pulling up the rug

I've struggled with writing this post because the magnitude of this topic is so far reaching for me. As many of you are aware, October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. A handful of you probably know that it is Domestic Violence Awareness Month, as well. I would say that it surprises me how few people actually know about Domestic Violence Awareness Month, but that would not be true. Domestic violence, at its core, is something we shy away from. So, it makes sense that the month dedicated to raising awareness is not always highlighted as it should be.

It's something people don't like to talk about. Don't like to acknowledge. It is something that many people would be happy just sweeping under the rug. The one flaw with this mentality is that there is not a rug big enough to hide the realities of domestic violence. One in every four women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime. And while it's not something that is exclusive to the female experience, 85% of all domestic violence survivors are women.
I spent years working in the field of domestic violence. It is an issue very close to my heart and perhaps the topic I can discuss with more passion than anything else. I used to say that I would never do anything else professionally. I saw myself working in the field until retirement. Something changed along the way. It wasn't that it was too depressing. In fact, when I told people what I did for a living the first reaction of a great majority of people was, "that's so sad." Others changed the subject as quickly as possible. I always explained that it wasn't a sad career. My time working in shelters was quite often happy. Yes, there were very sad stories. Heartbreaking stories. Yes, I closed my office door on more then one occasion and cried. However, the shelter was a place of hope. The shelter represented change, whether for a lifetime or a day, in the lives of the women and children who walked through the doors. It was a choice I made, but I chose to see it as a very positive place.

So, it wasn't "sad." And, I didn't leave because it became too depressing. But, it became heavy. I have an insane memory. I can recall a name or a face of someone I met once, years ago, almost instantly. This skill was often called upon at the shelter. I would be asked to join a meeting and would be given a few facts about a woman and her children- I could usually recall her first and last name and the details of previous shelter stays. It came in handy. I knew the details of the stories of almost every woman staying in the shelter. I took notes, but rarely needed them. I just absorbed it all. I could see their faces and their stories in my head. I still can. As I type I remember their names. I moved away and was offered a job outside of the domestic violence field. The break allowed me to reflect and what I realized was that the work became so heavy on my heart. I still see their faces. I still remember their stories. What became harder was that I saw and still see the faces and story of my own family.

You see, we have our own rug we do some sweeping under. We rarely ever talk about it. Once when I was practicing in front of my brother for a public appearance I was going to be making, he questioned the 1 in every 4 statistic. He said, "that's really high, isn't it?" So, I get why someone who hasn't experienced it first hand has trouble grasping the sheer gravity of how widespread the problem is. I get that people can't put a face to it. My brother, who had my face, who had my mom's face...who had his own face...couldn't.

I know the story of a woman who said she didn't deserve better. I know the story of a girl who feared going to school because there was a chance her mother would not live to see her make it home. I know the story of a woman who said she didn't feel loved by a man who didn't beat her. I know the story of a boy who knew his mother only by the name "Bitch," it was all he ever heard her called. I know the story of a woman who said, "he only choked me a little." I know the story of a child who called the four walls of a shelter the only home she ever knew. I know the story of a woman who died at the hands of the one she loved the most.

I know their stories. One of them is mine.

Please, know how real it is. Talk about it. It is the only way to shine light under the rug.