Teela Hart

Surviving Domestic Violence


18 Comments

I’m Out


I’m a survivor, I want to make that clear.

However, I need to take a break from the edge of hell and regain my composure.

I assure you all, I’m fine.

I’ll be back.

I want to thank all of you for your unending support, kind hugs, warm thoughts and positive energy.

 

Rock On

Rock On

 


46 Comments

I Moved On


My bare skin pressed into the unyielding, cold steel of an uncertain world. Nothing to cover the nakedness but a thin veil of shame, my eyes rejected the evil that so desperately coveted the death of my soul. I could smell the color of his vile presence, the stench of green vapor hypnotized and paralyzed.

green vapor

green vapor

The scent of a vulgar haze of hatred streamed from his nostrils. His eyes smelled black, soulless, and empty. His lips held the odor of a parched desert as waterfalls of perdition flowed unhindered. Moments before he fled to the abyss, his viscous carcass further depressed me into the resistant steel of this world I had come to know.

His presence retreated, however, his color persisted and my eyes remained unmoved.

A faint sound in the distance permeated the air, a sweet sound of people talking, laughing, and living. I had to find them in the world unknown to me. My overwhelming desire to find them, to beg them for help, to plead for mercy would override the evil that lurked. Covered with the thin veil of shame I made my way toward the sound in the world beyond my own. I turned the knob opened the door and screamed for help, however, my pleas went unanswered.

Therefore, I moved on.


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.

Eagle's Wings


20 Comments

Why does she stay?


I’ve heard the statement, “if my husband laid a hand on me I would be out the door,” or some other similar statement.
Full of self confidence and naivety, I’ve made that statement myself.

On gathering the bricks and mortar to build my new foundation, I discovered a question I’d never noticed before.

“How can we possibly leave?”    -Linda A. Osmundson

I hadn’t realized it until today that following one disastrous failure that nearly ended my life; sprawled out on Eagle’s wings I soared.

I have chosen today to thank God for that ability because for 19 years it escaped my grasp by many treacherous miles.   -Me

Prescription-Drugs


10 Comments

The World Continued to Turn


It is true.  I married an abusive narcissist.  It was a poor decision; however, in my defense he presented himself very well.  He was a kind, humble, Christian, man looking for a kind, humble, Christian woman.  It seemed only logical that we join forces, forming a kind, humble, Christian couple.

The problem came, when after 2 weeks of marriage, he revealed to me that he was a member of the KKK, and a prospect for the Hell’s Angels.  The fact that he was trying to be a better person and move on from these things gave way for the compulsion to overlook these horrifying confessions.

After picking up my jaw from the floor, he declared yet another unspeakable revelation.  “I almost killed my ex-girlfriend; I was choking the life out of her and my brother broke a Pepsi bottle over my nose to get me to let her go.  But she was a crazy bitch; she attacked me first and talked trash about my daddy.”

He went on.  “Please believe me, I’m a changed man.  I will quit the KKK and the Hell’s Angels and I will never, ever, ever, put my hands on you in anger.  My father used to beat me like a grown man when I was a child, I will never forget what he said as he beat me with clothes hangers and drop cords, ‘son, I am going to beat you as hard as God will let me.’”  “  I will never do that to my children and I could never do that to you.”

My heart broke into pieces for Jon as I imagined him a small, defenseless, child battered at the hands of a full-grown man.  Jon’s mother left his father after 19 years of marriage, and proclaimed the whole time that his father had never struck his mother.  I, in turn hated his mother, who had already passed, for allowing her son and herself to suffer such abuse and I hated his father for perpetrating it. I had no idea I would be Jon’s mother one day.

I could not understand why a neighbor did not tell someone, or why family members never intervened, or why his mother did not leave long before 19 years had gone by.  I wanted to help Jon.  I wanted to make him better.  I wanted him to know what it felt like to be loved by someone who would never hurt him.  I believed in the power of God to heal his wounds and so I proceeded on the rescue mission facing me.

I ignored the red flags, I turned a blind eye to his shenanigans and my children and I paid a hefty price that will likely haunt us for the rest of our lives.

Upon realizing that no amounts of love, assurances, yes sirs and no sirs, perfect housekeeping, or perfect “wifing” would ever make a difference with Jon , I felt destitute.  He continued to berate and abuse me; several times, he actually slapped my face while getting ready for church and loved me like a princess in the presence of the church family.

Alone in the bed, I had made for myself, destitute and suffering both physically and emotionally, I made the fateful decision to medicate not only my physical pains but also my emotional pains.  I found that my painkillers worked wonders for numbing the insatiable anguish dwelling deep within.  I no longer belonged to my children, my husband, or myself.  I now belonged to a new lover.  One that was always present down that dark desert highway.

The world continued to turn and I sank lower than I could have ever imagined.  Angrily, I survived many attempts to end my life and after two coma’s and a final decision to do it “right” this time I called the pharmacy to inform them I would be there the next day to pick up my bottle of 240 pain pills.  In my mind, I had twelve hours to live, therefore, I curled up in a fetal position underneath my blood red throw.  However, as fate would have it, a tiny hand touched my shoulder and the words, “I need you Mommy” pierced my heart (See “I need you Mommy”).

The following day I took myself to rehab, detoxed my drug-ridden body, and hashed my plans to escape the streets of hell that Jon had so carefully constructed just for me.

If I could do it all over again, I would have pulled myself up by my bootstraps, flushed the drugs down the toilet and I would have run, and run hard, and I would have never looked back.

Caged


26 Comments

Caged


 My witness today is only the beginning of my great exodus.

Spending many hours in the emergency room was nothing new; however, this would be the last time the visit would be on a gurney instead of standing along side one, caring for patients. 

“Dr. Spade” sauntered into the room. He adjusted his silver, wire rimmed glasses causing his crisp, white, lab coat to tug upward distorting his name printed in blue script.  His brow furrowed as he breathed in, and let out a long deliberate sigh.  It was then that my countenance took an unrecoverable nosedive; shame shrouded me like a heavy blanket, the weight of which was unbearable.  The cause of my injury was not only indelible in my mind but in my medical chart as well.

The wait, following the MRI, was excruciating; worry over the extent of my injury overwhelmed me and it was all I could do to maintain my composure.

I could tell by the look on Dr. Spade’s face that the results were not good, as once again he let out a deep sigh.  “I’m afraid, my dear, that the MRI results show that you have a significant avulsion (separation) of the network of nerves (the brachial plexus) that conducts signals from your spine to your arm, shoulder and hand, causing the paralysis.” 

In complete brokenness, I recalled to myself, the events that led me to the hospital.

That morning was no different from any other; the ritual of debasement, offhanded comments about my housekeeping skills, and the inability to care for my children permeated the morning silence with a thunderous clap.

 “Let’s go, let’s go!  You gotta take me to work this mornin’ and I can’t afford to be late.”

I donned my jeans and a T-shirt swiftly to avoid any other outbursts; headed out the door and made my way to the car.

Bewildered by the early morning tantrum, I rested my head against the passenger window trying to recount, in my mind, what had made him unleash his fury this time but the cause had once again evaded my capture.

Sensing my inward, guttural disdain, he abruptly skidded the car to the shoulder of the road and brought it to a screeching, halt.  Instinctively I flinched as he clutched my neck with his leathery hand, simultaneously clouting my head against the passenger window.  He then shoved my head downward, between my legs with such force that I could hear the vertebrae in my neck pop and grind in my ears, and just as quickly as he attacked, he retreated, releasing his grasp.    

“You will drive home right now!  You will clean the house; make yourself presentable and you better not be late pickin’ me up!  Do you understand me?  We’ll fuckin’ finish this when I get home!”  To drive his point home he squeezed my left arm with the force of a vice grip before getting back onto the road.  In the parking lot, at his place of employment, he gently kissed my cheek before exiting the car as his co-workers passed by.

An unimaginable fear overwhelmed me when I realized that my right arm would not obey the mental command to open the car door.  Therefore, I maneuvered over the console and into the driver’s seat.  Manipulating the gears, the steering wheel, the gas and the brake was a monstrous undertaking considering my arm was numb and my body was quaking.

  He called incessantly that day to make sure I had been performing my “wifely” duties and to inform me that he had a ride home after work.

When he finally did arrive home, he took notice of the unkempt house, the unkempt kids and me.  He flew into a rage, and barreled toward me with all the ferocity of an F5 tornado.  Our eyes locked and the only thing I could see was the blazing fire of hell contained within.  Attempting an escape into the hallway proved futile; grabbing my injured arm he yanked me toward him and hurled me into the wall with such force the closed doors in the hallway rattled.  Any insult he may have hurled in my direction fell on deaf ears.  The only thing I could remember was the onslaught of abuse, and the unprecedented desire to escape his grasp with my life.  

Dr. Spade, turned around and looked me squarely in the eyes, “you don’t deserve this Teela, you have to get out and move on, that man could have snapped your neck like a twig and if that had happened, I would be pronouncing you dead right now.”

Outrigger

Outrigger

Leaving the hospital with an hideous splint was depressing and degrading.  On my return home I never received an apology and my children were informed by Jon, the injury was the result of a delayed reaction from an auto accident I had been in nine months prior.  They believed him.

The echo of Dr. Spade’s words, pierced what was left of my soul and I conceded.  It was time to open the door to my cage and walk out and that is exactly what I did.  I was recaptured nine months later; the door slammed shut behind me and my treacherous descent into the abyss soon followed.