Both Things Are True

Six months after the night we started our journey to independence, Joe chose to end his life rather than face the reality and consequences of what he had done. That was ten years ago today.

It wasn’t the ending I wanted. I’m not sure I could have told you then what ending I did want. Maybe accountability. Maybe for him to stand in a courtroom and hear it said out loud, with no way to twist it, no way to make it my fault. Maybe just the chance for the trifecta to someday decide for themselves what kind of relationship, if any, they wanted with him. That choice was taken from them, the same way so many choices had been taken from us before.

Grief after abuse is complicated and people don’t really know what to do with it. When someone who hurt you dies, people expect relief. Some of it is relief. Some of it is anger. And some of it, quietly, is grief, for the man I thought I married, for the father he could have been, and for the version of the story where he actually did the work.

For ten years, I’ve gone back and forth between two thoughts.

The first is that he missed out. He missed graduations and first jobs and the people my trio have become. He missed watching them turn something painful into purpose. That isn’t a longing for him to be here. It’s an ache for what he threw away, and what he could have been if he’d chosen differently.

The second thought is harder to say out loud. We could never have become who we are with him still here. The checklist would have kept running. I would have kept looking over my shoulder. Custody schedules, court dates, the constant low hum of fear. I don’t know that I would have found my voice, run for office, or ever worn green. I don’t know that the trifecta would have had the room to grow into who they are.

My trio chose their dad and he chose them right back. He’s the one who has been there for the milestones, and he’s the one who will be there for every one still to come.

For a long time, I thought I had to pick one of those thoughts. That feeling the loss meant I was betraying what we survived, or that being grateful for our freedom made me cruel.

Ten years has taught me that both things are true. He missed out, and we flourished. I can grieve what should have been and still be fiercely proud of what is. Those two thoughts don’t cancel each other out. They just live side by side, like the shells on the beach, some beautiful and some sharp.

It’s also not lost on me that this anniversary falls in October, Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Every year, the month asks me to talk about surviving, while this day reminds me that not everyone’s story ends the way it should. Accountability matters, endings matter, and so do the people left standing afterward to figure out what comes next.

If you’re carrying complicated grief for someone who hurt you, you’re allowed to. You don’t have to resolve it into one tidy feeling. You can miss what never was and still be glad you’re free.

Here’s to ten years of figuring that out. Here’s to my trio. And here’s to whatever comes next.

If you or someone you love is struggling, you can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

For domestic violence support, call the National DV Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 or text START to 88788.

Ten Years

Today is a day my soul feels before my brain catches up.

Ten years ago today, our lives changed forever. Joe was removed from our home, and the trifecta and I stepped into something completely unknown. We didn’t know what came next. We just knew that whatever it was, we were facing it together.

Ten years ago I was terrified. I was starting over in every sense of the word. I didn’t know who I was outside of that marriage. I didn’t know what I actually thought about things when no one was telling me what to think. I was rebuilding from the ground up, and so was my trio.

I remember cleaning up the wreckage of his tirades; the broken glass, fixing holes in the walls, trying to just be better. I remember the nightmares. The ones where I’d hear the garage door open and start running through my checklist in a panic. Kids fed. Rooms clean. Homework done. Lights off. Even after we were out, my brain kept the checklist running. That’s what years in survival mode does to you. It doesn’t just switch off because you made it to the beach.

I remember rehoming our dog Zeppelin because she wasn’t safe with us anymore. I remember watching her cower with fear every time Joe walked into the room and knowing exactly why, and not being able to say a word about it to anyone. That was the kind of secret we carried. 

I remember standing in front of a mirror before my campaign headshots and choosing to wear green. A color I had avoided. A color that enraged him. And feeling something shift in my chest that I couldn’t quite name until a friend pointed it out. It was freedom. It was mine.

What I didn’t know ten years ago was what was coming.

I started this blog to make sense of my own journey, and somewhere along the way it found its people. Not just here, but around the world. This blog has been translated and read in dozens of countries. Because it turns out that the undertow doesn’t care what language you speak or what country you live in. Pain is pain. Survival is survival. And hope, it seems, travels pretty well.

I rebuilt myself. I became an advocate. I ran for State Representative and won. I kept fighting for the laws that make it harder for survivors to reach the beach, and I was elected to serve as an Alderman for the city of Nashua. I founded a bipartisan alliance because doing right by people matters more than doing right by a party. I remarried, and my kids asked my husband to adopt them.

I don’t say any of that to brag. I say it because ten years ago, standing in the wreckage of everything I thought my life was, none of it felt possible. Not even a little bit.

The kids have their own stories to tell, and those belong to them. But I asked each of them to share a little of where they are today, in their own words.

From my oldest: “I don’t look back and think that I have become who I am because of what I went through; I am who I am now in spite of it. There is not a moment I curse my past. No one deserves to suffer through domestic violence, but I see my experience as a tool to help those in similar situations who maybe aren’t as fortunate as I am.”

From my middle: “As I look back now and then, I always think to myself, adversity is a privilege. I think of the times I was told I couldn’t do something. I’ve spent the last 10 years working to prove that wrong. It gives me a sense of purpose to show I can make it. I can create something good from something bad. It’s been and will be an uphill journey, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

From my youngest: “There are some really hard days, but it’s worth it, if you make it out in the end. My life is more peaceful now. It isn’t easier because life isn’t easy, but it’s simplified.”

I am so proud of who they are becoming. They didn’t just survive what happened in that house. They are thriving. Watching that has been the greatest privilege of my life.

If you are somewhere in your own undertow right now, I want you to know something. Ten years feels impossible from where you’re standing. I know getting through tomorrow feels impossible. But the beach is real. I’m standing on it. My kids are standing on it.

And there is room for you here too.

Here’s to ten years. Here’s to the trio. Here’s to what’s still ahead.

Castaway

I’ve talked before about the losses that come with being in an abusive relationship; friendships, traditions, stability, etc. There is another very poignant piece that we don’t often talk about, our pets. They aren’t always a loss. In many cases they are an anchor. Although there are a few options, it can be challenging to find placement for people and animals, so victims stay in their situation. Abusers can be quick to turn frustrations onto animals as punishment for those that love them and the animal itself. In our house, we understood that all too well.

When the kids were younger we had a German Shepard named Zeppelin. I clicked on my Facebook memories today and was reminded of her. She was the sweetest pup and the kids adored her. When Joe was at work or away, we had a great time with her. She would play with the kids on their playground, let Emma dress her up for a tea party, and play hide and seek. When he was home, she was a nervous wreck. Literally urinating every time he spoke. It didn’t matter what or how he said it, she could not control herself. We tried training to no avail. The trainer was stumped. I held our secret close as we talked about how to help Zeppelin. I wasn’t in a place where I fully understood that we needed to get out ourselves. I knew why she was scared. Joe’s frustrations continued to mount and finally exploded. She was no longer safe with us. The process began to try and find her a home. The GSD rescue that took her had some harsh words for me about surrendering her.* I forget what excuse I made up as to why she was so nervous. It was one of those humiliating moments that was easier than what might happen if we kept her at home. Zeppelin became another castaway in our fight to keep from drowning.

As we continue to understand more about domestic violence, we are seeing more resources to help in situations like this. Red Rover is just one organization working to solve this part of the problem, I will add their link below. If you are in a situation like this, there are ways to get you out along with your fur babies. Please, reach out.

Domestic Violence and Pets

* I am incredibly grateful for the rescue who placed her with a loving family. Zeppelin lived out her life as a happy girl.

Winning Women with Regina Shearer

I am honored to be asked to be on the Winning Women radio show with Regina Shearer, where women share their journeys. Please join us and listen in, tomorrow July 9, at 4:00 EST. I’ll be discussing my own journey that led me to be a victim’s advocate and prompted me to run for office. Feel free to email and call in questions.

Options to tune in:

-Download the RGB Internet Radio App from the Apple or Google Stores. (It is a FREE app, broadcasting music 24/7, along with a few other shows. All you have to do is tune in at 4:00)

-If you have an Alexa, you can say, “Alexa, enable RGB Internet Radio” and after the first time, all you have to say is, “Alexa, play RGB Internet Radio.”

-If you have Google Assistant, you only have to say, “Play RGB Internet Radio.”

-You can go to the website: www.rgbinternetradio.com and listen to it from there.

If you can’t join us tomorrow, the broadcast will be available later next week. I will post the link when we get it.

I Believe I’ll Wear Green

I’ve recently decided to take a huge step in my advocacy and work to break the stigmas surrounding domestic violence. As I’ve continued to help individuals in over 36 states, as well as a few other countries, some of my biggest frustrations are the laws that we come up against. Laws that bind what fellow survivors can do to implement their safe passage to a new, safe existence. As an individual, there isn’t a lot I can do to make the necessary waves of change. I’ve found myself, in great exasperation, saying that someone has to do something. When public individuals are glorified for harmful behavior and laws protect the ability to harm, we have to start looking at how to fix it. Even in my own therapy, as I continued to heal what was on the surface, it was never as successful as digging deep and figuring out what was at the root of my decisions. I have decided to run for office, at my state’s level, but I have no intention of making this about politics. This will remain about my continued journey in survival.

To launch my campaign, I needed to get headshots done. As soon as I scheduled them, my mind started swirling. One of the bigger decisions was what color I wanted to wear. I decided on the color green. It’s actually not a color I owned, but there was something about it that felt right. After I shared the pictures, one of my friends commented on how much she liked green on me. She remarked that she’d never seen me in it. In that moment, the color green became incredibly significant. I remembered exactly why this color was nonexistent in my wardrobe. Joe hated the color green and was adamant I never wear it. I had a couple of shirts over the years, just for holidays, and he ended up destroying both. It’s funny that until being asked, my brain hadn’t even contemplated why it felt significant. Why when I first saw myself in the mirror I had to take a few extra seconds to examine it. How interesting that a color can feel like strength, independence, and hope all at one time. 

As I step into this new part of my journey, I believe I’ll wear green. 

Surviving the Beach

Every survivor I have talked to has a different definition of what life is after surviving the undertow, what their beach looks like. For some, they dry off quickly and go about skipping down the beach. For others, they sit feeling lost and look at the water as it begs them back. For me, I have the blue skies, the laughing children, the warmth of the sun, and also shells. Some that are beautiful and interesting to look at and many others that are jagged and cut my feet. A few shells hide in the sand where I can’t see them and a beautiful stroll turns into sitting and nursing a sore on my foot. Those broken shells are the ones nobody really talks about. After all, shouldn’t I just be grateful to be on this amazing beach? However, they are there as broken memories and dreams, reminding me of more painful parts of my journey. Surviving is a process. It took me 19+ years to live and get out of that existence, it’s only been five years of learning to live outside of it. It’s not a desire to dwell on the more painful aspects. Quite the contrary, I’d love to forget them. Just like many other survivors, part of my daily life is also coping with PTSD and it has a funny way of creating these broken shells for me to find. Recently, I stepped on a shell that dug in a bit and has kept a nagging pain in my foot. It’s one that brings about a certain amount of grief. A grief for what has been lost. Something that when I was so busy enjoying the “I have this great new life,” I forgot to process and throw back out to sea. This is the uglier side of surviving that so many don’t talk about because there’s a part of it that seems gratuitous. Even typing this out, I find myself deleting and typing over and over. In the struggle to survive, I lost an opportunity for friendships. Between frequent moves and trying to protect our fragile reality, setting up any lasting relationships or traditions went by the wayside. Even though “normal” is incredibly relative, I missed out on parenting in a normal way. One that every move wasn’t domineered over and critiqued. A life where I didn’t live in fear of the repercussions from any mistake made by myself or my kids. I grieve two decades of a life where I didn’t get to explore my own interests, who I was, and experiences I wanted. That’s a tough one. When others reminisce on what they were doing in their twenties and thirties, that shell wants to dig in. I don’t have a lot to contribute. I am in my mid forties and my life is starting now. My surviving looks like trying to figure it all out, later than most, and balance the loss with the hope of what can be. Recovery does not stop when you step out of the water, it’s a long process of discovery. One that I underestimated. If you are on this journey, hang in there, I’m right there with you.

Independence Day

The Martin Family October 2015

Today is a day that, even before my brain realizes the date, my soul feels. It’s a heavy feeling, a bit anxious. It was a shift in our existence. It’s been 5 years. Five years since the night that would thrust us into the undertow. Today is the anniversary of our independence. I wish I could say that I had walked away, that one of the multiple times I’d loaded the kids up in the car that I’d had the courage to keep going. I can’t though. I was so afraid of what Joe would do to me or to the kids if we left. He had made his threats and done enough to make me think he would follow through. He had successfully convinced me that we were alone. I was confident that no one would believe me or help us. April 6, 2016, everything shifted. This is an excerpt of the transcript from my Protection Hearing describing the end of our last night under one roof. This comes with a trigger warning for fellow survivors. If you choose to read it, please be aware that it is intense and broken.

April 7, 2016 marks the day that we started the process to gain independence. Today, we celebrate our lives, our growth, our happiness, and our strength. I am so grateful for where we are today.

Happy Independence Day to my trio.

If you’ve not yet found your Independence Day, don’t give up hope. Reach out, you are not alone.

Surviving

I can hear the garage door opening. I start my rapid checklist of things I was supposed to do. Kids have been fed, their rooms are clean, homework is done and checked, I got most of the laundry done, but not all…..maybe he will let that slide. I have a little bit of a panic, but I only have two loads left. Emma was sick again today, so I had to bleach and disinfect the surfaces. I got that done. I have no idea what I’m going to say when he asks how I let her get sick. The dogs are in their kennels with bones, that should keep them from barking when he walks in. I can hear the boys starting to aggravate each other, so I quickly yell up, “Dad’s home.” They immediately quiet down, thank goodness. Back to my checklist. His dinner is plated and warming up. The dryer dings, but at the same time I realize too many lights are on in the house. We are in 3 rooms, but lights are on in at least 5 or 6. I don’t have time to start pulling the clothes and run around the house to turn off lights. He will hear me if I yell up to the boys and ask them to turn them off. Then I notice the door is opening. He’s home. I feel panicky. I can’t breathe. I’m drowning. At that moment I wake up with a start, my eyes quickly searching my dark bedroom. My brain is trying to piece together what I am seeing, what is reality, what is the ghost of days before. After I reassure myself that I am safe, my breathing starts to slow. I start my checklist. It’s a different kind of checklist; the kids are doing well and are happy, I am happy, I am married to a wonderful man, the house isn’t perfectly clean, there’s laundry on the floor, I am the boss of me….

What does surviving domestic abuse look like? You wouldn’t be in the minority if you assumed that it’s just about getting on with your life. Unfortunately, it isn’t that easy. The toll that it takes to be in survival mode for any length of time reshapes perceptions and reactions to even benign situations. For me, surviving has been complicated and has come in stages. It’s an everyday self-talk and processing form of upkeep. After being in the water for so long, those sea legs aren’t quite gone. Just as each person that has found themselves trapped in the undertow has a unique experience, the aftermath of that experience is equally as unique. There are a few common threads and mindsets, but even in the commonalities, how and when they manifest depend on the individual.

My independence day anniversary is quickly approaching. It’s been almost 5 years since I last shared a life with Joe. That means it’s been half a decade of learning, unlearning, relearning, therapy, and feeling the sand beneath my toes rather than gasping for breath in the deep water of domestic abuse. My life today is a beautiful one. It might sound trite, but it is perfect in its imperfections. Still, it’s work. My brain struggles to make sense of my journey. I have nightmares. While some are nonsensical, most are more of a memory. My nightmare I described above is a memory. A vivid one that I hadn’t thought about in years, but my brain decided to rehash. I have a few similarities in my present life. I had done laundry that day and Emma had been a little under the weather, but there’s no pressure on me for either of those. It’s just another day. That’s one of the more complicated natures of surviving. The fight or flight response might be dormant, but my mind sometimes works at keeping it at the ready. A life preserver just in case I end up back in the deep water.

In continuing to work with other survivors, I’ve learned that it’s important to shed light onto this part of the journey. The complex PTSD and learning what’s “normal”. This will be the start of a series of posts that dives into what life is like after the undertow. I will talk more about the pull of the deep water, setbacks, and learning to live out of the water.