a letter to my ex's new girlfriend

on the cycle of domestic violence.

to whom it may concern,

when i was first thrown to the ground by the person you love, it was not the sting under my asscheek that i noticed first; it was not even the holes that replaced their eyes or their rumbling growl. instead, an urge to chuckle made itʻs way to my buck teeth. that i could even field the possibility of laughing again surprised me, let alone while my face hung millimeters from the floor. chili-covered dishes clamored in the sink, beckoning me to silence. i kneeled, steadfast. my eyes created licorice sludge between the carpet fibers and my pupils. 

dragging the liquid to their bare feet, i kissed their ankles. or did i? i could have done anything else. a small whisper in the shape of a little girl tugged at the back of my sleeve, urging me to make an escape. a battered woman from a psa, seated on the cracking, blue leather couch, wagged her finger.

“you know better”

i resembled more a dog than a girl.

the rain fell like a sigh, drops floating toward the windowʻs glass and evaporating upon contact. i found it silly that nature could continue beyond this horror, and so gently too. somewhere, a couple fucked to the rhythm of the drizzle in the valley– somewhere, someone nuzzled into the safety of their partners laugh instead of recoiling from the volume. but my love– the one who touched my cervix and my armpits and my belly button and the sensitive place behind my ears– stood above me shrouded in red smoke, ripping me from myself. 

i wondered if it was normal to cry this hard on a wednesday.

as i look upon this text to a friend, now, i am astounded by my convenient choice to replace “throw” with “toss”– to label my panic and distress as "screaming” and their violence as “telling.” i am surprised by the ease in which i dissuaded my knowledge of what was really happening. i fear that distrust in myself. 

FKA twigs recently spoke about her abusive relationship with shia lebouf on the “man enough podcast”. in the episode the power of speaking out, she explains that abuse is “like tiny stitches. it’s like embroidery… and then all of a sudden you step back, and it’s this whole pattern that you didn’t want to ever make.”

often, i think of our stitches– those instruments that went into my torture orchestra. it started small.

it always starts small. 

when they would commit small infractions like pushing or yanking, they cried and promised to talk with their therapist. if they yelled, it was my fault for being silent or interrupting or crying. if they pushed me, i shouldn’t have “tried to leave the room.” if they relapsed, it was because i had a glass of wine with dinner at their grandmother’s house. they created a prison of self pity and constraint so guarded that i blamed myself for “provoking” their violence.

when the pushing started to hurt (and it did start to hurt), i bartered with a trauma i held in college. after a man broke a sexual boundary of mine in 2019, i found myself rushing to the toilet to reflect. as i rocked back and forth on the seat, my mind spun:

i am not a victim. i cannot have been assaulted. i am not one of those women.

i felt the same resistance while kneeling on their carpet– while crying in my bathroom– while writing this, even now.

out of all our stitches, i am most perplexed by the one their parents sewed. i’ve since learned how much they knew of their child’s previous violence, and our dynamic had a supreme hand in keeping me stuck. at our worst fights– the ones where i would finally gather courage to say that i hated my ex or to exclaim that i wished i was dead— i found myself taking accountability and blame. despite being thrown, pushed, yanked, and lied to, i would still drag myself down the street to ask their parents for advice on how i could be a better partner: 

their dad sent me a link to anger management courses, so i could deal with their child’s abuse better. their mom handed me books about buddhism and feminist christianity with a photo of my partner as a baby tucked into the 137th page.

in addition to relapsing on self harm, i developed a kink toward being constrained and slapped during sex. i would ask my partner, in their moments of consuming me, to whack me hard and fast across the face. to resist their digestion, i needed to feel like i was puppeteering my demise.

“harder”

“are you sure?”

it felt powerful to be harmed when i chose to be.

i am telling you all of this because i ran into you both the other night. i heard you laugh at me outside of a local bar on hotel st. i didnʻt get a good look at your outfit or your face or your ignorant condescension, but i know the intimate sound of your cackle. 

here are other things i know about you: you are an intelligent person. i know they have found new avenues for manipulation and, although the answers they give feel icky in your ears, you will ignore it. maybe they’ve found out how to hit your jealousy where it hurts but, rest assured, there is no jealousy or illness between you and i. i know you listen to bossa nova and smoke alright weed and make them laugh. i know you’re the life of the party. i know you’re beautiful. you might not even be a girlfriend at all, but you represent her. 

we share the same story. we have the same nose. you are me and i am you and we are the next girl, too.

should you stay with them, i will ease my anger in the hopes that you remember me: my frail body. the gentle burn of my flesh against their rug. the leftover stain of their gasoline dripping out of me on the floor. i hope i haunt you like a ghost in the corner of their bedroom. i urge the pain they caused to create a void so dark that it blocks the pristine view of the sunset from their mansion. i hope it gives them nightmares. i hope they are inconsolable.

and if not me– please remember my words. let my pain be for something.

until then, i am here: writing this in my best friend’s new york apartment, thinking about a pretty girl back home that understands when i flinch or cry, and going out to a lesbian bar tonight.

abuse is not simple. there are many players. there are many layers. if you ask any victim about their reaction to being abused they might not be proud, but the abuse would *never* be their fault. it is not normal to cry this hard on a wednesday.

be well,

anuhea