Breathing Again

Breathing Again

Almost two years ago, I was living out of my car. I didn’t want to, but I also didn’t have a choice. I would shower and get ready for my day at my parent’s house when they weren’t home in the early mornings. Like I said, I didn’t have a choice. At school or work no one would have guessed that I spent the night curled up in a ball in my two-seater car with nothing to keep me warm besides a blanket because had I left my car on, my battery would have died. No one would have guessed that my car also functioned as my closet, my kitchen, my bedroom and my office. No one would have guessed because I came to school and work showered and dressed well, accessorized with an artificial smile.  

No one would have guessed.

In fact, when I lost over twenty pounds- weighing a mere ninety-nine pounds at a height of 5’4, girls asked me how I, “stayed so fit”. No one saw my ribs poking silent mountains underneath my shirt, or the sunken dark holes for eyes I had. No one noticed. Not even my parents, but I suppose that’s because I avoided them entirely.

No one knew, guessed, or would have known that I was seeking refuge in my car because in my apartment, my ex would hit me whenever he was on one of his coked-out rampages.

 

Christine Adamec in her article, “What Drugs Cause Aggressive Behavior” Finds that, “In a study of 489 subjects undergoing treatment for aggression prevention, including 76 percent males and 24 percent females, aggression was linked to the use of cocaine, as well as with the heavy abuse of alcohol. The researchers found 60 percent of the subjects reported having committed acts of physical aggression and 47 percent said they had injured a non-partner.”

The saddest thing about this story is that it wasn’t always like this- obviously. He was an educated young man at a mere 22 years of age. He had a good job at his family’s restaurant, a solid education, and a lot to look forward to in life. It only took one time. ONE. SINGLE. TIME.

After that one time, he became hooked. He loved the way it made him feel powerful and capable of doing massive amounts of work in a short period of time. Eventually, in the span of just a couple of months, he had lost everything he had ever worked for. His education, his job, his family’s support, and eventually me.

First it was a couple of slaps in the face. The day later he gave me flowers and a card detailing his ‘sincerest apologies’. Soon after at least a dozen apology cards and a basket full of pity gifts- I found myself on the floor of my apartment one night, numb. Mentally, emotionally and physically numb.

One afternoon, in trying to get the remainder of my belongings out of my old apartment- my ex showed up, high. Things were thrown, including myself and the police were eventually called. I never wanted to call the police all those previous times, everyone even told me not to. I had heard how they treated domestic disputes, and I was right.

Jill Filipovic of Cosmopolitan writes, “We tend to believe that encouraging domestic violence victims to use the system will relieve them of the abuse, but in fact, the system adds to the dynamic of violence that survivors experience.”

As four officers caressed the curb of my apartment, three began speaking to my ex and one began speaking to me. In the middle of my conversation, one of the officers talking to my ex, stopped and glared at me up and down, examining me.  

Stating loudly and blatantly, “there’s clearly some drug abuse going on in this house, but I think it takes two.”

I remember feeling shame. An overwhelming feeling of shame and sadness. I’ve never touched a drug in my life, though because I was severely underweight, had black bags under my eyes from sleeping in my car, and was wearing old pajamas because they were the only clean clothes I had left- the officers labeled me as part of the problem, instead of offering me help.  

In May, The Free Thought Project “reported that calling the cops in domestic disputes can be hazardous to the victim’s health. “Mandatory arrest” laws can intimidate victims from calling, can result in the victim being arrested, and have even been linked to early death in victims and greater numbers of intimate partner homicides.”

About a week later during office hours, a professor asked me a simple three worded question, “are you okay?” And finally, I let it all out, and cried. The school was notified and they aided me in getting back on my feet. I reached out to my parents who welcomed me back home with open arms. I wish I had reached out sooner, but my shame was too great a burden.

 The ramifications were severe, and the healing process is still ongoing. When I lost 20 pounds, my body went into shock and I started losing my hair. Then, for months I suffered through PTSD where I would be waking up in the middle of the night screaming- my parents rushing into my room to check on me. I even had a coworker nickname me “flinch”, because I flinched at every sudden movement.

The thing is, this isn’t a pity blog. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me or to look at me any differently. The point is, it can happen to anyone. This is just my story. Often people have the misconception that domestic abuse happens predominately in underprivileged neighborhoods, and that simply isn’t true.

This happened in a quaint beach city town in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Both of us come from upper-middle class families, had a nice apartment, worked and went to school full time. It can happen to anyone, especially if heavy drugs are involved.

The point is also that it gets better. When I was in that situation, I never saw myself getting out of it. I thought I was permanently stuck in a position I didn’t want to be in. Though when I reached out, and asked for help, I got it and maybe this makes me lucky. I just want to say, you’d be surprised by what you can handle. Things may be bad, but it always gets better and there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel. That, that I can promise you.

It’s been two years, and I feel like I can breathe again. I’ve gained weight. I’m happy, healthy engaged, learning and working.

 I’m still learning to love myself again but I’ve found my strength because damn it that’s what I do. I’m Ellie.