Teela Hart

Surviving Domestic Violence


2 Comments

Say No More to Sexual Assault


Please feel free to reblog, retweet, FB or all three.

There is only one way to break the silence and bring this ever growing nightmare to the forefront of the minds of others and that is to SPEAK out in the capacity that we can.

 

Say No More

Say No More


1 Comment

Almost Forgot……


Say No More

Tap on the poster and go right to the link or reblog, retweet, FB or all three.  🙂

There is only one way to break the silence and bring this ever growing nightmare to the forefront of the minds of others and that is to SPEAK out in the capacity that we can.

 

 

 


4 Comments

Say No More to Sexual Assault


Please feel free to reblog, retweet, FB or all three.

There is only one way to break the silence and bring this ever growing nightmare to the forefront of the minds of others and that is to SPEAK out in the capacity that we can.

 

Say No More

Say No More


58 Comments

The Night the Lights Went Out *Trigger Warning*


I’ve been working on this post for several days.  It is the single most difficult post I’ve made.  It is my hope that in the end you will have found it to be encouraging.

Raw unadulterated emotion reduced me to a fragmented heap in every sense of the word as *Jon’s* lawyer ripped what was left from my heart and soul. He condemned his prey to death with the stealth and viciousness of a Leopard; I could hear Jon’s words creep like the grim reaper from his lips and into my thoughts exacting a cruel and hefty price for my defiance. The courtroom, packed with onlookers, stifled the air. They needed no oracle to see all of the destruction; the gruesomeness overpowered their urge to turn their heads.

Streaming tears gave way to guttural groans; breath escaped me; heaving and gasping my composure fled. My defenses hemorrhaged onto the stand, as the predator circled and clawed ferociously ending me with ease. Gravity weighted me to the seat, I couldn’t stand under it’s supremacy. I buckled under the pressure and gasps escaped from the (now) audience in the courtroom

 

Granted supervised visitation, I met with my children every weekend. The release I’d felt when I left my abusive environment quickly turned from hope to hopeless.  My health and mind quickly declined; depression settled like a black stormy cloud. The gnawing, deep seeded pain, no longer tolerable, drove me down into the hell of hopelessness. The wish for a shove or a slap and even death replaced the desire to survive. Alone and rejected by everyone I relied on, I screamed into the void, my voice went unheard. In my mind, recourse did not exist. I’d failed at every attempt to retrieve my children and now the desire to rescue myself no longer existed.

 

I couldn’t divert my eyes from the bottle of pills on the coffee table. It somehow drifted into my consciousness incessantly, calling my name. The harsh unrelenting words and actions of Jon over the past 19 years cut like a knife. The memory of his attorney’s assault invaded my senses and I questioned my sanity. The cries of my children and their inability to cope formed the final bullets of death.

Separated, mind from body, I took the bottle into my hand, I stared into it’s eye and it stared back at me. It understood what I had to do, it invited me. I twisted off the cap and 20 or 30 pills spilled into my hand, they seemed to sparkle like jewels. I answered their call and swallowed them down a few at a time and then 30 more. I did not seem to be in control of my body, it was moving through the actions without my consent.

 

Three days later, I found myself drifting in and out of consciousness unable to move. My hands, tied to rails on either side of the bed, ached. A respirator effected the rise and fall of my chest. The hospital room was cold and sterile and the machines played a lulling song. I could hear my own heartbeat on the monitors; silent tears rolled down my face.

I returned to my mother’s a week or so after my suicide attempt and still I never sought help.  I returned to Jon and my children a few months after that. I grew angry and insolent as time passed and even contemplated another suicide attempt. I didn’t follow through because of one simple act of kindness. Someone reached out to me and spoke living words into my heart. Those words ignited my hope into a fire that would give me the courage to ask for help.

I went to a rehab/shelter, told my story and it was heard.  I knew then that if I’d reached out to the right people I could have prevented such an awful act of violence against myself along with untold suffering.

They called outside resources to come in and provide counseling concerning Domestic Violence. I was given a plan with local resources, the hope to fight and the strength to win. It was a welcome reprieve, a place of strengthening, encouragement, and acceptance. I was safer and freer than I’d been in a very long time.

Three years later, one year ago, my children and I walked out for the last time. We received therapy and I’m blessed in their presence and living the life of a survivor. Many good and bad things happened in that three year interim and I reached out for help.

While the reasons for our pain may be different, one fact will remain the same; heartache is, at times, intolerable to bear without help.  The choice to reach out to someone in my desperation saved my life and the lives of my children; I hold firm to that belief.

I’ve included a national suicide hot line link here. I also have resources and help links at the top of my blog page for those struggling with Domestic Violence.

Don’t suffer in silence.  Reach out.

 

 

 

 

 

 


15 Comments

Chalk Outline


Recently, on a visit to the Cut-Throat Club Online I found a song that one of my fellow Cut-Throats, Sunshine, posted.

I had all but forgotten about this song until that day. I’d listened to it repeatedly all summer long.

I traveled anywhere and everywhere over the last summer and the radio blasted most of the time. I had to drive, feel the push of the clutch, the stick in my hand.  I would decide when the motor revved and when it quieted.

I’d dreamt of liberation, I’d tasted it’s goodness, it smelled of sweet honeysuckle and it was good.  It also came with a price.  A price that I didn’t know I’d paid.

*********************

“Who is this? Where did she come from? I don’t recognize her.” My anger bubbled and burst.

“Where am I? What happened to me? Where did I go?” Grief settled as dew on a barren soul.

The rubber met the road and I drove….hard and fast. Just not fast enough or hard enough to get away from the woman I’d become and not slow and cautious enough to find the woman I’d lost.

They said welcome back. They said they’d missed me. They said it was good to see the “real” me again.

They didn’t know that I’d died. They didn’t know that I’d become nothing more than a chalk outline.

Neither did I.

*********************

I stood before *Jon* this week as neither the woman he’d killed nor the woman he’d created.  He didn’t know that the dead can’t speak.

In my death, Tee had risen and she walked away today, for the last time, with Victory in her hands.

Each victorious step leads to another step of victory.  It is you, my community here that gives me that gift.  Know that.

I’ve included the music video as a memorial to her.  Thank you Sunshine.

Don’t grieve for her.  She’s at peace now.

I’m at the wheel and I’m a survivor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


16 Comments

No More


Love ya’ll.

Please feel free to reblog, retweet, FB or all three.

There is only one way to break the silence and bring this ever growing nightmare to the forefront of the minds of others and that is to SPEAK out in the capacity that we can.

Say No More

Say No More


42 Comments

Do Ya’ll Want To Know The Truth?


The day before my escape from the war zone that had been my life, I ran to my neighbor’s house with my children for safety.

The week prior to my court date I asked my neighbors to testify to what they’d seen.

Their answer?

“It ain’t none of our business, we remain neutral.”

My 12 year old son had to testify, because of course, I’m crazy.

Three months before abandoning EVERY fuckin’ thing, social workers were sent to our home to determine why our children hadn’t been to school.

His reply?

“I worked Black Ops, I don’t even exist. I know ya’ll have an agenda here, I’m a human lie detector, now what are you really doin’ here.”  The only black op he’d ever seen was in his own black soul.

The week prior to my court date I paid a little visit to said social workers and asked them to testify.

Their reply?

We don’t recall any such conversation.

Four months prior to my exodus, I hid in the bathroom to call my dad. I stood next to the door so I could hear footsteps. I didn’t, but he was there, listening to my every word, became enraged and kicked the door in. The door put a gash in my forehead. The phone flew from my hands.

His response?

“I told you your mama’s crazy, look what she did to herself, now she wants to blame it on me.”

My response:

W-A-K-E   T-H-E   F-U-C-K   U-P   P-E-O-P-L-E

You want to save the animals, the ozone, the economy,  the fuckin’ trees and while I agree with all that shit, how about you take into consideration that without the fuckin’ woman there’d be no one here to admire all the other shit you’re tryin’ to save.

Three women are killed by their husband/intimate partner/boyfriend EVERY single day.

LEARN SOMETHIN’ ABOUT THIS SHIT.  HUG A VICTIM INSTEAD OF A DAMN TREE.