When I heard about domestic violence
self-portrait in Madrid (2021)
When I heard about domestic violence, I wasn’t told it wouldn’t be painful. I wasn’t told it could make you feel peace and ease. I wasn’t told you would feel like you can finally trust someone and not be misunderstood. I wasn’t told that it would make you feel like, in a world of 7 billion people, you are seen. I wasn’t told you would feel accepted and loved. I wasn’t told it could make you feel almost a sense of pity for all the surrounding couples because you are in the most picture-perfect relationship, and they aren’t. I wasn’t told they would tell you that you are perfect for them even with your flaws, shower you with gifts every month, or promise you eternal love. I wasn’t told it would make you feel on top of the world.
I wasn’t told all of that could change in just a few years.
I wasn’t told it wouldn’t always mean not supporting your achievements — but calling you selfish because you’re not answering calls in work hours, and telling you that you should be ashamed to expose your success. I wasn’t told it didn’t always mean forbidding you from seeing friends — but telling you to be careful because they are probably trying to use you because you are so great. I wasn’t told it didn’t always mean ignoring you completely — but giving you the silent treatment until you behave, and give up your personal time and space, little by little. I wasn’t told it didn’t always mean literally telling you what to wear — but telling you that it’s embarrassing that you’re wearing that bra because your nipples are showing.
I wasn’t told it didn’t always mean getting publicly yelled at and humiliated — but it could be a footkick under the table at dinner, or hand signals at a party when no one is watching, prompting you to shut up. I wasn’t told it didn’t always mean getting hit in the face at full-force, or being called a bitch, cunt, whore, useless piece of shit — but it could be objects flying through the air in anger fits, or being called lazy, liar, crazy, laughable, empty, joke, full of shit. I wasn’t told it didn’t always mean not laughing together — but also consistent eye rolls after you tell a joke and an arm grab in the corner saying abstain from making jokes because people aren’t laughing with you, they’re making fun of you when you’re not here, I’ve heard them.
I wasn’t told it wouldn’t always mean criticising your sensuality — but it could mean commenting on how disgusting it is that you go to the bathroom when they’re with you. I wasn’t told it wouldn’t always mean denying physical affection — but that physical affection could only be a signal for sexual urge that you feel obligated to comply because I got a bunch of girls interested but I still choose you. I wasn’t told it wouldn’t always mean sexual negligence — but that after it, you could hear things like See? I care. No other man would.
I wasn’t told it wouldn’t always mean telling you not to eat or calling you unattractive — but it could mean making comments like people that eat that food disgust me, I’m not sure if I can accept that about you now, or you can always look better, diets exist for a reason, when you ask them how do you look. I wasn’t told it wouldn’t always mean using physical force — but it could be saying what you really deserve right now is for me to hit you in the face, but you’re lucky I don’t hit women.
Nobody had ever told me that the highs are so high, that they deeply convince you that the lows are worth it. Or that even when the lows are lows and a part of you says maybe this isn’t how it’s supposed to be, you will ignore it because it’s just a phase, and you’re the selfish one for expecting to be treated with minimum consideration. I wasn’t told that respect and kindness were always fundamental human rights, not things you should earn with sweet actions, pillow talks and constant ego boosts — which deep down are just a strategy you found to postpone a next episode of aggression from them.
I wasn’t told that the no-contact rule wouldn’t give you complete relief. I wasn’t told maybe you’d only feel safe at home checking all house locks and sleeping with a weapon close by. I wasn’t told hints of care from strangers could for a while make you suspect they also have an agenda to bring you up and break you down. I wasn’t told post-traumatic symptoms could show up years later, and that they should be addressed as soon as they’re noticed and always be taken very seriously by all medical professionals, police, friends and family.
Domestic violence victims can be the nice, quiet, introverted, noticeably sensitive people among your crowd. They can also be the lively girl who constantly cracks jokes, or the strong-willed man who stands up for himself at work, or the empowered woman who walks in the room and seems to own the place, or the confident guy who seems to get all the girls. They can be anyone. Just like abusers.
The physical abuse component of domestic violence is often addressed — but only seldom is emotional abuse really talked about. A quick Google search will tell you that — campaign images mostly centred on women with bruises or clenched fists. As if intense abuse always meant female victims and punches. And as if constant psychological abuse didn’t have the power to wound you more than just a single slap in the face would. Because it wounds you to the very core, where no one can see it but you, where no one can validate it but yourself — if there ever comes a day you become aware enough to realise what’s actually happening.
Sure, psychological abuse often goes hand in hand with all other forms of abuse but when psychological abuse comes by itself, is it less impactful? Does it deserve less credit?
I often hear people getting asked, why didn’t you leave?
Well maybe because when we hear about domestic violence, we aren’t aware of its polarity, or its discretion. We aren’t aware that it comes to a point where leaving is no longer safe because it sneaks up on you when you’re already way in too deep to see the surface, to find the way out.
But now I know what I didn’t when I hear about domestic violence.
And today, so do you.
This piece was originally written on March 22nd, 2021.
