Aching All Over

chapter one

I'm a statistic. I'm a 25 year old, single African American female and I've experienced violence. From police brutality to my so called brothers attacking femininity (and subsequently all things from Black Queens) it is shocking that I haven't commited suicide, had more babies than goals for my future or become strung out on one of the world's most powerful drugs. But, I am a Black Woman, and as the definition shows one would think that I was created for such woes. But who am I fooling? Not myself anymore. I look in the mirror and I barely recognize my face. It isn't the scar on my left temple or the bruises around my wrists and neck that make me a stranger to myself. It's the realization that although I didn't put these bruises here, I bruised myself. Accepting that fact was harder than any fall. My decisions left me aching all over. Although I could blame C, Q and M...I'm questioning my own existence. I know I didn't deserve it, but I endured it, why?

Was it love? Was it fear? Was it weakness? Was it psychosis? What made me become a statistic? Why did domestic violence become a trend in my relationships? When was enough actually enough?

I grew up in a loving home. Sure, we had problems just like every family does but we made sure to stay together and to stay true to our family values. My father was a kind hearted man with a charismatic personality. My mother is a hard working woman with a unique sense of humor. My parents loved each other. I never heard my father raise his voice out of context or act in any manner than would leave me fearful of men. My mother was similar, raising her two children to love and respect others. I was a teenager when I realized my home life was very different than most of my peers. Many people I grew up with rarely had a positive male influence or a strong family bond. Most of the men I have dated were similar to the kids I grew up with and lacked practical knowledge on what it means to be a man, a Black King.

I was 22 the first time I experienced domestic violence. I was breaking off an engagement/relationship and C went crazy! The verbal abuse started when his anger turned into him getting in my face and screaming. That alone was enough to make me walk away and call the relationship off. In my mind, a man is expected to treat a woman with the upmost respect and care. A man yelling and pointing his fingers in a woman's face was something I couldn't comprehend. It wasn't long before those screaming matches became a run and hide for your life moment. I'll never forget how shiny the gun was or how disheveled I looked that night. I couldn't believe that a man would physically attack me because I wanted to end an already dying relationship. It scared me and left me emotionally unkept. Police, lawyers, court rooms and judges...in their eyes we weren't human...we were flawed individuals in need of a sever punishment. But, from where I was sitting, getting thrown around and having a gun pulled on me was more than enough. What was my crime? Leaving a toxic relationship? They didn't care about the body pains, the nightmares, or the back and forth of retelling a story that left me feeling embarrassed and unimportant. Three years later I found myself