Who is Tricia St John?
Tricia St John is a mother, author, event coordinator, motivational speaker and domestic violence survivor. In 2004, St John lost her left forearm and two fingers on her right hand to a domestic violence attack. St John is making impressive strides as she moves on with her life.
My skin, my tears
Tricia St John
My eyes hurt from crying all the time. My heart hurt. Based on the books I’d read, those movies with happy endings; somewhere, someone was lying. Or perhaps love itself was the lie? At 24, what did I know anyway? Did one show love because school fees were paid on time? Because there was food in the house? Snacks for the children? Milk for their tea? Was that love? Who got to say what love was or was not? Certainly, the constant lashing against my skin was not love. It couldn’t be, could it?
My Skin
I woke up in pain. My leg was throbbing where he’d kicked me repeatedly as I lay curled on the floor. I no longer tried to ward off the blows as he attacked me with his hands and feet. He was striving to make me understand that he was in charge and all I had to do was obey. Jump! Don’t ask how high. Stoop! Without asking how low. I was beginning to feel like I no longer existed. No longer had a say in my own life or the lives of my children. My chest hurt from the first kick I’d gotten. My arms were blue-black. Sometimes the licks would simply continue from the day before.
My Fear
Imagine being afraid to sleep. Afraid to close your eyes. Afraid that this night might just turn out to be ‘the night’ and you would never open them again. I watched him walk away from me, knowing full well he would come right back to argue and threaten, this time armed and definitely dangerous. Every time he got angry his cutlass appeared. I reasoned that he had to have hidden cutlasses in varying places all over the house, and I became so afraid at the sight of them. So afraid of the confrontation. The feel of the blade pressed against my skin. The look in his eyes.
My Mind
There was no sound of the boys. Perhaps he had taken them up the street to his mother. Although I knew it was better when they were absent, I often found myself counting on their presence to keep him grounded. He did his hitting, always in the absence of the children. Well … somewhat absent. Sometimes he would send them outside to play. However, do not think for a minute that this option secures the child’s oblivion–it does not. Most of the time they are fully aware of what’s happening and what is never considered amidst the turmoil and confusion is how it will affect their lives later on.
“‘Yuh think ah stupid’?” he demanded.
Back now, with a cutlass and holding it very close to my throat. I dared not answer the question out loud. I had thought that there was nothing worse than being beaten, but the reality was, that his love was far worse. Whenever his anger subsided, there would be the love campaign. Hugs, and kisses that covered my skin. Apologies that filled my ears, and invaded my mind. Kind, loving gestures that convinced me amid my unbelief that he was genuinely sorry and loved me more than life itself. Yet every hug, every kiss, every touch, was like the touch of a stranger.
My Anger
I could not retire gracefully under his anger. Neither could I allow him to rant himself into exhaustion. My mouth would override my fear, and the anger would rise, swirling around in my belly, making it impossible to stay quiet. Even though my response secured me a beating, like a bonus point win in a game, I still responded.
How dare he accuse me of untruths? What opportunity did I have to cheat when he took on the role of my shadow and gave me curfews when I went out? How dare he try to convince me that only he could love me? I was intelligent, beautiful, and worthy, and I began to resent him trying to make me believe otherwise.
Don’t be Misled, Be Alert
It is essential to know what behaviours are acceptable and what behaviours are not in a budding relationship. It usually, always, starts perfectly. Long romantic walks, where the sunset is always perfect. Movies. Ice cream dates. Regular visits to the places you liked. And full indulgence in the things you liked to do. And you are convinced that you are in a near-perfect relationship. Abusers are smart, they know how to hide their feelings well during the courting period and sometimes, even after. They can morph into whoever you want them to be at any given time. Hero. Comforter. Cheerleader. Adviser (and they love this role the most as it allows them to get you to see things from their point of view).
“Baby”, he crooned in my ear, as we sat on a blanket on the beach watching the waves as they encroached in defiance upon the dry sand which trickled through my fingers.
“You know we belong together, right? You must know I’m the only one for you!”
I was unsure of my own feelings when he got this way. Intense but still seemingly edgy, as if he needed to convince me before time ran out. He tilted my face, so I was looking at him and kissed the tip of my nose, “I have loved you from the day we met, you are so special. I’m going to be all you need, you’ll see”
I kissed him, but only because I could see he expected me to, eyes closed, hands pressed against his chest, perhaps in unconscious resistance, I succumbed. We hold on to these promises when there is nothing else, grasping at straws, lest we drown in our own gullibility.
Continuing next week
