Page 11 of Hate to Love You
She has money.
But even from where I’m sitting, I can see the light dusting of bruises, canvassing her neck and cheeks. Her hair falls limp, frizzy and clustered together, as if it hasn’t been washed in a week. Yet it’s only when I see her sunken brown eyes, staring lifelessly in my direction without seeing me at all, do I realize how serious her situation is.
I know that stare. I know it well.
My grandmother once said that the eyes are the doors to your soul. She said that if you really look, they will tell you everything you need to know about a person.
But all I can see right now, in the woman before me, is a broken soul drowning in despair so deeply that they’ve just given up.
Makeup might hide her bruises, but it doesn’t hide her pain.
My chest tightens.
I’ve found that abused women come in tiers, depending on where they fall in the social hierarchy. The lower you are, the easier it is to see your abuse, or your lack of self-care. Mostly, because the fancy makeup you’d need to hide your bruises and scars, usually has the highest price tag. And reconstructive surgery, to correct more seriousdamage, is something that only the wealthy can afford.
It’s a bit of a coin flip when it comes to the women in the middle tier. Sometimes they mask it well, other times not.But regardless of whether it’s obvious, or just obviously not well hidden, most people tend not to comment on it.
Abuse tends to be a conversation killer.
However, this lady, in her designer clothing, is most definitely what I’d consider ‘top tier.’
Most people will see her expensive clothes, nice shoes and handbag made out of real leather, and assume everything is fine. And that is what she wants you to see.
Because the higher you are on the social ladder, the farther you have to fall.
And the more you have to lose.
This is why women of affluence, or women associated with men of affluence, tend to be better at hiding the evidence of their pain. And when their pain is being caused by an influential man, you can almost guarantee he is the one funding the coverup.
People will look at the bumps and bruises of a top tier woman and shrug it off to her being clumsy. After all, she’s deliberately crafted her image to be one of harmony and happiness, so the idea her injuries could be the result of abuse isn’t even a consideration.
But as the meeting begins, and the women take turns listening to each other’s horrendous accounts, I still can’t take my eyes off the woman with the lifeless eyes.
From her body language, it’s clear that even in this safe space, she doesn’t feel safe.
She reminds me of a dying star, collapsing in on itself. As if she’s hoping that the floor will swallow her whole, so she doesn’t have to continue this miserable charade anymore.
But like so many women, she wouldn’t be here if she could just pack up and leave her tormentor.
It’s never as simple as that.
Abusers are smart. They don’t start with breaking your body, they start by breaking your mind.
They brainwash you into believing you deserve the abuse. They tell you it’s your fault, and that you pushed them to the point where they have to hurt you…in order to teach you a lesson. They make you believe that this hellish existence is the best that you could possibly have.
My husband was especially good at that.
He weaponized my unconditional love for him, so that I believed I deserved his torture.
And then there were days where there was no physical abuse. But mentally? He played me like a well-oiled violin. Conditioning me, molding me, until my sense of self completely evaporated.
I wasn’t even human to him anymore. I was property.
Over time I was reduced to a shell of a human, alive but not living.Not for myself, but for him.
But what I learned by coming to these meetings is that my experience wasn’t as isolated as I previously thought. I learned there were other women like me, suffering similar abuse from men like my husband.
As if they all shared a common core.