The Holiday’s Will Never Be the Same
By: Kristy Fox
Tags: Domestic Violence, Domestic Abuse, Abuse

While most families and individuals are feeling festive around this time of the year, the only emotion I now have attached is melancholy. I’m sure there are many other topics to discuss that others would prefer to read. I am not writing this for money, popularity, or endorsements. I am writing this because I need an outlet and I figured no better place than Medium, right? Another reason I am writing this today is to help others who have been or who are currently in the same situation. The theme I’m focusing on is domestic violence (DV) or domestic abuse.

I met my children’s father in 2004 when I was merely seventeen years old. He was twenty at the time. The age gap was certainly a big deal at the time, seeing I wasn’t even “of age” yet. Needless to say, our parents weren’t delighted. Nonetheless, we fell in love. He sure did know how to make me laugh and up until that point, I never felt as comfortable with anybody else as he made me feel. Not long after, the trouble began.

It was after we had been dating for six months that he began to show me a side of him I never thought I’d witness. I was in my room of my mom’s apartment with him — alone. We began to argue and during the climax of the argument, he slapped me across my face. All I remember was feeling an intense sting as my vision was momentarily disabled. The sting I felt on my face matched the blurriness I experienced with my vision. I couldn’t believe he had done that. I’ve never been a victim of any kind of abuse — certainly not from a boyfriend. I was confounded.

During these events in my life, I had a friend who I confided in about the events surrounding that night. She immediately suggested I leave him and never speak to him again. Boy… why don’t we ever take good advice when we’re young? I didn’t. I forgave him and so the nightmares thereafter had begun.

It would take me a week to type every single detail of all the abuse that took place within those fifteen, (yes, fifteen), years. We had our first child, our only daughter, in 2008 when I was twenty years old. In 2009, our first son was born. Needless to say, he wasn’t ecstatic about any of my pregnancies. 2012 was an extremely rough year in regards to the abuse I suffered. I was pregnant with our third child at that time. It was that year he began to rape me — anally. It happened on more than one occasion and the level of pain I experienced was like none other. I would cry and beg for God to intervene. I would sometimes pray to die to stop not just the unimaginable pain he was inflicting on me, but also for all of the pain he ever imposed on me to finally cease. But God didn’t intervene (not physically, at least). And no, obviously I did not die. (Thank God.)

There’s one difference I found between my story of DV versus an “average” or “typical” story of domestic violence. And no, I do not condone any forms of abuse. My story involves methodical planning but yet more disturbing — acts of torture and embarrassment. It wasn't enough for him to just slap or hit me. He would take it much farther. I have been hesitating since I began writing this article whether or not to include some of those rather disturbing acts but I figured I would go ahead and give (some) of the details. I’ve already come this far and I feel like in doing so, somehow, I can help any woman or any person in a similar situation. I also feel that it would help me close this fifteen year chapter in my book.

So. He would burn me. With lit cigarettes, that was his favorite way. I still have some barely visible marks from years ago. Most have faded with time however if one were to look close enough, surely the white, small patchy skin marks wouldn’t be hard to find. He often choked and/or smothered me, leaving me gasping for breath. Another one of his favorite “punishments” that go along with the “embarrassment” part of the abuse I endured was to shave all of my hair off. Yup. Britney Spears in 2007 style. Except, I was first. If my dates are accurate (when you’ve been abused and degraded for so long, you sometimes lose track of dates, times, and the sequences of events. Not to mention losing track of yourself,) he first shaved my head in 2005. It was to make me “unattractive” to others as well as myself. It grew eventually. In 2012 “oops…he did it again.” Sorry, I figured since we were partially discussing Britney, I had to throw that in there. No, he could never dismantle my sense of humor.

I went through countless wigs for awhile. He forced me to work in customer service with a cheap synthetic wig that, over the months, began to look beyond raggedy. He didn’t care. He stopped caring years prior, around the same time my love for him and all that he stood for diminished. To answer the age-old question that almost all victims of domestic violence are faced with, I chose to stay because of the children that we had together. He would use them. Use them as a reason, an excuse, for me not to leave. I tried a few times but he’d always mention how I’d never see them again. The only place I had to go had I left was my mother's small apartment. She wasn’t in a position to have my children live with me in that tiny one-bedroom apartment. I felt hopeless and my motto in my mind was “stay for the children. Endure what you must.” And so I did.

I’ve been burned, slapped, choked, suffocated, punched, cut, forced to have sex, forced to engage in anal sex, forced to drink urine, urinated on. Acts of violence and disgust that only a mentally sick and demented “man” could think of. His violent ways would only be triggered here and there. Meaning, it could be several months that although we might argue, he would not physically harm me. In December of last year, he began his reign of rage. What was I thinking that it was over for good? Having his children didn’t change a damn thing.

During the course of three days, (December 10 thru December 13), he kept me hostage in our own home. He deprived me of sleep and food and I survived somehow off of tap water and cigarettes. The house was in shambles. He wouldn’t allow me to cook or clean. When our then three-month-old son would cry, he wouldn’t allow me to comfort him immediately. He planned on shaving my hair off again but mentioned he had chemicals he found so that afterward, my hair would never grow back again. He claimed he planned on locating a wrench somewhere amidst our messy house to yank one of my front teeth out. Another tactic to make me unattractive to the outside world. That’s the only place I wanted to be at that time. Outside. He beat me on my legs and arms with a metal rod he had found in the laundry room. The bruising I suffered was atrocious. I was raped countless times.

He wouldn’t allow me to leave his sight, even momentarily. By the time he finally did fall asleep for a few short hours during these three horrific days, I was already exhausted as well. He would wake me up to only more abuse. That Friday, around 7:30, I kept asking him to wake the children up and mentioned how they'd be late for school. He responded that that wasn’t important right now, and they would be fine. He stated how he’d wake them up when he was “ready to.” I felt hopeless. I began thinking of how eventually he would just kill me — whether it was his intention or not. Even on a couple of different occasions during these three days, he mentioned how he should “just kill me.”

I was finally granted the opportunity to escape. Escape my own home and run for help. He slowly and briefly began to rise out of the kitchen chair and motioned towards the back of the house. To this day I don’t know, nor will I ever know, what made him get up. He never left my sight because he knew I’d run. I can almost guarantee it was to go get more torturous objects or tools to beat or hurt me with. Granted with opportunity, I did in fact run. I ran so fast out the back door. I painfully jumped our back fence and knocked on each of my neighbor's doors. Nobody answered until the fourth house. I heard a loud car running towards their backyard as well as a man’s voice. It was a young man outside standing by the noisy vehicle. Thank God, I thought. Thank God.

Both exhausted and relieved, I summed up what was happening to me in a few short sentences. He said, “okay — hold on, stay here. Let me go tell my mom.” It was cold out. I had only a t-shirt and pants on. No socks, no shoes, no bra, no jacket. About a minute or two later, that in reality felt like a lifetime, an angel appeared in the doorway. I frantically spewed out everything I had told her son just minutes prior. She immediately sheltered me and allowed me to use her cell phone to call the police. Once I made that phone call, I began to explain to this woman that I was extremely nervous about my children being inside the home with their father — after all, who knew how mad he was on account of me escaping. She reassured me that the police would be there soon. “Soon” was very far fetched, as the police did not arrive until a little after an hour after the call was made.

In the midst of waiting, the woman kept peering out her window, trying to capture my then boyfriend’s every move. Mind you, it was around 8 a.m. on a Friday. The poor lady was trying to get one of her three kids who had special needs onto a bus that picked him up daily. She waited outside for the bus, but her focus was diverted to what was going on in that house, just four houses down. At one point, my….let’s call him assailant, came up to her house and asked if she had seen a woman walking around in a pink t-shirt with no shoes on. She stood her ground and denied seeing anybody.

The kind words this woman gave me while waiting for the police I’ll never forget. She gave me the courage and strength that I still carry with me to this day. Her empathy was astonishing. I began to panic about how the police still hadn’t made it yet (to this day they never gave me a legitimate reason as to what in the world they took that long — just an embarrassing “I’m sorry about that.”) so I told the woman I want to go up to the house to try to distract him out of there. I feared for the safety and well-being of our children. As I crept closer to the house, sure enough, my assailant appeared by the door. My eldest two had opened their bedroom window and stuck their heads out and were, to my relief, unharmed. In fact, they seemed to be dressed for school.

“Come inside, Kristy. Just come in.” “Okay, I’m not going to hurt you, but let’s talk inside.” “It’s cold out here, let’s go.” I was stalling — purposely. I was slowly getting agitated that those damn policemen hadn't arrived yet. Finally, the look in his eyes changed and until the day I die, I will never forget that look. His expression mutated from an irritated stern one into a desperate, shocked, and sorrowful one. I already knew what his eyes were following directly behind me. It was the police cars and as they crept slowly up to our home, he begged for me not to say anything. He proclaimed that he and I would start over and he didn’t care about anything anymore. No more anger and no more abuse. I’ve heard it all before. I was done this time. There had been a few other occasions police were involved, but I kept my mouth shut. One of those incidents was in 2012 when he used a chef’s kitchen knife to hit me on my knee with, only “accidentally” using the sharp side, slicing through several layers of skin and tissue. Yeah, that required some stitches and I took one hell of a lifetime scar.

It’s been one year since then. He was sentenced a few months ago. Minimum of two years, maximum of 10. Possibly probation after two years, of course. I still have nightmares of him in one way or another. Hell, I had one today as I napped. I knew he loved his kids. I know he misses them. But every single time I think about what he did to me — not just in December of 2019, but over the past fifteen years — my sympathy goes right out the window. I left my mother at 17 years old by choosing him over my family. I lost most of these years with her but in December was finally reconnected.

My mother died in March of 2020. Had those events not happened to me, we wouldn’t have reconnected. And although it was only three months — those were the best three months of my life. I miss her a lot. She helped me with a lot of things following the case between me and my children's father.

I do have four wonderful children whom I love more than life itself. And I thank God for them every day. They never spoke of what happened, except my seven year old. He sometimes and randomly asks me, “Momma — do you remember when daddy used to hit you?” I know sometimes they hurt, but they conceal their feelings. Eventually I would like to get them into counseling, along with myself. In the meantime, we tend to counsel each other for the time being.

Christmas of 2019 was a dud. I had enough money for a Family Dollar tree, some decorations, and about one toy each. I felt so bad. I had lost my job as you can imagine during the midst of the abuse that month. Luckily this year is a lot better. I know Christmas isn't about gifts under the tree. It’s about having each other. I don’t know what I would do without these kids. They mean everything and more to me.

I may not be the best writer but I hope whoever is reading this can look past any grammar or punctuation. I feel the message is more important than the delivery. If you or someone you know is in a similar situation… please, do not hesitate to get help. I waited so long that I lost almost sixteen years of my life with someone that I shouldn’t have been with in the first place.

“You never know how strong you are, until being strong is your only choice.” — Bob Marley