If you are a victim of dating violence, please call 911 or 800–799–7233, text LOVEIS to 1–800–331–9474, or visit thehotline.org.

By Asha E. Brown

“You can’t feel bad for the girl who got hit twice,” was what someone who was supposed to be my “big brother” said to me my sophomore year of high school. I wish it all stopped after those two times. Suffering abuse in high school was no episode of Degrassi. It wasn’t over in an hour or by the end of a two episode special. It was war. Walking through the same halls as your abuser and living in the same neighborhood as him made things more complex and intense. According to kids at school, I asked for it. I knew what I was getting into. I should’ve left. According to him, I made it up. I was crazy. I was a hoe and nobody should listen to me. It didn’t help that Rihanna’s pictures of her bruised face were on the cover of every magazine and the topic for every news broadcast. People thought I wanted attention because it happened to her. Once again, suffering abuse in high school was no episode of Degrassi.

By 17 years old, I had already seen the inside of the Wake County Courthouse, 4th floor which is where domestic violence cases were held. I saw so many other women anxiously sitting, waiting for their case to be called, holding their abuser’s hand. I couldn’t understand how they could hold his hand, plead with the judge to not press charges when their face was bruised, eyes black. How could I judge? Or maybe I was just trying to understand it all. But I was no different than them. We were all sitting in the same courtroom.

I’ll never forget the shame and humiliation I felt standing in the middle of the street in just a bra and some shorts because he put me in a headlock and ripped my shirt off me. I’ll never forget how everyone sat on their porches and watched. I’ll never forget my friend who was with me and called the police on my behalf. I will never forget how all he got was an anger management class as punishment and an order to not contact me, which he violated for two and a half years, making me feel unconfident in reporting it to the police. Can you imagine thinking Jessie is

calling you but it’s actually your abuser calling you from her phone oblivious as to what was going on? I’ll never forget how he told me all I was good for was sex, which would wind up pushing me down my twisted path to sexual liberation, but then being angry I wouldn’t take him back. I’ll never forget him vandalizing my home for the rest of my time in high school until my mom and I moved. That was my life.

He wasn’t always angry. He wasn’t always explosive. He wasn’t always violent. There’s a piece of me that would like to think that at one point he actually loved me. But that’s just my younger self still trying to rationalize it all, trying to see humanity in the broken boy who grew into an even more broken man.

The first time, it started as just an argument. He didn’t like what I said to him. He grabbed me by the arms and shook me in front of everyone by the lockers. Shocked, shaken up and embarrassed, I didn’t know what to do. So I went to class. After school he stopped by my house, apologizing to my mother for what he had done. Later on he professed his love and sorrow on Facebook, embarrassing me even more; however, we continued to date. Then we began to fight all the time.

I spent all my free time with him. Of course at the time, I thought it was cute. I had a boyfriend, so why not? I wasn’t realizing that I was disconnected from the other things that I enjoyed and my friends.

Another time, he didn’t like what I had to say again and he slapped me in the face. I immediately broke up with him. That whole night, he kept calling and leaving voicemails, sending texts saying he would kill himself if he couldn’t be with me. I told him that it wasn’t my problem. Things cooled off, and he begged for my forgiveness, promising to never do that again. A couple days later, our relationship resumed.

“But that’s just my younger self still trying to rationalize it all, trying to see humanity in the broken boy who grew into an even more broken man.”

The third time, he was upset that I was missing his phone calls. My phone couldn’t hold a charge, so it would die often and he knew that. One day my phone finally had a little juice in the battery. I powered on my phone to then be greeted by multiple voicemails from him calling me all sorts of names and accusing me of cheating, which I wasn’t. He skipped school that day and was waiting for me at the bus stop in our neighborhood after school. He began to argue with me in the street, and of course I was highly embarrassed. I was borrowing his backpack because mine had torn and he wanted it back. Angrily, I threw it on the ground and stormed home, forgetting my keys in the bag. I called him asking him to bring it back.

He showed up to my house and pulled my keys out my backpack keeping them out of my reach and unlocked the door to my house, closed the door while his friend Sam waited in the car, and began to yell and push me around. I tried to get him to leave and he continued to push me on the floor. I stood up opening the front door hoping Sam would see, but he kept slamming the door shut. He finally left, and I sat on the floor of the hallway sobbing.

Minutes later I heard a knock on the door. It was Sam checking to see if everything was okay. I told him what was going on and then his phone started to ring. It was him. He was cursing on the line saying he was coming back to my house. I told Sam we needed to leave and walked over to his car. Sam kept telling me I had nothing to worry about, but I did. My abuser had shown up charging at me and tackling me, jamming my finger and roughly handling me. I bit him in an attempt to get him to release me. I ran to my house trying to make it inside and he kicked me to the ground, pulled my hair, and hit me in the face. Sam finally intervened getting him off me.

I didn’t press charges that time.
“I write this as a way to tell my 16 year old self that none of this was her

fault.”

He continued harassing me at school, sending threatening text messages, showing up outside of my classes, and chasing me down the halls. People laughed. I remember reading Things Fall Apart in my English class and storming out of class to cry because one of the female characters was being abused. I couldn’t escape it.

So much more happened over time, making feeling safe at home and school very difficult. My self-confidence was shot. Stockholm syndrome was real. Sometimes his words would get to me. Was I only good for sex? Would anyone else want me? Would he actually come after me if I was with someone else?

I wish I could write more, but I will spare you all today. I write this as a way to tell my 16 year old self that none of this was her fault. She didn’t deserve that. That wasn’t love. Through time, I have forgiven him because I wish to no longer carry the burden of feeling inadequate. I write this so that you or someone else could know the same. There is life after. There is healing. There is joy. There is safety. There is respect. There is love.