When I was eight years old, I stared up at my father in tears, as he held a gun to my face. It’s a memory burned in my brain, a night I can never forget. Hearing the crash, watching him stand over me, hiding with my sister, running barefoot to our neighbors for safety; watching my father be taken away in handcuffs. I knew what it was to fear my dad, I always had, but I also knew what it meant to love in spite of the fear. My childhood wasn’t always one filled with colors and laughter, it was cold and fear, even beyond the walls of our home. When we first attended the church we went to my whole childhood, my father had the church in terror as he tried to run over my mother in the parking lot, while someone shielded my sister and I inside. A few years after my dad was released from the mental hospital and my parents had reconciled, he tried to do it again. I wouldn’t wish upon anyone the fear I had that night, when I was only thirteen, and I had to call the police on my father for becoming so violent again. My whole childhood, I knew that my father was unwell, a bomb ready to go off. I grew up in a family full of equal fear and love, a child of abuse, a product of two imperfect people; all I knew growing up was domestic violence.
This isn’t something you could ever know by looking at me. On the outside and in conversation, I seem pretty normal. I eat like a normal person, I talk like a normal person, I have a job and a license and two degrees. I spend every evening wondering when if eight is an acceptable time to go to sleep for the night, on some accounts, I’m pretty boring. But if you looked inside, just as you would with every person, the scars tell a different story. Marked on my heart are the wounds from childhood that still have forever to heal, carved into my flesh are invisible words yelled at me, and there on my face, is the wound from the bullet he chose not to fire. Sometimes, I look in the mirror, and I wonder if people would be a bit more understanding if all the scars I carry inwardly, were shown outwardly. It’s like a disease, we’re much more accepting of it when we can see the symptoms of it with our eyes. We believe someone is sick because we see them in a wheelchair, but we doubt someone has an illness of the heart, because it’s harder to take their words for it. Similarly, abuse, when seen or received physically, is taken much more seriously than abusive received in any other form.
I’ve made it my purpose to change that narrative. Both the narrative that abuse has to be physical or seen to make it bad, and the stigma over talking about it. We live in an age where people seem to be obsessed with listening to true crime podcasts or watching the documentaries, but I can’t stomach it, it’s too traumatic for me. The only difference between my story and theirs, is that my father didn’t pull the trigger, or hang the noose in time. If he had, I would be just like those children you read about. I don’t tell people that, because how can someone begin to respond to that? I’m aware that my story is more intense than most, it’s both a big and a small part of what makes me who I am. I grew up in a domestic violence household, I vowed that I would never have a marriage like my parents, and yet, I married someone who slowly began to remind me so much of my father. He never went to the same lengths my own dad did, but it was the ultimate fear that one day, my children my have to suffer what I went through, that helped me leave for good.
I’m writing all of this, about the heavy topic of domestic violence, hidden abuse, because of two reasons. One, it really ties in with my upcoming book. Two, it’s the ‘why’ behind my goal of running a marathon. For my whole life, I was controlled, told who I could and couldn’t be, what I was and wasn’t capable of. When I finally found my freedom, broke away from my ex-husband and found myself out of someone’s control for the first time in my life, I fell in love with running. Running became something I did when I was stressed, when I had too many emotions to express with words, when I needed to shut my brain off; running became a way to show myself that I was stronger than what had happened to me. I would start thinking of all the times an abuser had told me that I wasn’t strong enough to run a certain distance, or that I needed to be a certain weight to be pretty; then I ran farther, and ate whatever I wanted, and I found out how strong I was. After I moved to Australia, I decided that I wanted to challenge myself to do something that no one thought I could be capable of, not even me, and then I wanted to do it anyway. That’s how I got into running, into the Sydney Marathon, and that’s why I’m running now. I want to show every person who’s been silenced by abuse, been told they aren’t strong, aren’t worthy, aren’t capable, that they ARE.
No More is an incredible organization, because they talk about the uncomfortable topic of abuse, what it is, how many people have been affected by it, and how we can stop it. Healing from domestic violence is how I fell in love with running, and now that I’m close to achieving this dream I never thought would be possible, I want to give back to those who are still trapped or healing from abuse. One in every three women have experienced some form of abuse, most from an intimate partner or family member. That statistic alone is shocking. How many people, men and women, do we know with these silent scars? The answer is too many, and the solution is clear. We need to speak up, to advocate and bring awareness to abuse, and encourage survivors to find safety, and speak out. I’ve been a part of that percentage for my whole life, and it’s a choice I never got to make. But now, as an adult who has found strength and safety, I can choose to not only stop that pattern, but start a new one. At the end of August, when I cross that finish line in Sydney, I’ll become a part of a new statistic. I’ll become part of that 0.01% of the world who has run a marathon, but better yet, I’ll have done it in support of survivors just like me.
The bright side is that we don’t have to be silent, because our scars matter, visible or not. I have a story, I have a voice, and I want to use it for good. If you’ve faced abuse or you’re in it now, know that you’re not alone. You are worthy. You are strong. Your abuse is real. You are enough.
Yours Truly,
the Brightside Blonde
Please, follow the link to donate and support my marathon for survivors as we say No More: https://donate.hakuapp.com/donations/new?fundraiser=634cda76e627b4232de4