Natalie stood outside of the red brick church, debating on whether or not to go in. She looked up towards the sky and sighed. New town, new goals…which is how she ended up outside this church at 7PM on a Thursday. It was also the exact reason why she didn’t think she should be here. She was finally starting over, so why come here and dredge it all back up? Natalie took a deep breath and walked towards the door. It was now or never.

Group meeting signs posted in the hall guided her towards a large meeting room. It wasn’t what she expected. Years of watching these scenes play out on television had her looking for a dark, gloomy room with old folding chairs in a circle, and a table set up off in the corner with off-brand coffee and stale cookies.  This room was bright and welcoming, people were walking around mingling while eating fresh fruit, and there was soft music playing in the background.

Natalie stayed off to the side. She would see how this first meeting went, and then maybe she would mingle next time. If there was a next time. She had come here on a mission, and she intended to get it accomplished. By 7:15, the group leader went to a small podium at one end of the room and asked everyone to gather around. They never did quite form a circle, but they all crowded together into something like a semi –circle with their attention turned towards the podium.

“Welcome, everyone,” the group leader said, which seemed to also be the signal for all the quiet chatter to stop. “It is nice to see so many returning members, and also a few new faces,” she said as she nodded towards Natalie. “Thursdays, as most of you know, are reserved for testimony nights. No feedback or processing, this is just for those that want to tell their story with no judgement and no interruption.”

She supposed it would have made more sense to let someone else go first so she could see how these things flowed, but Natalie shot her hand into the air before she lost her nerve. “I’d like to start… if that’s okay,” she said while nervously glancing around the crowd. She saw nothing but smiles and heads nodding, so Natalie walked to the podium. She took a deep breath and let it all out:

The day that I knew I was leaving was the day of my in-laws’ vow renewal ceremony. Thirty five years of marriage. It was definitely something to celebrate.
But as I watched my mother in law walk down the aisle, I started picturing myself in her shoes. “This will be us someday,” he had whispered to me when we pulled up to venue. And at that moment, standing at that altar as one of his mother’s bridesmaids, that thought terrified me. I saw myself walking down the aisle. I wondered how many bruises would be hidden under make up that day. Eye drops to take away the redness. A cold mask to get the swelling down. Those would be the items on my checklist.
I was trembling by the time she made it to the altar.

While the minister spoke, I flashed back to after that first hit. I was too shocked to do anything. I don’t even think I cried. He had become very controlling, his temper flared at the slightest irritation, but I would have never imagined him physically hurting me. Not this man who showered me with gifts and attention, planned romantic getaways, and practically worshipped the ground I walked on. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that he had actually slapped me across the face. The second time, I went to my mother in law. I don’t know what I expected exactly, but it certainly wasn’t a tutorial on how not to provoke him. I was never close with my own mother. She showed up to family events to keep up appearances, but she was never a person I would go to for help. And when you can’t turn to your own mother for help…well you just feel really alone. Going to the few friends I had wasn’t an option. It was too embarrassing.

I packed my bags to leave after the third time. He cried, and begged, and promised to get help. We sat up all night holding each other and crying. He unpacked my bags the next morning. Him apologizing after hitting me became the norm. I learned that if I cried afterwards, he would apologize and our lives would back to normal for a few weeks, sometimes longer. If I didn’t cry, he saw it as an act of defiance, and he would yell and scream, and sometimes even hit me again. The same with the “apology gifts.” I had to wear the jewelry he bought me at least once. The flowers that were sent had to be displayed on the kitchen counter that evening. He needed proof that I accepted his apology or he would fly into a rage again.

The second time I packed my bags, he beat me so badly that I woke up in the hospital. He didn’t hit me for months after that, but eventually it started back up. For five years, this cycle continued until I found myself trembling at that altar. I knew what I had to do then. 

To Be Continued..

Written By: SM Grady

© 2018 SM Grady