out to Him that day, as I did so many others, begging for answers to all my questions, the most frequent of which was “Why me, God?” It never got me anywhere but in a deeper pit of discouragement and despair.

The stress was taking a physical toll on my body. My stomach rejected food; my hair fell out by the handful; my mind wandered at work. My body was failing. People began asking questions; the dark circles under my eyes told more than my concealer could cover.

I was weary from fighting a losing battle. My hope of reconciliation was lost; my resolve was fading fast; my future was bleak. I needed release. The unthinkable was becoming thinkable—and my only hope for survival.

I visited my parents that weekend—under the camouflage that I wanted to watch my brother’s high school football game. They knew nothing of my anguish, though my empty expression said it all. It was time.

After an awkward dinner, during which we waltzed around superficial subjects, I poured out my hurting heart to them—fearful I would be encouraged to endure my unhealthy marriage. My parents listened with tears streaming down their cheeks. At the end of my lengthy narrative, my dad’s eyes pierced mine as he said three words that changed my life, “Get out now.”

It was all the support I needed . . . (to be continued; part 3/3, the conclusion, posts tomorrow)

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1.800.799.SAFE (7233) 1.800.787.3224 (TTY) Anonymous & Confidential Help 24/7

IMPORTANT Domestic Violence safety tips

Serena’s story: Pulling back the covers, part 1/3

Light.  Life.  Hope.

That’s the title my friend Serena penned for the story you’re about to read this week. Serena (pictured above) is a brave, beautiful soul seeking to bring light and breathe truth into the world. Hers is a story of heartbreak. Of the dangerous–indeed life-threatening–reality of surviving domestic violence. And of the redemption which can come out of those terrifying days with the help of friends and God.

 

A quick warning to those who suffer (or have suffered) domestic violence: this three-part series might trigger post-traumatic stress symptoms. If so, please seek a friend or counsel or support from local agencies available in most every community for help and a safe haven.

 

Visit Serena’s blog, I’m just a girl who loves God and shoes, sometime soon. Together, Serena and I pray this series will give someone, somewhere, the hope they need to seek help . . . and at the very least, to know they are not alone.

 

Without further ado, here’s Serena’s story, part 1.  

Serena’s Story

The music from the CD spinning in my alarm clock disturbed my slumber as it did each morning. I moaned quietly as I rolled over and sluggishly opened my swollen eyes to the harsh reality of my life. 

I cried myself to sleep the night before, as I did many nights. My husband had put me to bed around 10 p.m.—and I do mean put me to bed. He disguised tucking me in as a loving gesture, but it was just another form of his control. 

His manipulation reared its ugly head when we were dating, but I was blind to it through my euphoric and in-love eyes. My friends saw it much more clearly, but I was deaf to their warnings. I thought it was sweet that he wanted to spend every waking moment with me. Now I had a lifetime with him before me, but I wanted to sleep for eternity. 

I opened my eyes for the second time that morning and stared at the man who lay before me, my best friend and my worst enemy. The loving man I happily pledged myself to a year-and-a half earlier had become my prison guard who dictated my diet, my wardrobe and my sleep schedule each day. I was his captive, held hostage by marriage vows I struggled to honor. 

I escaped for a few hours each day to work, my sanctuary, where I wore a fake smile, one I painted on with my makeup each morning. 

My husband also wore a mask, one made of stained glass that only I could see through. Everyone seemed to be fooled, even our congregation. 

He became a pastor a few months after we were married. Per his demand, I attended every church function and faithfully sat on the front pew each Sunday, allowing his hypocritical words to roll off me like Teflon. 

But Sunday wasn’t the only day that I heard his sermons. I was berated for having “wrong priorities” each evening upon my return home from work—since he wanted me to stay home, though we thankfully had no children to also endure his abuse. I was lectured for hours on submission and how I needed to improve. He twisted Scripture to prove his point of the hour, all the while whittling away at my lessening patience. 

In the beginning of our marriage, I foolishly tried to argue with him, but it only prolonged the misery. So I fought a silent war against him, his blows often leaving me emotionally bruised and bloodied. While he waxed on eloquently about the proper roles in marriage, I daydreamed about my childhood or mentally prepared my grocery list. 

But even grocery shopping wasn’t fun. He was by my side and pushing us around—both the shopping cart and me. We raced through the aisles as if it were a competition, purchasing only the items on the prepared list. If I ignorantly forgot something that warranted going back a few aisles, the mood was officially ruined. I can’t recall how many days were devastated as a result of my backtracking. If only I could go back in time … 

My alarm clock ticked on. He looked so still, so innocent, so unlike his bursts of rage that frequently disrupted our lives. I would frantically try to calm him, to appease the cause of his 24-year-old temper tantrums, whether it meant leaving a restaurant or purchasing a CD he wanted. But it would only provide a few moments of peace before something else set him off. 

It didn’t take much. A couple of months into our marriage, he requested taco salad for dinner. I happily obliged, trying desperately to please him. After one bite, his fork clanked as it forcefully landed on his plate. He jerked away from the table and returned to his La-Z-Boy. Another evening was ruined. I buried my face in my hands and cried, as I did so often.  

I learned after we were married that he had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). It controlled our lives, everything from the arrangement of our living room to the manner in which I folded our laundry. 

One day I found him staple-gunning our best towels to the bathroom floor, because he couldn’t tolerate the mismatched shower curtain and carpet in our rented apartment. I never knew what to expect when I returned home or when I accidentally stirred him from his slumber. 

And so I slowly pulled back the covers, trying desperately to not disturb him—lest the quiet of my daybreak be interrupted. I never considered myself a morning person, but as a wife it quickly became my most cherished time of the day. 

The morning hours were the only quiet ones in our home; thankfully I could count on them since I usually wouldn’t feel him crawl into bed until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. Only God knows what he did during that time, though I have my suspicions . . . (to be continued . . . part 2/3 posting tomorrow at 9 am EST) 

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1.800.799.SAFE (7233) 1.800.787.3224 (TTY) Anonymous & Confidential Help 24/7 

IMPORTANT Domestic Violence safety tips