Teela Hart

Surviving Domestic Violence


25 Comments

Alas


I really want to thank all of those who supported me through my somewhat tumultuous situation with the ex, You will never know just how much you all mean to me.

I’m simply writing my thoughts which are a bit odd, but then, I’m a bit odd.

I’ve placed myself in a very small bubble and find myself somewhat lonely.

That’s pretty damn funny ain’t it?

However, I do have a little Janis on the cue to help wash my blues away.

I’m definitely free:

From human contact

Male contact specifically

I believe that’s a topic for another day.being that I’m tipsy ‘n all

My email address has also changed to teelahart@aol.com.

The previous account was compromised.  Go Figure.

I guess I’ll leave you with one of my favorite songs

nomore.org


16 Comments

No More Week


This week is no more week.  I’m asking sister survivors, fellow bloggers and friends to please help spread the word and stop the violence.  You can follow nomore.org on twitter @nomoreorg and FB.

Let’s join the thunderclap.  Raise awareness, raise your voice and stop the violence.

I say no more because for 19 years I didn’t.  This silence was a detriment to myself and my family.   It is my duty as a survivor to help others realize and understand domestic violence is a cancer that will continue to proliferate and destroy the very fabric of our society.

Why do you say no more?

nomore.org

nomore.org


40 Comments

Hell Is Too Good For You!!!!!!!!


Faded denim jeans, black T, work boots and an Allman Brother’s cap fit like a glove to his 6′ frame. With a god-like stride, he strutted the halls, the kitchen, and the bedrooms all the while barking orders like a dog strait out of hell. “Git yur shit packed, everythin’, I don’t wana see anything lef’ within viewing distance.”

M, my daughter, inconsolable, gathered her clothes, stuffed animals, and any toys she could manage to carry  Her “I love Daddy” t-shirt stained with spaghetti sauce and matching shorts crumpled and  wet with tears stuck to her little body.  R, trembling, tears tracing the creases in his strained face obeyed, no questions asked. Their hearts ripped from their chests, their trust forever broken they made their way to the living room and awaited further instruction. They cried, begged and pleaded with Jon to let them stay, however, their pleas had no effect on Jon’s stone cold heart.

“Now git out.” Disbelief consumed my oldest son who had been staying with us at the time. He helped the children 11 and 9 years old. Carey glanced over at Jon and Jon gave him a little smirk. My son ignored him and continued to the car that he had finally loaded with everything they owned.  In the matter of a moment he nonchalantly approached the car.

“Get outta that fuckin’ car, unpack yur shit, and let that be a lesson to ya.  Without me you ain’t nothin’ and you ain’t got nothin’.

At the time, I was at the Domestic Violence Center gathering every  little bit and piece of information I could to plan my escape. I had no idea this had taken place until a few days ago.

hell

hell

I am convinced hell wouldn’t even have this sorry excuse for a human. I’m not even sure that son-of-a-bitch is human at all and I am certain hell would be too good for him.


19 Comments

Deaf Ears


Crying

Crying

I called to wish you a happy birthday today and the words “I love you” fell on deaf ears.

The bruises I took for you.

The rants I endured for you.

The hundreds of times I defended you.

The hours I held your hand when you gave birth to your son; my grandson.

The hours I spent defending the hateful accusations hurled at you.

The agony I feel as he plays his games with you.

The pain in my heart will never leave me

Until I hear “I love you too”


57 Comments

Silence Is Deadly


http://www.bing.com/images/search?q=death%20clock&pc=conduit&ptag=A8FE4BCE7BDDC43E78BF&form=CONBNT&conlogo=CT3210127#view=detail&id=31FCA0540D1DE21718F3F1445A01A8A469D4C71F&selectedIndex=6

Silence is Deadly

As a newborn, you cry loudly with your first breath and grip your mother’s hand for the first time; your first bond continues its formation. As an infant, you absorb the world, learn and grow. You learn to roll over, pull up, crawl and walk. Your first birthday is celebrated with grandeur. Your relationships expand as you explore your great big world. You change, adapt and weave yourself into friendships.

Your voice is heard.

At 13, you are officially a teen. At 16, you are now a licensed driver. At 18, you are now officially an adult and graduate from high school and go to college.  At 21 you can go to a bar or club, join the military and vote.  At 22, you graduate from college, get your first job, and become a contributing member of society.

Your voice is heard.

In this short span of time, every achievement is met with jubilance; shouts from the mountaintops pierce the veil of silence as you are celebrated for each accomplishment. Acceptance is your reward.

Your voice is heard.

You have discovered right from wrong, the things that are accepted, and the things that are not. You have experienced, in relationships with others, that some will thrive and some will fail. You will feel the sting of rejection, heartache and pain. You will know what it is to succeed as well as fail.

Sometimes silence is preferred.

Failure elicits disappointment while ability is met with credence. Grievances, undoubtedly meet with disdain, while molding into your surroundings connects with respect.

Silence is beneficial.

You never desired to see the person you confide in reflect any sort of disappointment or derision.  You never made it your life’s mission to display your dirty laundry, your insolvencies or your mistakes.

You are silent.

Tell me, when you feel intimidated, do you speak up? When you are bullied is speaking out your first course of action? Let me ask you this. When the one you love and trust, the one you give yourself to with complete abandon tells you that you are no one, nothing, mental or unstable, do you believe them? I mean really, you have never known this degree of evil.  Will you be able to recognize it when you see it?  Are you confused?

Silence.

In any case, let’s bring the deadliest enemy to the forefront. Suppose you have voiced resistance to intimidation, bullying, shame, violence, hurt or pain, did your confidante really listen? Did they believe you? Did anyone offer viable solutions?

Silence is solidified.

Your heart, mind, body and soul is caged like a wild animal and you reciprocate by acting like one. You know nothing but obedience or reprisal. No one hears your cries of desperation; they turn a blind eye and may even take the side of your captor out of fear of retribution themselves. Your life’s spirit now sucked from you and into the vacuum of a soulless being, you give up the fight.

It is now time to die by either his hands or your own.

Silence is deadly.



hiding


21 Comments

One Day


“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Befalling freedom from my abuser was taxing; the road paved with falling rocks and repeated avalanches of emotion. I had unchained my physical body from his grasp. I was fortunate to have escaped with my life and the lives of my children. We enjoyed a stress free, perpetual vacation to various places, taking pictures and producing videos of our excursions for a solid summer season.

Upon our return home, we were evicted due to the loss of an income, but that was ok, I told my children. The end of one thing always means the beginning of a new thing. And in our case, it meant the beginning of a brand new life, uncontrolled by bitterness and anger. They seemed to be happy with that.

Move number one:

We moved into a four-room house with my mother . It was painful, but I felt semi-safe. She lived at the end of a dead end road and my heart raced at every car that headed our way. I was nervous and jittery with every door slam or horn blow or any other random noises I couldn’t identify. The phone rang and my heart sank…every time.

No worries, I told myself. I have a restraining order, mace, a bat, a knife, a phone, and I never slept when everyone else did. Someone had to stand guard. My hands shook with every minute movement, breathing was shallow and rapid, but that was no problem. I could handle that compared to what I had to reckon with prior to my escape.

Move number two:

Enthusiastic to find a new home, we searched until we found the perfect home; the last house on the left, on 13th street. (I think there are horror movies about this but I’m not superstitious) I purchased an alarm system, dolled up the house, brought a little of the old into the new, the mace, the bat, the knife, and the phone and lay claim to our new home.

I triple checked the windows and doors to be sure they were locked and set the alarm. I lay on the couch with my various weapons listening intently to every noise the house made in order to be at ease when heard repeatedly. I was as someone “hopped up” on crack, peeking out windows, walking the halls repeatedly checking on the kids. Nevertheless, that was ok I could handle it.

It took about three weeks before finally resigning to sleep in my bed. My nightly ritual of checking windows, setting the alarm, strategically placing the mace, the bat, the knife and the phone in the place my abuser would have slept continued. However, that was ok I could handle it.

It has been an entire year now yet still the ritual continues. The phone rings; my heart stops. A knock at the door; my heart stops. The sound of a car pulling into my driveway; my heart stops. A noise in the night; my heart stops. A flashback dream; my heart stops.

The question that really governs my mind is this. When will my heart stop stopping?

New beginnings are wonderful. Added anxiety of constant emotional, verbal, financial, mental and physical abuses are no more. Instead of the wonderment I expect, continued fear is what I receive.

My former life once filled with independence, freeness of heart, fun, spontaneity, and always on the go no longer exists.  I find myself now bound to the solitude of my new home.  I grieve deeply for that part of me that is now a stranger. My soul traverses between bargaining, anger, depression, and denial. However, I cannot make the leap to acceptance. One day maybe. One day.

gun


23 Comments

One of Our Sons


The definition of faith according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary is the belief with strong conviction in a system of religious beliefs; belief and trust in and loyalty to God.

Lofty and boisterous, the pastor’s voice boomed through the silent congregation.  “God protects us, He protects our children.”

The church phone rings, the pastor, unaffected, continues his discourse.

Mary runs to answer the phone.  “Nooooooo!!!”  Her cries guttural and agonizing.

I leapt from my seat and ran to Mary discovering her collapsed on the floor, her words incoherent.

“What Mary, I screamed, what happened!?”

“He’s been shot!”  “He’s been shot in the head!”

“Who!?”  “Who’s been shot!?”

“David!”

The carefully laid foundation of my faith came crashing down like thunder rolling across a stormy sky.  My world was spinning, everything around me faded away, my legs failed me and I tumbled onto the floor alongside Mary.  My lungs were in a vice, I could not breathe.  There are no words to describe the grief that consumed me.

Within seconds, which seemed like hours, the congregation surrounded us trying to uncover the cause of the terror that had disabled us.  Their words reverberated as if through water, I could not comprehend what they were saying.  My vision was blurred; I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.  I was in a perpetual state of complete confusion.  My words stifled by something I cannot explain.

“God, God, God, where are you!?”  I bellowed as Jon carried me out of the church.

The visitor’s room was cold and unappealing.  Mary with her tear stained face sat across from me moving back in forth in her chair chanting repeatedly, “God please let him live, God please let him live.”

Karen, her eyes dilated and swollen, sat beside me with the look of shock on her face.

David’s parents (my brother and sister-in-law) were out of town and had been notified, however, had not yet arrived.

The heaviness in the room was crippling as we awaited the doctor’s arrival.

Heart wrenching cries filled the air, hopelessness governed, and an impenetrable fog settled over my mind as the wait for word on David’s condition lingered on.

I could tell by his countenance that once again, wails of pain were about to rush from the room and into the sterile halls of the emergency department.

“I am so sorry, we have done an EEG (electroencephalogram) and the results show there is no brain activity whatsoever.  He is an organ donor; therefore, we will need to transfer him to Duke Hospital for further preparation.  We have him prepared for visitors now if you would like to see him.  You can go in two at a time.”.

David was 23 years old.  He and his girlfriend had been fighting.  Now David is dead.

I discovered that day that my faith had been misplaced.  I had naively and eagerly deposited it in the hands of a God who neither protected me from Jon nor David from Candy.  And as it stands, one of our sons is dead.