So, I stood there. I took the blows. When he came at me again, I took the blows.
When the police arrived, they asked if he'd hit me with a closed fist or the palm of his hand.
I stared back at them, trying desperately to understand why that mattered!
Did they honestly think that being hit by an open hand was any less a volitation? If his hand were open, did that mean it was not a violent act?
I was dumbfounded.
How the hell was I supposed to know if his hands were open or closed?
My eyes were shut tight!
The bruises on my face and the finger marks on my arms had already begun to show. My shirt was torn, and blood stained. I caught a glimpse of myself in a near-by mirror and again wondered, open or closed? Did that matter?
Then I suddenly realized I was surround by men. The man who had beat me, and the policemen who had come to assist me. I don't think I'd ever felt so small, so vulnerable, as that very moment in time.
I began to watch the police silently interact with one another. I watched my abuser interact with them in some secret male ritual; a ritual that I was not to be privy to.
Glances passed between them, and I grew more frightened.
What, if like him, they decided I must have done something to deserve a beating?
As panic began to set in, as I felt myself withdrawing from the scene before me, I heard one of the policemen say, "Sir, you are under arrest for domestic violence. Turn around and put your hands behind your back."
With tears in my eyes, I looked at the men who had come to protect me and knew I was safe.
One of the men held out his hand to me and gently inquired if there was someone he could call. Another whispered the paramedics were waiting to enter, handed me a cool wash cloth and with sweet empathy said, "You're gonna be okay now."
And you know what?
I am okay.
