Teela Hart

Surviving Domestic Violence


Water Spray


Baileys, a picnic basket, and 81 degrees of wonder and sunshine filled my day in the backyard where the water spray smack dab in the middle of the pond mesmerized. It’s easy to forget where I’ve been and all that I’ve lived through when gazing on such tranquil beauty. The need for anything at all was outweighed by the tender kiss of the sun on my face forming new memories filled with the promises of peace and a happy future.

I’m hard pressed to think back on the misery of my past life today and I’m thankful for that.


What the Hell is Trust?

I’ve been given an assignment for the day week month year foreseeable future by a good friend and confidante Tela and I have to say that it’s not one I really care to participate in, as once again, I must look inside myself and pull out some ugly shit.  However, I believe it is something I must address in order to grow into my new self.  Thank you Tela for being pushy. I need it.  🙂

The wrecking ball responsible for reducing this foundation of trust into a pile of brick and mortar is termed abuse, which comes in many forms. While I experienced physical abuse, more often than not, I was the victim of gaslighting as well.


The following, are words on a page:

Gaslighting is a form of mental abuse in which false information is presented with the intent of making a victim doubt his or her own memory or perception thereby causing the victim to question their own sanity. Instances may range from the denial by an abuser that previous incidents ever occurred, to the staging of bizarre events by the abuser with the intention of confusing the victim.

The term “gaslighting” comes from the play “Gas Light” and its film adaptations. Today it is used in clinical and research literature. Wikipedia.


The spit required to initiate the catabolic process of this word is severely hampered by the chemical toxicity (bullshit) of the act itself. Why on God’s green earth would anyone choose to be so toxic to his or her fellow man/woman? What provokes the idiotic, egotistical, maniacal, exuberance in such an individual? I suppose I don’t really give a rat’s ass to know the what’s, when’s, how’s, and why’s of such anymore.

I’ve stepped out into my own and it is of great comfort to me to know that I can recognize it again if need be. I have no desire to be “lit” up again and if such an act of lunacy is attempted, I believe I will be able to recognize the match for what it is. Let there be no mistake that I will extinguish that motherfucker before I go up in flames.

(Mini rant over)

The following is gaslighting is all it’s corrosive glory:


Ingrid Bergman had been “lit” up by her husband and was on her way to the madhouse, until he was busted.  Reasons?  Doesn’t matter.

Back to the questions:

The cure for atrustolee, (no trust)?

After my arm had been paralyzed I was forced to go to PT and put tiny golf tees in tiny holes, my fine motor skills resembled that of a child trying to grasp cheerios from the table for the first time.  I was clumsy and awkward; it took all of my concentration to be able to make a fist.  The arm itself was extremely hypersensitive to any sort of touch.  I had to pull and stretch muscles I’d protected from the pain.  It was a long, painful and mostly irritating experience.  I was relentless in regaining the use of my arm because without it I would never be able to function normally again.  Machines and therapists surrounded me at each visit to assist in my dubious recovery.

The issue of trust isn’t any different.  It will be required that I use muscles I’ve tucked away for safe keeping.  It will most likely cause pain at some juncture and I will be awkward and unsure about it.  Relentlessness will be required once more in order to regain the tone and use of my trust muscle.  My heart is hypersensitive to any random touch and I find myself once again, surrounded by machines and therapists to assist in my dubious recovery.  At this point, I am trying to place those tiny golf tees into tiny holes all over again.  Mark my words; before it’s over I’ll be brushing my own hair and living life to it’s full extent.

Thank you for all of your support.  I mean that.

















The Next Step

I decided, after three (or more) days of self- loathing, mindless distraction and fear (self-imposed and otherwise), that I would venture out from the confines of my cozy corner.

I discerned a distinct lift in my spirit, listening to Vivaldi’s “Winter” as I began putting away, picking up, rearranging, dusting, sweeping and mopping. Oblivious to anything else, it felt good, right, and free.

A knock at the door, my son running down the hall, and a slightly sinking feeling ended my harmony. Jon was at the door. I suppose, since the restraining order had timed out, he felt he could stop by any time he pleased.

I maintained, I think, as he stood at the door while every thought you can possibly imagine crushed my mind. He had decided to lighten the proverbial load with a menial monetary donation out of the goodness of his heart and look in on the children. (As if)

Refusing to make eye contact, I stared down at my feet and asked him if he had tried to call first. My insides vibrated; I held the doorknob tightly to brace myself just in case the quaking decided to seep into his view. I took in a long, unhurried, breath. I couldn’t give him a glimpse of the storm going on inside my body as well as my mind. The door closed behind him. At first, I thought I’d done pretty well under the circumstances.

Out of nowhere, like a slow winter approaching, my hearing muffled, tunnel vision replaced peripheral, I could feel my body growing cold as the blood literally drained from the top down.

I sat on the bed; huge bullets of liquid terror formed on my face and I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing. Shortly after, I regained my composure only to realize the dread growing in my belly.

I should’nt have been so curt. He is going to ‘get me back’ for that little tort. Maybe I should call him back and clarify. Maybe I should apologize. What is he going to do? How will he take it?

Even now, as I type this very post, I’m debating, hoping to stay a controlled, violated and blemished mind. I have somehow landed right back where I started today.  Cautious of every next step, I take it anyway.



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.