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