To tell you exactly what occurred this night is arduous. However, to tell you what I remember is easy, giving the truth, this isn’t something I enjoy going over. This problem hurts me to this day.

Arriving to our house at 12am from deep in Boston, Dorchester, to Revere exhausted me. Regularly I would have arrived way earlier. I entered the house to be smacked by the beautiful weed aroma. Had it been any earlier, the smell would have excited me. Seeing as it was already 12am; I wanted to sleep like a bear in hibernation. Going up two flights of wooden stairs, breath shortened, and calves sore like a football player. Reaching the top of the second flight, attempting to open the door, my boyfriend beat me to it, and opened the door. Making my entrance, the vibe, his anger, automatically came upon me. He wasn’t particularly a subtle individual, with his face tightened. The first way of identifying he was prepared to argue for the night. Acting as if it was in my script I said
“Hi babe”, saying this in the sweet voice, while getting comfy in my favorite gray chair.
“Hmmmmm hi babe, you think you can come home whenever you want?” he replied in his young but stern voice. To this day, it is still a mystery to understand why he would pick fights.
“What are you talking about? I called you.” I rebutted as my defense, hoping that a light bulb would turn on in his thick skull. Wrong. The exact opposite happened, and his blood began to boil up.
“I don’t care FAM, it’s a school night”, saying this bobbing his head in all directions. Once that came out his mouth, I realized that it wasn’t at all the fact it was a school night. The reality was him always insisting that I was home. If I went to the store I had five minutes to be back, given the store was right around the corner. Unfortunately, the argument wasn’t new; I was used to his “expectations”. I had allowed it many times before. I prepared myself for battle…
“Then you expect me to believe your hair took that long,” he assumed getting closer to me, not in attempt to be affectionate either. Yes he was a mad man, yes his blood was boiled up, yet I shouldn’t be accused of lying about such a minor situations.
“Yo she straightened my hair before she braided it, why do I have to lie for?” I barked back. At that moment, he gripped my face up on my cheeks, with his thumb on my right cheek, and four fingers on my other, causing me to clench my teeth to resist the pain. “Why you got to lie to me”, pushes my face back with full force. “Don’t be pushing my face FAM word” I said loudly with attitude, walking towards our bed to lie down. Suddenly in a rush, he came and smacked all life out of me, on my left cheek. Tears came hurriedly down my face, and my tiredness immediately vanished. Crying in the corner, wanting to be left alone wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t stop, and in fact, kept going. He approached me and asked “Why you crying, you want a real reason to cry”. Not responding, head down, and ignoring him, made him even more furious. ” Hello, b****, what you can’t hear, why are you crying, get up, get up”, trying to lift me as if I were a baby. I refused. All I wanted was to cry, and when ready I would get up, on my own. Apparently I couldn’t do that or cry. Dictatorship ruled my home. I was the deprived Jews that suffered from Hitler’s rules in Auschwitz. The mood shifted, like a car shifting gears. Now, he began to act loving and calm trying to explain to me why he “acted out”. “I want to be able to come home to my girl, chill, shower, smoke, and a movie. Not sit here alone in my room, while you out with your fake ass friends” raising his voice again. I covered my ears, “Stop yelling”, wishing he would lower down his voice. The night ended charmingly as if it was a princess tale. We simmered down, lied together as he held me close and warm till I fell into the world of sleep.
To keep a secret is to be weak, and to allow the pain will kill you. If it doesn’t kill you physically, it will mentally. I used to be so stressed out, cried all the time, and even tried killing myself, by cutting my neck. Although it was a few months ago, I can still feel the touch of him, see him when he would raise his hands, the smell of the weed he was smoking that night, and can hear the angry tone in his voice. I held this continuous problem in for so long do to my fear of him, making it my secret, and allowing it to change me as a person. Changing me in the sense I am secure about myself, and careless to everything, and everyone around me. Today is the first time I have the audacity to share my story. Withholding a domestic violence problem will ruin your persona, don’t. The ability to tell what has happened may be scary, hurtful, embarrassing, de-humanizing, and stressful. However to express these feelings are the initial step to healing. I am ready to heal.