It was February 2020 when, while trying to get help and safety, I was arrested and labeled as the “primary aggressor” in my marriage. Me, with a broken nose in the emergency room, and trying to explain the trauma of what had just happened to 3 disbelieving cops called in to listen to me.

You hear about how victims “change the story” and have inconsistencies in the details and the specifics of what happened to them. Even today, I could not tell you all the details of how he: 

1) broke my cell phone so I could no longer text my family for help before or after.  

2) ripped the internet box out of the wall. 

3) picked me up and held me in an art niche and verbally and physically assaulted me. 

4) tied me into our bedroom and turned the heat up as high as it would go.

5) broke my iPad because I was texting for help.

6) broke the tv and remote. 

7) held me down in our bed and verbally assaulted me.

8) ripped my purse apart to take my keys away when I tried to leave.

9) punched holes in walls and doors.

10) broke the windshield out of my car. 

The list goes on and on. This all happened, I remember. 

Yet the officer fixated on me and the screwdriver. The screwdriver I used to remove our bedroom door so I could not be held against my will. The screwdriver I used to smash his watch with while asking him how it made him feel to see me cause destruction of his things. The screwdriver I used because I was tired of him breaking my things, my home, and most importantly, me.  Everything about the system has failed me to this point; I have lost trust in so much that I thought was here to help and protect me. It is incredibly difficult for me to trust anyone but myself, including the attorneys I have engaged to “be my voice.” I often feel I am not heard. I am not seen. I am marginalized.  And worse of all, I am dismissed. 

To the outside world I am a professional that has it all together. The reality is that I’m barely hanging on by a thread. It’s overwhelming, all-consuming, and it feels like at any moment, I will tumble back down into the abyss. 

I needed a resource to help me process this experience. I needed an outlet to speak to other women with shared experience. I needed a platform where I could be vulnerable to express my fear and shame.  Sadly, I couldn’t find it. What I did find is sisterhood with one friend whose life paralleled mine in more ways than I can count. Together, we created that space for each other.  Our goal is to carry that forward for others. 

What I need you, dear reader, to understand is that if this can happen to me, the primary bread winner, a go-getter, an overcomer, then it can happen to you or someone you know. Every1 knows some1.