This DVAM guest blogger, Neisha C. Himes, is Owner and Founder of GROW Foundation, Inc. (Girls Recognizing Our Worth). I met Neisha at a Domestic Violence Awareness event. This “spoken word artist” performed beautifully as she told the audience her story. My heart felt for her both painfully and joyfully. I just HAD to ask her if she would contribute a post. Here’s her story.
I thought he was beautiful.
We were introduced through his sister, a good friend of mine who believed we would be “perfect” for each other. She invited me to a birthday party where he was set to attend and her excitement was contagious, so I became excited too. I remember the night of the party like it was yesterday. I was miserably sick and arrived late with the intention of not staying long but changed my mind once she introduced me to HIM. Like I said earlier, I thought he was beautiful. His left dimple flashed every time he smiled at me and his hazel eyes were enough to make anyone a little envious. We talked, laughed and danced for hours. At the end of the night, he asked for my phone number to which I declined. I explained that I recently ended a long-term relationship with my youngest child’s father and didn’t think it was good timing. Hours later I reached out to my friend and asked for his number anyway. After getting his permission, she happily obliged. Years later I would wonder if she ever regretted her decision.
We began talking on the phone and texting daily. Two months after the birthday party, and I was just as smitten as our first conversation. He seemed to be unlike anybody I had ever dated before. He had a great job, was an awesome dad and was on the right track to a promising future. But at the same time, we were getting to know each other, my ex and I began discussing a possible reconciliation. When he found out, he was understandably hurt. He told me he felt betrayed. I found myself having to make the choice between trying to rebuild an old relationship or leaving my past behind in the hopes of building a future with him. I chose him.
We continued to date, eventually deciding to make our relationship exclusive. But then everything began to change for the worse after those first two months. He never trusted me again, no matter how loyal or faithful I was. His insecurities and distrust became more than either of us could bear. If he called and I let the phone ring too many times, or worse, didn’t answer, I was accused of cheating on him. If I canceled a date for any reason –lack of a babysitter or working late—I was cheating on him. In his mind, I was either sleeping with my daughter’s father and all my male friends or I wanted to. My second job as a hostess at a local sports bar caused many arguments. His insecurity and jealousy became so overwhelming that I quit my passion for performing spoken word poetry at local open mics after he gave me an ultimatum. Again, I chose him.
The first time he hit me was with a pillow. We were sitting on the bed arguing over yet another accusation. The name calling and verbal abuse, which had been going on for two years at this point, was worse than ever. It was only so many times I could hear names like “dumb black bitch” or “worthless whore.” I was preparing to leave when he picked up a pillow, hauled off and slapped me in the face. He did it with so much force that I fell off the bed. I don’t know what I felt more, surprise, hurt or rage, but whatever it was I couldn’t do THIS anymore. I jumped up, crying and screaming as he charged at me, threw me to the ground and begin kicking, hitting and choking me. With bruises on my neck, a swollen lip, and a bloody mouth, I ran out of the house. He followed after me, grabbed my hand and whispered, “I’m sorry” with tears streaming down his face.
But he wasn’t sorry.
Years later, those words as faded as the scars that followed them, still swim their way back to the surface from time to time. I remember how it felt to hear him apologize on a constant basis and believe him. I believed him in a time where mirrors were never my friends but rather unrelenting reminders that I hated who I was. My smiles were liars. They told everyone that I was OK. My tears were snitches. They told me that I wasn’t OK. Finding myself suffocating in depression and self-pity, I lost myself in my abuser’s definition of my worthiness. Or lack thereof I should say. I often wrapped myself in the same darkness God promised the sky after midnight and whispered prayers that now I am glad He never granted. I prayed to die. I wanted to die.
I prayed and prayed, but God betrayed me and basked my eyelids in the warmth of sunshine every morning, so my daughter could smother me with hugs and my son’s carefree laughter could fill my ears. It was moments like these that I began to hate myself more. How could I want to leave them? What kind of mother was I? Removing my daughter’s arms from around my neck, I briefly remembered the last time his hands were around it. Drowning in her kisses, I held my breath as her soft lips trailed the same path my tears did the night before. Tears blurring her face or mine, I watched as my daughter stared at me with an urgency that contradicted her soft brown eyes.
“I love you, mommy. Are you ok?”
It was moments like this I broke into smaller fragments of myself. She LOVED me. My son loved me. My parents. My sisters. My brother. My friends. They ALL loved me. Yet the one person who needed to most couldn’t find the heart to. Smiling, I lied to my daughter without words and told her I loved her too. Smiling back, she told me truths that one day I’d start to believe and at that moment, it was enough. At that moment, I was enough.
Today, many tears and countless prayers later, I stand here as a survivor and domestic violence activist. Newly married, I am blessed with an amazing man who loves me as much as I have finally learned to love myself. I hold my head high as the owner and founder of my own non-profit organization, G.R.O.W. Foundation, Inc., created to bring awareness to this deadly cause. Using my gift of writing and spoken word, I share my testimony with the faith that it will give hope to those who need it most. There were so many times that I asked God, “Why me?” Why did I have to go through so much hurt caused by the man who said he loved me? Now I know the answer and truly believe there was a purpose in my pain. Ever since I was a little girl I believed my words were meant to be heard and meant to do something great. I was right. They are meant to save someone, even if only from themselves.
