Jonathan’s Story:

The scars on my soul may not be visible like the ones on my skin. However, they tell a deeper story than the ones on the surface. I’m not sure if anyone has said this before me, however; I know it to be true. I’ve always been one to suffer from depression and body dysmorphia. Officially I’ve been diagnosed with the depression aspect of it, never the body-dysmorphia part of it. But I know it to be true. I’ve struggled with self-love and acceptance my whole life. Critiquing my appearance all the time. Always comparing myself to the next, wondering “how could I be like them?” It caused an internal battle. A scar was made.

When I was younger I dealt with my fair share of being bullied. I’ve been that awkward kid that struggled to make friends. I’m a shy person by nature and I feel struggle with the idea of if I was truly accepted by someone or a group of friends. A scar was made. I’ve dealt with internalized homophobia (as hard as it is to admit), even though I’ve come out at an early point in life, not wanting to broadcast my sexuality and try to “act heterosexually” so I wouldn’t face any discrimination. A scar was made.

I’ve dealt with an emotionally and mentally abusive partner that ended up stalking and harassing me. Making me feel small when all I tried to be as best of a boyfriend as I possibly could have been. A scar was made. I was abandoned by a partner whom I thought I was going to spend my life with. Someone I thought would always be there for me and who said they would. Someone I loved more than any other previous to him and still have yet to come across someone to surpass it. A scar was made.

I’ve felt the abandoned, alone, helpless, used, fearful, and at my wits end. Scars were made and unfortunately I could go on. However, what is a scar before it has healed? A wound, as we all know. The pain we endure and the experiences of course add to trauma and weight on our shoulders. I wish we lived in a perfect world, where we didn’t have to get hurt. But, there’s a beauty in healing. A magic that we can’t really explain, but are grateful for. You see, healing brings upon strength and resilience. No, we won’t truly “get over” what has once affected us. But we can use it to grow and turn these past experiences to shape a better future for ourselves. These scars do not define us. They are one part of the many that make us who we are. “One of your biggest sources of happiness, should be the love you have for yourself.” My journey toward self love is far from over and it for sure hasn’t been easy. But I’m looking forward to reaching that milestone. Being able to give myself the love that I deserve. All while, learning from my past and these scars that I wear.

Things don’t stay dark forever. Through certain experiences and meeting certain people, we can see that all isn’t a lost cause. I for one, would love to be able to help anyone and everyone who are going through or even have gone through what I have gone through. We have a lot more to offer than the scars we have. A deeper understanding to what it means to build back up and a heart that bears kindness like no other. Those scars are nothing to be ashamed of. They are a beacon of your power. And let me tell you, my friend, those scars help what makes you beautiful.

Want to connect with Jonathan on social media? Follow him on Facebook or Instagram! 

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Rayla’s Story:

“Surviving is not easy, but it’s worth the FIGHT!”

When I was a young girl, between the ages of 7 and 9 years old, momma used to wake me up early before school to straighten my hair using a hot comb. Every time momma would get near my ears and the back of my neck, I would tremble. Momma would get so frustrated. One morning before school, momma was straightening my hair and then it happened–I trembled! She cussed at me, she was yelling at me, but that wasn’t enough for her. Momma put the hot comb to the side of my face. My face was burnt with marks from the comb. As I cried in disbelief, I still went to school. My teacher pulled me out of class and asked about my face and I told her. I was so terrified to go home. This was the first time I felt a disconnect between momma and I.

Fast forward to the age of twelve. Momma, my siblings and I lived in a low income housing community where everyone was family. Like having a candy lady and playing double-dutch, to sitting on the green box and attending summer camps at Norfolk State University! I never understood, but momma always treated me like an adult. Momma always made me care for and take one of my sisters everywhere I went. Then suddenly a day came that I will never forget. Momma decided to move out of our apartment with her boyfriend and unenrolled me from school, leaving me to be responsible for my siblings for two months. Those were the longest two months ever! Momma would come to visit and bring us food, but then she would leave again, leaving me to be responsible for the house. Then one day she came home and said we had to move with her into a hotel with her boyfriend for a month or two. After searching for several weeks, my father finally located my older brother at a football game! My dad immediately asked momma if me and my older brother could spend the weekend with him. Momma agreed, but unknown to us, that would be the last time we would see momma for a few years. Momma and her boyfriend secretly moved from the hotel and I was abruptly thrown into a new world with no explanation. I felt abandoned, confused and was left without a goodbye.

In 2000, at the age of sixteen, I met this man who I fell in love with! Although he was older and more experienced in life, I wanted to be with him so we secretly dated. Once I graduated high school, we got our own apartment and the dreams and goals I had for myself quickly went away. All I wanted was to be with him.  The domestic abuse started when I was 19 years old.  It began with yelling and name calling in private, but soon became the same in public, eventually progressing to violent attacks. But, I loved him and that’s all I knew. We started a family—our sweet baby girl was my witness, my hero and my best friend through it all. There were many nights of crying myself to sleep. Crying for my mother.. crying for God.. just crying. On many occasions my daughter and I spent nights at my friend’s house to escape the violence in our home. At one point, my daughter and I lived in a shelter, but we didn’t stay long. I eventually went back home to endure a few more years. Then, in the summer of 2014, after living years with a man I had once loved and after several attempts to leave…it happened. One morning, unplanned and unrehearsed–an intense verbal argument was exchanged between us. It was that day I decided to trust God. It was that day I decided to put my daughter first. It was that day I decided to be fully
committed to wanting better and deserving better for myself. I was committed to my exit process. I didn’t have much–just clothes, a car and my daughter. I didn’t have a job! But, I knew greater was waiting for me! My daughter and I moved in with my sister and slept on a sofa and an air mattress until I was able to do better. My hustle was tiring and it took time away from my daughter, but I knew I was worth it and my daughter was worth it.

By the Grace of God I was able to leave my toxic relationship. I thank God for it all. One of the many things I had to do immediately was to ask God for forgiveness for not putting Him first. Because God forgave me, I was able to forgive my abuser. I was also able to forgive my mother. Because of my own struggle, I learned that motherhood is not easy and being a woman is not easy.

To my sister or brother who is reading this: Finding your voice in a domestic violence relationship is challenging, but give yourself the permission to fight for it! Your life is filled with so much joy, love, blessings, peace and happiness!  You deserve it all!

To my sister or brother dealing with abandonment issues: Find your strength in Deuteronomy 31:6 (NIV) “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you, He will never leave you nor forsake you.”

Love, Ray

#IAMSIS

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Natalee’s Story

I was 6 years old the first time my dad (or “Poppa” as I call him) put his hands on my mother. Or maybe that was the earliest memory I have of him doing so. We were sitting at the table eating breakfast and I remember being happy because my mom had made the smiley face pancakes that I loved so much. Two chocolate chips for the eyes, one for the nose, and five for the smile. She was rushing around the kitchen when my dad walked in and stopped to kiss her on top of the head–right before trying to steal a piece of bacon. I remember she laughed as she playfully pushed him away and went to tend to my little brother. That was their thing, you know? My dad being so much taller than my mom would always kiss her on top of her head and she would pretend she hated it. It was a running joke amongst our family for as long as I can remember. Anyway, Poppa sat down next to me at the table and was unfolding the paper when he asked mom about paying “Bill”. My mother turned red in the face as she begin explaining that she forget to pay “Bill” and that she would do it after she took me to school. Poppa got real quiet and the next thing I remember, he had her pinned against the refrigerator with her arm behind her back. I never finished my pancakes that day. It would also be another 3 years before I realized “Bill” wasn’t some evil person causing trouble in our household every month and making Poppa angry.

I was 7 years old the first time I saw a black eye on my mother. I had walked into the bathroom unannounced after she finished her evening shower and found her staring in the foggy mirror. She wiped away her tears quickly as she pushed me out of the door, but not before I saw the pain in and around her hazel eyes.

I was 8 years old the first time my mother broke her arm on “accident”. 9 years old when she “tripped” down the stairs. 10 years old when me and my brother had to stay with our grandparents for 2 weeks while my mother was in the hospital because she “wasn’t feeling well”. 11 years old when I got used to Poppa calling her a “dumb b*tch”. 12 years old when I started to believe she was a “dumb b*tch”. 13 years old when I started treating her like she was.

I was 14 years old when I realized I hated my mother almost as much as I loved her.  And I hated myself for it.

I hated her for not standing up for herself against Poppa, but especially for not standing up for me or my little brother. I hated her for being too busy crying behind closed doors to see her children wiping away their own tears. I hated her for not seeing her worth and as a result, making it hard for me to see mine. I hated her for every broken lamp, every hole in the wall, and every shattered glass. I hated her for teaching me and my brother that anger and violence is synonymous with love.

My mother left Poppa when I was 15 years old. I know it wasn’t the easiest thing for her to do and after learning more about the cycle of domestic violence, I realize how much strength it took for her to do so. We don’t have the best relationship right now, but I am happy to say that we are working on it. My therapist told me that the anger I still have for my mother is really love dressed in displaced resentment.  Resentment because she stayed and took away me and my brother’s choice to live in hell… resentment because she never believed the beauty that we saw in her.

Today, I am working on forgiving my parents for giving me a childhood I didn’t choose and that’s a start. Not just for me, but for my mother.

Thank you for listening.

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Shanya’s Story:

I am a survivor.

This is my song of survival. When looking for a place to start a Survivor story, I keep on tracing back and back and back until I get to the words of my mother. I was about five years old. She sat me down and told me that the man I’d known for five years wasn’t my father and that my real father wanted her to get an abortion. He offered to push her down the steps and make loosing me look like an accident. So, I think my very first Story of Survival is that I survived and I was born.

I had no idea that was just the first day of many that I would face disappointment and loss. In the next 13 years we faced poverty, living in projects, section 8. I had a stepfather that was a heroin addict. He would gaslight us (make us fuss and argue) and steal from us. He took our money, medication, clothing and in the mist, our pride and self esteem. As if that wasn’t enough I’d face bullying in school. I was told that I was too light to be black. My hair was too long. I wasn’t allowed to play with the other black students. I was jumped for reading and because my mom ironed my clothes. Now I feel like it was jealousy but back then it seemed like way too much for a child to bare. There are so many stories in between, like the time a gang tried to initiate me, or the time my step dad tried to sell me. I fought my way out and told them to get their money back. I somehow made it back home physically “safe” and told no one until years later. I smiled in school, made friends easily excelled in academics, seemingly surviving all that life threw at me. Yet, the words of my mom, my stepfather’s actions, him telling my brothers and sisters I was a half sister and my peers weighed me down so heavily. I would have given anything to just fit in, just to be brown skin like my mom. I would have even given my life so between ages 14 and 17 I survived suicide several times. I was caught once and taken to have my stomach pumped. I was screened for depression but never for a drug addict step-father; never screened for a poverty stricken school. I was deemed a teenager and sent home.

My mother moved and eventually left my stepfather. I went to undergrad and then grad school. I got a Master’s degree. I felt like I had survived the worst. I met a guy from a “good” two parent household and I got married. I had a full time job, I was a poet with features, books, CDs out and people really “loved” me.

Yet, I forgot to tell anyone that just after he proposed, he threw my purse with my military ID out of MY moving car and made me get out and pick it all up. I blocked out the argument when I was pregnant with my son where he called me stupid and told me I didn’t know how to purchase a car. Until these arguments started becoming closer and closer together.

Then I realized they were happening every day but when I looked down I had a toddler and a big belly. I convinced myself that it was alcohol. I called his parents, brothers, and sister. I asked them for help. I thought I could change him. I wanted to be successful. I wanted this marriage to work. Yet, I never thought about how much I was becoming the same girl who would smile outside and cry under sheets. I covered up more and more.

Eventually, I was being told how to fold clothes,  clean the bathroom, dishes were taken out of the cabinet and put back in the sink for rewashing. I was told I couldn’t drive, called stupid, dumb. I was told that I was trying to counsel him like I did my mental health clients.

He was everywhere I was. He totaled three cars so we shared one car. He went to poetry events with me, dropped me off and picked me up from work or I picked him up from work. We were never apart for more than an hour before and after work. He took me and the kids on side jobs with him. He knew our every move and all I wanted to do was move, but then the threats came. I was told that he would take my kids. He took the stories that I told him from my past and used them against me. He said his family of lawyers, doctors, educators and even government employees would take me down and make sure I would never see my kids again. I thought he was right. He was the one who came from a two-parent household. This was not the first time I was told I was wrong, stupid, badgered for my looks, the way I speak. He said I just didn’t know how two parent households work. He convinced me that everyone was on his side. He showed me inbox messages of my female friends sending him heart emojis.

I felt like two separate people living in one body. I was alone in a crowded room. Somehow hugs and smiles felt like betrayal because they were secretly all his friends and on his side. During the day, as a mental health counselor, I counseled people, I empowered people, I told people how to heal. At night I returned home to be mentally and financially abused.

I thought that a two-parent household must be good for the kids. I convinced myself that alcohol was much better than heroin. I knew my kids would turn out better off than I did. After all… I didn’t have to tell him I had a master’s degree; I knew I really wasn’t stupid. I never let him fuss at me for more than a few minutes without defending myself. I didn’t always refold the clothes or re-wash the dishes, sometimes I would just retreat to my bedroom and refuse to do anything at all. I was fighting back. I wasn’t being abused right? Wrong!

Then, when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, my house caught on fire with me and my two children inside. So, here we go again, I survived a fire. I knew that the fire would forge our family together. After coming so close to losing all of us he would have to finally realize how much we meant to him, get treatment, and go to counseling. started our counseling sessions and it failed.

Time went on, and then, while managing 3 substance abuse houses, putting on a mental health forum, being the slam-master of a poetry troop, being a mother, being a wife and hiding domestic abuse, I read something that I picked up for my clients. It discussed symptoms that children display when they have witnessed domestic abuse. I realized that my children saw what I refused to see, they saw me being abused. I talked to him about it, and asked him to leave.

He did not leave. Instead, he woke the children up one night and told them if he got drunk again I was going to leave him. A family member called and asked me if I was trying to get him to hurt me by telling him I wanted to split. October 31st of that year he got drunk, and woke us all up yelling and screaming. That week, I showed up at my kids school with a packed Uhaul and my whole SUV strapped to the back. When the teachers asked what was going on, my children told them, “Daddy drinks and is mean to us.” The teacher cried and left the class. They had become me, hiding every sign of abuse. I allowed my children to run in survival mood. Until the day I left they were no better than I had been all those years. This is no longer a story of mere survival. This is how I thrived when faced with adversity. Remember, you have to be tested to have a testimony.

• Follow Shanya on Instagram- @shanyaladys
• Stay tuned for her upcoming book, “Mixed Matters”, to be released 2020
• Photo Cred: Yolanda “Yogii” Barnes

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Kris’ Story

Have you ever experienced a traumatic event so horrifying that it completely changed you? Have you stared into the mirror and realized you don’t even recognize the person staring back at you? And you say to yourself, “How am I going to survive this?”

“How am I going to get through this?”

I asked myself these very questions when my 3 yr old daughter, Miranda, was murdered by her father on a court ordered visit in the winter of 1999. She died on a January night in a cold concrete parking lot.  I couldn’t believe my ears, but then again, I could. I had begged the court to please not give him joint custody.  This, even after he was convicted and sentenced for stalking me, after he had violated his restraining order with me AND the woman he was seeing at the time. This, after multiple phone calls to police, his parents and to his place of employment (he was a Bossier City, Louisiana Fire Fighter). But no one would listen. “HE IS GOING TO KILL HER”, I would say. But no one would listen. Not police, not judges, not attorneys. No one. Handing over my child to a mad man was like Abraham laying his only son before God as a sacrifice; only for me I was handing my child over to the devil himself.  In the blink of an eye, Miranda was gone. Forever. Shot twice in the head. She was ripped from this world by a man who should have been the one man she could trust in this world. Her own father. She was murdered by the one man who should have been her protector. How could he look into her beautiful blue eyes and pull the trigger? Not once. But twice? Ultimately police shot and killed him after he killed my daughter and the woman he had been dating.

Miranda was born on January 16,1995 and was killed January 12, 1999. She was just 4 days shy of her 4th birthday. Many people have asked me how I survived the murder of my child and my answer has always been: What choice did I have? What choice was I given but to figure out how to navigate this world without her? Charles didn’t give me a choice. I was left behind for a reason and I knew that in order to thrive, I needed to figure out how to live again. I needed to figure out how love again. I needed to figure out how to be happy again. I needed to figure out how to let go of the pain and bitterness I felt towards those who failed us.

I started by embracing my grief. It was mine and I was not going to let anyone take it from me. I knew that in order to move forward I needed to make it through this process. I began speaking out against Domestic Violence. I began advocating and supporting other women and children who were victimized not only by their abusive partners, but also by a justice system that continues to fail them. That meek and shy young woman disappeared. I became a driven force who decided that I was not going to lay down and die, but get up and fight. I was determined that I WOULD NOT BE SILENCED. Thrusting myself into my community with the love and support from my family allowed me to heal because I was giving back. I knew that I needed to honor Miranda by focusing on the goodness that could come from her tragic murder, rather than live my life in bitterness and hate.

Even though I was never physically abused, the mental and emotional abuse was debilitating. I fought this man for 3 years and I fought against a justice system that failed time and time again. If anyone thinks that an emotional abuser does not kill, the proof lies in a tiny grave in South Louisiana. My ex-husband knew the ultimate revenge would be to kill the one person that gave me life.

Since Miranda’s death in 1999, I have been an active Domestic Violence advocate and resiliency speaker traveling the country and telling Miranda’s story at Domestic Violence trainings and conventions. Not only do I share her tragic murder but also how I found hope and happiness again.

I have decided to stick with Love. Hate is too much of a burden to bear.” Dr. Martin Luther King.

The post In Memory of Miranda appeared first on G.R.O.W. Foundation, Inc. ®.

Cheryl’s Story:

I am NOT a hypocrite, but I wear a mask. I am not two-faced but there are two sides of me. I am full of pain and suffering yet filled with peace and joy. Sometimes I feel like my life’s journey is one of contradictions, yet still I walk a path of harmony. From the doctors who diagnosed me with Sickle Cell Anemia shortly after my birth, pronouncing upon me a death sentence, until today at 45 years old, my story reveals that I have been blessed to beat the odds and then some.  Born and raised in Montreal, Quebec Canada, the youngest of three siblings born to Jamaican immigrants, most of my childhood and adolescence was spent in and out of the hospital at least twice a month, battling, chronic pain crises, pneumonia and infections. Low hemoglobin blood counts resulted in me having to receive multiple blood transfusions. As a child, I used to count how many transfusions I had received, but I officially stopped counting after I reached 50; now I estimate I have had over 200 life-sustaining blood transfusions.

During my time at the children’s hospital, I was privileged to form a special bond with 3 other sickle cell patients around the same age John, Keva and Carolyn. In between respite from the pain, we would laugh, share coping strategies and compare notes on our hospital stay. Each of them was bright, valiant and hilariously funny and we formed a connection built on deciphering why we were hand selected to carry this sickle cell mantle to truly understanding what each other was going through.  We all did our best to thwart the tug of Sickle Cell as it tried to stifle our hopes and dreams ravaging our bodies and suffocating it with breathtaking pain. One by one, John, Carolyn and Keva each succumbed to the symptoms of this disease, and sad to say that out of the four of us, I am the only one still living.

School attendance proved to be a tremendous challenge for me with always playing catch up on school work in between hospitalizations. My teachers and parents took pity on me, caught between having genuine empathy for me and not quite sure if I was even capable of doing the work assigned. I was always encouraged to do my best and I internalized that because of my illness my best was mediocre. I failed the sixth and eighth grade which further solidified the belief that I just could not cut it educationally. Oddly enough, the only thing I excelled at in school was public speaking, my classmates dubbed me the “Female Martin Luther King” and I won numerous public speaking awards and represented my High School in a regional competition. Coming from a musical family I also loved to sing and was fortunate to help form a teenage female gospel group that was widely received and sang throughout Canada and parts of the United States. Singing with the group was cathartic and helped to take my mind off my frequent bouts of pain and I would often beg and plead with doctors to release me from the hospital early, so I could join the group from one gig to the other.

Due to my poor academic performance, I barely graduated from High School and subsequently all my college applications were denied. A year after graduation my persistence in applying for higher education finally paid off when a local community college took a chance on me and gave me a provisional acceptance to their 2-year college.  In between hospitalizations and my lackadaisical educational stance, it took me 3 years to obtain my Associates Degree in Social Science.  Shortly thereafter, my best friend and I decided we wanted to attend school in the United States and we applied and were accepted to a Christian Historically Black College University (HBCU). I received a lot of backlash from family and friends about my decision to leave home, as they thought that I would surely die out there on my own and that I needed to remain in my mother’s care, so she could look after me for the rest of my life.  Despite the resistance, I was determined to proceed and remarkably my health improved significantly I went from being hospitalized twice a month to only having to be admitted once for the entire duration of my college years. Some of those same relatives and friends who stood in opposition to my efforts to leave Canada now say that moving away from the cold climate to the south of the U.S. must’ve done my body good and insist that I only come back home to visit from now on.

In college, I thought I could continue my academic career with the same laissez-faire mentality that barely carried me through before.  However, one professor saw something in me that I could not even see in myself. As he returned my 1^st assignment with a large red D on it, he took me aside, looked me in the eyes and with sincerity said that I could do better than that and that he knew I was smart and could do the work set before me. I stared at him in disbelief, but his affirmation changed my entire life. No longer did I envision myself as that sickly little girl, but I began to see myself as intelligent and capable of mastering my academic pursuits.  With determination and motivation, I put my best foot forward and my grades improved significantly, and I made the Honor Roll and eventually the Dean’s List.  I graduated Cum Laude with a Bachelor of Social Work degree and carried this renewed work ethic and sense of purpose with me years later as I completed two Masters degrees. I am currently working on my dissertation and on track to complete a Doctoral degree in Organizational Leadership with an emphasis in Behavioral Health.  In addition, my husband and I have co-authored the book Your Rejection, God’s Protection; A Unique Biblical Approach to Understanding Adversity. The principles in the book have helped many overcome their experience with rejection by empowering them to view it differently and as beneficial to their life’s journey and purpose.

Professionally, as a Social Worker for over 17 years, I have had the distinct privilege to work in tandem with Judges, Lawyers, Physicians, Teachers, Psychologists, and a host of community partners to help empower and ameliorate the plethora of challenges facing families of abused and neglected children.  As an ordained Elder within my local church, I have the opportunity to tend to the spiritual needs of the community by sharing a message that gets me through each and every day, one of hope, deliverance and salvation.  As a wife married of almost 15 years, I am supremely blessed to have a loving and caring husband who understands my illness and picks up the slack when I am sick and incapacitated. As a mother to a delightful 12-year-old girl, I am blessed for she has learned the art of compassion, as she hugs me and wipes tears from my eyes when I seethe from the intensity and agony of the pain.  I wholeheartedly believe that having a strong support system is critically important to the wellbeing of anyone living with a chronic illness and I am fortunate to have such remarkable friends and supportive family members who have encouraged and walked with me on this journey with Sickle Cell.

I do not know what it feels like to go a day without pain. Every day I wake up and say “Is today going to be a good pain day or a bad pain day?” Either way, I know my day will encompass pain. Every year with each birthday, I notice that the pain intensifies, and I don’t bounce back from sickle cell episodes as quickly as I used too. I am not ashamed of having Sickle Cell Anemia because it has helped to shape the determined and resilient woman that I have become and I have chosen to take my pain and turn it into purpose.  Despite it all, I am confident that God’s grace has overflowed in my life and I am ever thankful for His providence and love, and purpose to use the gifts and talents I have been blessed with to encourage others to never give up on their journey

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JJ’s Story:

I’d been anticipating this moment for weeks. Why, I’m not sure. I’ve been doing this for the last eight years. Now it’s nine. I feel it as if it were only yesterday.

I strike the match and begin to recite the Mourner’s Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead. It’s the ninth anniversary of the death of my grandfather. We were all there. He was the last of my four grandparents, to whom I was very close. The memories of the days before his death flood my brain as I begin to pray. Love. Family. Legacy.

Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba. (Glorified and sanctified be God’s great name.)

My hand shakes as I light the yartzheit candle; the candle we light to honor those who have passed. The tears roll down my cheeks.

B’alma di-v’ra chirutei, v’yamlich malchutei b’chayeichon uvyomeichon (Throughout the world which He has created according to his will, may He  give reign to His kingship in your lifetimes and in your days,)

The memories come flooding back, and I’m suddenly so angry. He was so selfish that he couldn’t even support me when he was dying and finally passed; when all seven grandchildren, including one cousin who was six months pregnant, carried his coffin from the hearse to the burial spot. Decades ago, my grandfather had a corner of the non-Jewish cemetery in town consecrated for all of us, so we could always be together. I was handed the American flag from the coffin. My legs felt as if they would give way and my heart broke into a million pieces. But he couldn’t be there for me because the death of my grandfather reminded him of the loss of his own grandfather. But I was his wife. He should have been there so I could talk about it, and mourn.

Uvchayei d’chol beit yisrael, ba’agala uvizman kariv, v’im’ru: “Amen.” (within the life of the entire House of Israel, speedily and soon; and say, Amen.)

Our lives were devastated because of him. I felt like I was less because of him. My mind was twisted into a trillion little knots over the course of those 20+ years, many of which still need to be unraveled. Everything he did was in my name. He brainwashed me and made me believe that it would be ok. He was my husband; I wanted to believe him. I was supposed to believe him, to believe in him. Something in the back of my mind told me otherwise, but it was easier to ignore it rather than tangle with him. Toward the end of our marriage, he’d begun to admit he is a narcissist. He could never be wrong. He needed to feel like he was the best, the smartest, the flashiest. All he was, was a common thief and a liar. He decimated the lives of our daughter and me for a long, long time.

From the time I was 16 until I was almost 40, he slowly and insidiously turned my brain into that of a robot. I did what I had to do to get through every day without an argument. I left an amazing job and career (because I was forced to, so he could totally control me and my income), and stayed home. No toys were to be on the floor by 4:00, because that was around the time he’d get home. I didn’t want to hear it. No dishes in the sink. Dishes done. Money transferred as he directed. He said it was fine. I believed him.

Y’hei sh’mei raba m’varach l’alam ul’almei almaya. (May His great name be blessed forever and to all eternity.)

I texted my husband of nearly five incredible years and asked him to come downstairs. I couldn’t speak. I was sobbing as the pain from it all washed over me like a tidal wave. My stomach wracked; my body crumbled as I watched the flame flicker to life. I never had a chance to mourn my grandfather; it was the loss of all four of them twisted together. It’s not fucking fair. Everything came crashing down less than a month later, on April 1, 2011. I didn’t get to go into my grandparents’ house with my parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins to clean out everything, to remember, to have closure. My life, by that point, had shattered and I was physically and emotionally immobile.

My grandfather’s death marked the beginning of the worst time of my life with my ex. My abuser. The person who should have protected me and our daughter. Who should have been there, but only thought of himself. Even when he gave so generously, it was because he wanted recognition. He wanted to be in the limelight. He wanted us to kiss his feet in some way. It was all blood money. And it was all in my name. Why? He convinced me it was fine. That his boss knew. That the white collar crime he was committing without my knowledge was really and truly above board. I asked once, and it was the wrong thing to ask. But he never hit me. All he said was that his hands were “getting hot.” That was enough to shut me up.  I didn’t want to risk that, ever. The wild look in his eyes was enough to scare me into submission. Every once in a while, if I overstepped my boundaries, something would whizz past my head. Or in a rage, he’d sweep the unsorted mail from the table onto the floor. All in front of his own child. I made him apologize to her. “How would you feel if someone spoke to her that way?” I’d ask. But it didn’t matter; it cycled from apologies and sweet nothings (and it certainly meant nothing in the end), to it happening all over again.

As I cry for the loss of my grandfather, the memories of all four of my grandparents crashes together in my mind and I wonder what they would have thought about this. If they would have been mad at me, or asked me why I didn’t say something before it got so bad. They would have told me I could have come to them, as so many family members have told me over the years since it all happened. I’m still ashamed and I still blame myself. I should have known better. But I thought I could take care of it. I didn’t want to know what was really happening, because in reality, our lives were like a train going off the tracks into a bottomless chasm of disaster.

When you’re not hit, and you hear stories of abuse, of how women you come to know and love as your sisters; are thrown into walls, lose teeth, are forced to do drugs, are shot, or worse…you feel like maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe your abuse is “less than.” But the effects last for years. Your abuse, MY abuse, was psychological, financial, and emotional. I was raped on several occasions when he was high on prescription drugs and he never remembered. But he never hit me. The scars aren’t visible but they sure as hell are there. Sometimes because you’re not hit, you wonder if you’re the crazy one and maybe the abuse wasn’t really abuse. You question your own sanity. Did it really happen the way I remember it?

Yitbarach v’yishtabach, v’yitpa’ar v’yitromam v’yitnaseh, v’yithadar v’yit’aleh v’yit’halal sh’mei d’kud’sha, b’rich hu (Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One, Blessed is He).

WomensHealth.gov, the federal website dedicated to the lives of women, has a section on “Relationships and Safety.” It has sections on intimate partner violence and rape. The “other” types of abuse are emotional, financial, elder abuse, stalking. Am I an “other,” because I was never hit? Because my scars don’t show? Because it’s not sexy enough to be headlined on TV or in the movies? The answer is a definitive NO.

The NNEDV, the National Network to End Domestic Violence, cites financial abuse as occurring in 99% (let’s assume ALL) cases of domestic violence. EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU READING THIS, and every man or woman you know who is a survivor or who is in an abusive relationship, has been victimized financially.

These include controlling how money is spent; forcing the partner to stop working or sabotaging his/her current employment (check); running up debt (check); giving the partner an “allowance” or refusing to give him/her money at all (check); or on the flip side, refusing to work; stealing income or government benefits such as food stamps; or refusing to otherwise contribute to the household. Sometimes, as in my case, they manipulate or force the abused partner into writing bad checks; hide assets; forge legal documents; or commit financial crimes in the name of the victim (Source: https://nnedv.org/content/about-financial-abuse/).

Over a period of several months, in the early days of our marriage, he stole $30,000 I’d saved for a house. He used it for drugs such as Ambien and Stadol. When that ran out, he told my mother, who was a nursery school teacher, that we weren’t making ends meet (which was a lie; I was making over $100,000 at that time). She cashed all of her paychecks and gave them to him so he could snort or swallow something to make him high as a kite. I didn’t find all of this out until afterward. In fact, I found out a lot afterward that, if I’d known, only MIGHT have gotten me to tell someone what was going on. But would I have really done so? Would I have tried to fix him again, or would I have been too embarrassed? I’m second-guessing myself to this day.

In one study of women in the Philippines on the effects of economic, physical and/or emotional abuse (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4265545/), emotional and financial abuse were clearly related to higher suicide attempts, anxiety, depression, infertility, and PTSD. The authors state the following: “The strongest…association was between the economic abuse measure ‘spouse controlled money or forced her to work’ and suicide attempts…and psychological distress…compared to those not exposed to this form of abuse, respectively.”

Finally, last but certainly not least, is the very validating book, Does Stress Damage the Brain?, by J. Douglas Bremner. In it, he cites several studies that have compared the brains of abused women to those of combat veterans. The reactions to stress in both groups are the same. We are also veterans of combat; of wars in our own homes where we should be safe.

We are not “less than,” regardless of how un-sexy the media may think our abuse might be. We are part of this unintentional club of survivors. My abuse may not have been physical, but I sure as hell have PTSD, depression, and anxiety. Who knows if it will ever go away? If I will ever really heal?

It’s taken nine years so far, and I’ve just cleared up my back taxes. Only now have I been able to get a credit card. I have to pay restitution forever. But, I’m finally free. It took him getting arrested and going to jail for over six years, for me to see what had happened to our lives, and to get out of an abusive relationship. If you’re there, and you’re reading this, I beg you to please tell someone. Don’t let yourself fall as far as I did.

L’eila min-kol-birchata v’shirata, tushb’chata v’nechemata da’amiran b’alma, v’im’ru: “amen.”

Y’hei shlama raba min-sh’maya v’chayim aleinu v’al-kol-yisrael, v’im’ru: “amen.”

Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu v’al kol-yisrael, v’imru: “amen.”

(Beyond any blessing and song, praise and consolation that are uttered in the world; and say, Amen. May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us and for all Israel; and say, Amen. He who creates peace in His celestial heights, may He create peace for us and for all Israel; and say, Amen.)

I sob as I start to recite the prayer again. This time I’m using a recording from YouTube, as I can barely speak. Not because it’s prescribed, but because I need it. I never got that chance to absorb the loss; to really feel it. I chant in time with the rabbi.

My husband comes, and I finish the prayer. Amen. 

I fall into his arms. I may not ever be healed, but I know I’m safe.

Life can begin again.

The post “JJ” appeared first on G.R.O.W. Foundation, Inc. ®.

Mike’s Story:

I wanted to write a letter to you all, but decided to call instead because 1.) I know for a fact she still checks my emails and 2.) It’s easier to stay anonymous this way.

Those are the things I thought about as I sat in front of my computer trying to figure out what to do next.  That and how the fuck do I even type what I have to say? Me, a 6’2 former high school athlete turned college graduate with a good job, good credit, and nice house.  Me, the guy raised in the suburbs in a 2 parent household with a mom and dad who are still in love 40 years later.  I grew up surrounded by love.  Real love.  The kind of love that ‘The Temptations’ used to sing to my parents about as my dad spun my mom around our small kitchen.  I remember my sisters and I standing in the doorway and watching them dance.  I would smile because they were so happy (and corny), but I would also worry that she would bump into the table as he twirled her around.  It turns out all that worrying was in vain because she never did because he never let her.  I was 12 years old when I realized that’s the kind of love I wanted when I grew up.

It was my second week of my senior year in college when I stopped in the campus cafeteria one day to grab something to eat before class. When I first saw her, she took my breath away.  5’5ish, slim with short curly hair–no lie she reminded of Jada Pinkett back in the day.  She was holding up the line because she couldn’t find her wallet in that huge purse of hers (Side bar…WHAT do you ladies keep in there anyway?!) and people were getting frustrated.  “Hold your got-damn horses!”, she said to the lady huffing and puffing behind her, who happened to be standing in front of me.  “Hmmm. Feisty like Jada, too”, I thought.  After another 30 seconds or so of holding up the line, I could see her face start to flush with more than anger– embarrassment, shame–I wasn’t sure.  Either way, I decided to step in because I was hungry and needed to get to class and she was bound to curse out Huffy Puffy any second.  Stepping out of line, literally and figuratively, I approached the cafeteria cashier and told her I would pay for “Jada’s” lunch.  As I was pulling out my wallet I felt a hard poke in my shoulder and saw her staring at me, finger mid-air, with her lip curled in anger.  It was kind of cute actually.  “What, you think I can’t pay for my own lunch?” she asked with an attitude.  “Nah, I think you can’t find your wallet in that big ass purse and I gotta get to class”, I hurled back.  Huffy Puffy laughed loudly behind us and Jada and I both turned to give her the “mind your business” look.  Running her fingers through her short hair, she looked back at me with a sheepish grin and finally gave in–but only if I let her pay me back.  I bought her burger and fries with extra ketchup and mayo on the side and for the next 24 minutes, she paid me back every cent and more with that smile.

Jada and I began talking every day after that.  I learned that she loved to dance but admittedly didn’t know how, knew every Prince song, hated bugs but also hated killing them. “Their lives matter, too, Michael”, she would say.  We laughed at the same sarcastic jokes, were both die hard basketball fans (my Lakers vs. her Miami Heat), loved action movies and were close with our families.  She, however, grew up in a single parent home; her mom having left her father after years of infidelity and abuse.  The oldest of her siblings, she got used to being a caretaker and nurturer after her mother took on extra jobs to make ends meet.  Our examples of family and love were very different, but as the weeks turned into months, we both began to feel the same pull towards each other.  For the first time, I believed I was in love.

We were 6 months into what I considered the best relationship I’d ever had when things started to change.  Up until that point everything was sweet and I’d already made up in my mind that I was going to marry this girl one day.   Yeah, that’s a big decision to make in my early 20s but I’m telling y’all she had me mentally, physically, sexually, and spiritually.  I’d never met anyone like her.  Anyway, we were chilling in my room and watching movies one night when she casually asked, “Babe, who’s Nikki?”.  Still watching the movie and absentmindedly reaching for the popcorn, I asked, “Nikki, who?”  She grabbed the remote from the bed, muted the TV, and turned to face me.  “Nikki…the girl whose profile picture you liked on Facebook yesterday.”  I looked at her for a second before taking the remote back and replied “Oh, that’s my mom’s best friend’s daughter.  I told you about her.  We grew up together.”  Jada started chewing on the inside of her cheek like she does when she gets frustrated and said, “Okaaaayy, but why did you like the picture? You like her?  You think she’s prettier than me?” Now, at this point I’m confused and getting irritated because all I’m trying to do is watch the movie, but for the sake of not getting her more frustrated, I answered her questions. “No, babe… she just graduated her nursing program and was celebrating.  It was a nice picture so I liked it.”  I guess that wasn’t a good enough answer for Jada because the next thing I know she snatched the bowl of popcorn, threw it in the trash and told me she would be back once I decided to stop lying to her.  She ignored my calls and texts that night and the next day; eventually showing up at my door two days later with a new Red Box movie and my favorite popcorn.

Jada never did tell me why she was so upset that night, but I soon learned that it wouldn’t be the only time.  Innocent interactions on social media became a source of so many arguments that I eventually deleted my pages just to avoid the drama.  If I missed her phone calls– didn’t matter if I was in class or at my part-time job–she would send a barrage of text messages asking where I was and who I was with.  Soon it evolved from asking about all of my female friends to demanding that I stop talking to them altogether.  If I told her I wouldn’t or that she was overreacting, she would accuse me of sleeping with them and the argument would get 10x worse. It got to the point that I began to feel suffocated, but because I loved her I thought I just needed to do more to reassure her that I did.

When times were great, they were really great.  We still enjoyed each other’s company, talked like best friends and were just as mentally, physically and sexually attracted to one another as we’d been in the beginning.  When she became pregnant we were both elated.  Scared, yes, because we hadn’t yet finished school, but happy because we already knew we were going to spend the rest of our lives together so our baby just sealed the deal.  Little did I know things were going to take a turn for the worse.

Jada’s insecurities rose to a whole new level during her pregnancy.  She demanded to know where I was every second of the day and would go into a crying fit of rage if she didn’t.  Her crying spells eventually turned violent as she formed a habit of throwing things at me when she was upset.  I’m not talking soft shit either– I’m talking glasses, dishes, shoes–whatever she could get her hands on.  She would always apologize and say her pregnancy hormones had her acting out of character. Not wanting to stress her out any more than she was, I would console her and accept her apologies.  It got to the point that I could only avoid arguing and drama as long as I was around Jada, so I stopped doing the extracurricular things that I enjoyed like hanging with the fellas, running, or even visiting my family as much.  I just wanted her and our baby healthy and whatever I had to do to keep her as least stressed as possible, I would do it.

It wasn’t until I saw a post that someone shared from your organization (yes, I eventually opened my Facebook page back up) that I started to realize that my relationship was abusive, or at the very least, unhealthy. Until I saw that post with statistics on domestic violence against men, I never thought men could be abused–not real men anyway.  Aside from a shove during an argument here and there, Jada had never put her hands on me so who am I to claim being a victim of anything? So, I didn’t. Not after the countless times she went through my phone, my emails, or my social media. Not after cutting up the shoelaces to my sneakers, breaking my belongings, or demanding to know where I was at all times. Not even after the name calling, the silent treatment for no reason or trying to embarrass and belittle me in front of my friends.  I chalked it up to the fact that all relationships have problems and excused her behavior as the result of years of growing up in a toxic household.  I told myself I just needed to be more, do less and love her harder.

Why do I stay?  I stay because of our son, who is my pride and joy, and the fact that I am afraid to lose him.  I stay because every argument that we have she threatens to never let me see him again.  I stay because–to many of you–my story doesn’t matter.  Shit, it almost didn’t matter to me.  I am not a woman covered in bruises, defenseless against the rage of a man twice her size. I am a good 6’2 man in love with a broken 5’5ish woman who loves burgers and french fries with extra ketchup and mayo on the side. I stay because every time I want to leave my heart tells me to hold its’ got damn horses.

And because maybe, just maybe, if I hold on long enough our son can watch me twirl her around our kitchen.

The post Mike appeared first on G.R.O.W. Foundation, Inc. ®.

The first #SurvivorSunday feature of the new year is the beautiful and resilient Jasmine Blooms.  After surviving years of a tumultuous relationship, Jasmine shares with us the dangers of gaslighting and learning to see her worth with 2020 vision.

Jasmine’s Story:

I am survivor. I didn’t even know that I was being abused.

It took for a close friend and my abuser’s own father to tell me to go to a battered women’s shelter.  For years I thought I was the problem.  So many times I heard “I never said that” or “that never happened”, when I knew in my heart of hearts that it did.  It took for a coworker and a good friend to educate me on what gaslighting is.

This started from the first week I moved in with my child’s father. He was caught way too many times entertaining other women. The arguments had become physical and after one of those many arguments I decided to move out and get my own apartment. My abuser moved in with his cousin and things got better with us with the distance. That was short lived. In November 2017 we were visiting my mother out of town. Our argument started after a practice for a modeling runway show I was in. It had escalated so badly that my mother wanted me to just stay with our son. But we all had to go back together because we traveled there in my car. On the way back home, my abuser did not stop yelling at me. I did not feed into his anger. I sat in complete silence, something he was not used to. He thrived off saying or doing something to get a reaction out of me. But my silence proved that I was no longer interested in fighting and debating with him and he would not let it go. He pulled over in a gas station parking lot, still yelling and saying things hoping to trigger me. I did not want my car to sit running and burning gas while he yelled at me, so I grabbed my car keys and turned the ignition off. He grabbed my hand and pulled at my keys.  My fingers were tangled in the rings of the car keys and I yelled out “you’re hurting me!” That further fueled his fire. He opened the car door and tried to push me out of the car in the rain. When he was unsuccessful pushing me out of the car on the passenger side, he pulled me across his lap and tried to throw me out of MY own car on the driver’s side. I continued screaming in utter horror because I couldn’t believe this was happening. I fought back scratching and biting and kicking. He finally stopped and went for the back seat and unhooked our, then, 1.5 year old son to leave with him. I fought him tooth and nail and told him that he was not leaving to walk 160 miles home with our child. I got out of the car and tried to pull him off of our son. My abuser turned around, picked me up and slammed me down on the pavement of the gas station parking lot. My head hit the pavement so hard that my vision blurred and I had lost all feeling in my right arm. It immediately went numb. Because my vision was impaired momentarily, my arm appeared broken. I screamed out “MY ARM IS BROKEN!” My abuser lifted my arm as  if it were something of disgust and tossed it back on the ground. He replied “Your f**king arm isn’t broken”, scooped my car keys off of the ground, and got back in the car. The last thing I remember is him cranking the car before I blacked out.

Lying there alone, wet and cold, I came to and found the owner of the gas station and four other people were standing over me. I tried to get up but my head, neck and back were stiff with pain. A beautiful African-American woman stood over me and told me that an ambulance was on the way. I asked her where was my son. She said he was in the car. My abuser stood far off to the side looking embarrassed and angry. A gentleman read my shirt “good
vibes only” and shook his head sadly. I never wore that shirt again after that day. The ambulance took me to the hospital and thankfully there was no
major damage done to my body. It felt like I had been hit my a tractor trailer truck though and there was a knot on the back of my head. After that day, my abuser checked himself into an drug, alcohol and anger management facility the same weekend I had my runway show. Oh yeah, I still went and did my strut as it was my first runway show– knot on my head and all. I asked my hairstylist to place my ponytail off to the side. I never told anyone what caused the injury.

Gaslighters are known for manipulating a person or situation to play in their favor. My abuser told me that he never picked me up and slammed me.
But I had tripped over his feet during our scuffle and we both fell and he fell on top of me. And I believed that. It didn’t feel or seem right to me.
But I did. I believed that. That same year on Thanksgiving, my abuser initiated an argument with his stepfather. I had invited my abuser’s mother, sisters and other family over as it was my first Thanksgiving that I had cooked. Gaslighters are also well known for ruining holidays and special events because it is a time when the attention isn’t just on them. A gaslighter craves attention and are very insecure. Because of that argument Thanksgiving 2017, my abuser has not seen her only grandson to this date. Not from lack of effort on my end but because she is stuck in the middle of her own abusive relationship as well as her narcissistic son.

Fast forward to 2019. I made up in my mind that I was not taking this man along with me in the new year. And he knew it. I found out that I was
pregnant with his child shortly after one of our many arguments that caused me to get arrested for defending myself. I went to a hotel room to get away from him and while there I realized that I had not had a period in a while. I was pregnant. When I went back home I left my pregnancy tests (yes 2 of them) on the dresser where he could see them before going to work. He never spoke on it until he asked about getting an appointment together to see a counselor to “work on our relationship”. I mentioned that I had an appointment with a doctor about my pregnancy and he acted so surprised and
said he never saw the positive pregnancy tests that I left on the dresser while he was home. Typical gaslighter tactic. In January 2019, I terminated
my pregnancy. I regret it to this day. I have to leave with the pain and agony that I felt while having a beautiful life sucked from my body. All
due to the fact that I could not fathom the thought of bringing another child into the world and live in this hell that I was in with my abuser. I
went alone. It had to be done alone. March 2019: I had already went to the courts to have my abuser removed from my home since he would not leave on his own. I had asked him many times to get a 2 bedroom apartment so that our son would have his own room and we would work out visitation among ourselves. Between my birthday and Valentine’s day, he had tried everything he could to make it seem like things would be “better this time”. Things would be different and he could change. A gaslighter NEVER changes. The only thing that changed was from him being sweet and kind looking to “win me back” to standing above me in the dark as I slept looking through my phone or staring at me. One morning I woke up preparing for work. He came in the bathroom to open and close the door. It was so weird. I closed the door. He opened it. I closed it. He opened it. I left it open. He came in to close it. I asked him “what is your problem?” and that was it. He came in the room chest to chest with me yelling and pushing me. He threw my work clothes and pushed me down in the bathtub. He made bruises on himself with a door, claiming aggressively and adamantly that I caused them. My neighbors called the police and when they arrived he was arrested. Two hours later he was released and I was unable to get my protective order extended. The judge actually let him back in my home! That was my breaking point. I went to get our son from daycare and ran to a shelter. Two days later my abuser found me there and I was moved.

My battle is still not over but I am far from where I was. A gaslighter will perceive themselves to be a pillar of the community for those in
society but won’t show who they truly are. My abuser did that and that’s how he got away with so much. However, he has gradually shown his true
colors. My abuser has been caught behind the court house stalking the judges. He has stalked me twice. He has stalked police officers. He has
talked down about me in front of our son. He has told family members that I am the problem. He has turned my closest friend against me by using
triangulation. He has tried to use my weaknesses to throw them back in my face. He has refused to take any responsibility for his actions.
But I still stand. I am still here. Still caring and raising our son successfully. I am a provider. A mother. A model. An advocate. A poet. And
a survivor. Everything he tried to take from me he failed. I am still standing. And I am still strong

The post Jasmine Blooms appeared first on G.R.O.W. Foundation, Inc. ®.