“It wasn’t just my fault! You brought it on yourself. You deserved it. No one will believe you if you say anything. Folks don’t like you anyway! You think they’d believe you over me? Everyone loves me! You know how many people hoped we’d break up? How many chicks I could’ve dealt with? You were lucky to have me. Fuck you! I’m not apologizing for shit. You should’ve stayed GHOST! Why would you want to be friends with an abuser anyway?”
It all started with an apology. I simply wanted acknowledgement and contrition for all of the abuse I endured, and a therapist convinced me to contact him and try to make amends after I had ghosted him months prior. “Ghosting is immature. You’re grown. Have a civil conversation with him. Try to be friends. Start fresh.”
So after rejecting calls, ignoring texts, emails, comments on social media, and going about with what I thought would be a new life, I called…and he cursed me out. I emailed; he cursed me out. We spoke again…he cursed me out. I tried to explain why I felt the need to leave him so drastically to no avail. Instead I was called “petty, small and immature” for unfollowing him on social media and told I owed him an apology for going silent. I was then berated into following him back on Twitter and IG and apologizing for ghosting him. He accepted my apology, and with that, I removed all accountability from him just to have a peaceful conversation. Every suggestion the therapist gave me put us right back into our toxic dynamic — relying on the advice of a professional put me on a path to nowhere.
“Why would you want to be friends with an abuser anyway?”
Exactly! A good question he asked me repeatedly. So why would I want to be friends with an abuser…my abuser? With him of all people? Why would I want to pick up where we left off only to subject myself to more hurt and pain? Someone who made me so physically ill that my body was falling apart from the wear and tear. It took me entirely too long, however, to realize that these were just the symptoms and that he and our relationship as a whole were the disease.
I had long heard that some relationships stunt your growth, but I truly didn’t realize how much of my spirit was being broken down while I was busy building a man up. I had convinced myself that the better I was to him, romantically and professionally, the nicer he would be to me. I pulled out all the stops: had him filming for a TV show within months of dating, positioned him for and helped film once-in-a-lifetime celebrity interviews as a media correspondent, changed his social media name and whipped him into shape so that he could be the brand that he so desperately wanted to be. I introduced him to my entertainment industry connections and got him signed to two Talent agencies so that they may help him get to the next level and reached out to a mutual friend to recommend him for his current job at a sports media company. And while I had my abuser on red carpets, in clothing I had either chosen myself or had pulled by stylists I knew gratis along with mannerisms, hygiene, diction, and a social media persona I improved — appearances he made with questions and answers I prepared for him to help him stand out and shine on screen — I was suffering, all the while changing his life, literally and figuratively. I poured so much into him that I had nothing left for myself. It was just so easy to believe that once he got to the level he wanted, he’d realize that abusing the woman who had his back made no sense.
It seems shortsighted in retrospect, but I never thought I’d be the type of woman who took abuse. I’m bold, sometimes brash; I stand up for women, don’t “play the game” in the industry, and I stand my ground. I can argue almost anyone down with receipts in tow…but with him, I felt hopeless, ugly, unworthy, and not myself. He constantly needed validation, compliments, ego stroking, and submission. I did everything I thought he’d like and more, yet it never was quite enough — so I kept going harder, but it didn’t prevent the inevitable.
Our relationship started in a particularly unglamorous and non-romantic fashion. We met on Twitter while we lived in different cities, engaging constantly for over a year. When I finally moved back to the tri-state area, he came over under the pretense of hanging out and helping me install my air conditioner, only to end up stripping naked in my barely unpacked apartment and coercing me into sex. He would insist that we merely disagreed over what happened that night until the Aziz Ansari exposé; for years, he insisted that I “knew what it was,” despite me immediately telling him otherwise. There would be other up-and-downs before we became an official couple, but it was an alarming harbinger of what was to come.
The first time he hit me was a few months into our relationship. I started keeping a journal soon after becauseI was too embarrassed to talk to anyone about it. Plus I did NOT want friends and family to judge the person I loved who I felt was broken and needed my uplifting and protection. My early entries were just me trying to understand why this was happening; as the years proceeded and the violence became worse and more frequent, they would get deeper and longer. The language transitioned from I don’t understand why he’s hitting me to if I elevate him, this will stop and we will be a power couple — eventually arriving at if something happens to me, he did it.
“He sees my tears as an inconvenience. ‘I can’t deal with you crying.’ He gets annoyed at having to see the tears or hearing me crying instead of trying to end the abuse that causes the tears.
He is very focused with new job. Flexible and accommodating. Not so much with me. I’m contemplating how I can trade something of value to him for emotional support. Like how his job pays him. If I give him more sex, will he give me what I need emotionally? Will he stop hitting me? What if I’m gentler and talk less? How can I get him to understand that my needs must be met in order to want to do things and move forward when he defends his emotional and physical abuse with, ‘that’s just me’ or ‘if you didn’t act up it wouldn’t happen’ or his favorite, ‘your mouth causes this.’
Tone is tough. Always first to snap or have a fit before listening completely or trying to be flexible. Walks ahead of me. Doesn’t hold my hand. Yells at me to ‘come on.’ Physically drags me down streets. Doesn’t lock doors. Doesn’t make me feel protected. He’s always on his phone. Even during ‘quality time,’ non working hours or when we hang out at an event. He reaches for the phone after we are intimate. This may be minor compared to the worst of our problems.“
Reading these entries back to myself, I was stunned — so much of my essence seemed hollowed out that I was convinced that I was writing about a different person altogether. I could not believe how small I sounded, when I was known for being larger than life force, both on and offline. I shrunk myself for his comfort, and was still being crushed at his whim. As my friend who stopped him from assaulting me in the VIP Tent one year during a celebrity music festival said, “you poured a lot into him though. you used your time, resources, and connections to put him on. He was dressing like a 17 year old and sleeping on a twin mattress when you met him and you gave him direction and in return he abused you.”
When we returned back to the hotel after that very same event, we argued about his behavior and he threw a lamp at me. I would like to say that this was an outlier, but unfortunately that wasn’t the case; at a wedding reception in Jamaica, he got intoxicated and violent, choking and verbally abusing me. Every time after these blackout moments, he would always minimize the severity the next day, never quite denying the sequence of events, but infantilizing me as “dramatic” or dismissively denying his complicity by indicting my mouth as just as culpable for his fists. Essence Fest, Valentine’s Day at my favorite restaurant where he was asked to leave; NABJ in DC and New Orleans; endless memories of us across the country are tragically punctuated by intense cruelty and violence. Even if I wanted to question the veracity of my memories, the endless cards and letters I emailed, mailed, and personally handed to him trying to negotiate for better treatment and relieve any stressors that may agitate him would constantly remind me of the times I tried to work through harmful incidents.
When the abuse started, it was swift and hard. On several occasions it would be accompanied by verbal attacks and disrespect that had me feeling more insecure about my individual worth than I ever thought possible. I was always reminded that I was the “first” dark woman he had dated and how I should feel blessed. He brought up past girlfriends who did everything and anything to make him happy like cooking, vacuuming his room and making his bed. Told me if I left I would grow old and alone. He even went as far as giving me a heads-up that the next girl he dated would be young so he could mold her into exactly what he wanted. After a while the abuse became more malicious; instead of reacting to my “smart mouth” he did things deliberately, going out of his way to do things that scared me…upset me, and without provocation, followed by blaming me for crying, screaming, hurting and bringing it on myself.
I needed help. We needed help. But he was vehemently opposed to seeing a therapist. I pleaded with him constantly about it because I didn’t feel I was capable of handling the situation. I didn’t feel strong enough. My patience was thin but I loved him enough to want to see a professional. He finally agreed once one of his frat brothers offered to give us counseling. After two hours of intense back and forth, screaming and tears, we took a break and my abuser went to the restroom. Our therapist, our counselor, his frat brother, then took the opportunity to grab me by my shoulders, look me right in the eyes and say sternly, “he will get worse and you need to leave him.” And he was absolutely correct…he did.
But I stayed for year after year of horrible treatment, heavy hands, and misery. I stayed but still wanted help. I attempted to talk to a few of his frat brothers to get some aid and was told, “Frat over facts.” A mutual friend tried to intervene as well and although he didn’t refute the abuse, he told him to go ask me what I did stating, “she’s not innocent!” I thought about that repeatedly. Did I contribute to my own abuse? Maybe I was a subpar girlfriend? Not supportive enough? Did I make him feel wanted? Did I add to his insecurity? Was I too intense? Too strong? Too boisterous?
Being bold and talking back made it easy for him to act like I may have done something to deserve the pain he was putting me through. People still struggle with seeing strong Black women as victims, especially if their abuser is as liked and popular as mine, with a large profile, affiliations with professional groups and promoters of popular touring parties, appearances on digital shows and other popular Youtube programs targeted towards the millennial Black voice. These are all platforms I used to prepare him for where he would receive praise for using principles of Black feminism to endear himself to Black women; that cultivated public image is then used specifically to undermine anyone who has a bad thing to say, including the one who helped him shape it. And though it’s been proven time and again that being well mannered or nice to you doesn’t mean the person could not be abusive to others, women like myself are still doubted or not supported.
I developed my own coping mechanisms as the abuse became more intense, frequent, and unforgiving. I avoided intimacy and found ways to be near him less and less, even going to events alone; the crowds serving as a security blanket, my demeanor around my friends immediately changing when he would arrive unexpectedly.
I tried to negotiate with him again, proposing that we start over and leave the past where it belonged, hoping beyond hope that if I took pressure off of him, forgave him for previous violations, promised NOT to do anything that made him angry, and rely on him less financially, we could make it. But no amount of compromise was sufficient: when your partner informs you they could NOT promise that they can no longer put their hands on you because you make them mad all the time, it’s clear that you will be bending over backwards until your spine cracks. It even extended to his regard for my personal safety outside of him: after a particularly traumatic incident where I was robbed at gunpoint my birthday weekend after he refused to drop me off at my doorstep, angrily driving me to the train instead, he repeatedly would leave doors unlocked and leave me paces behind, walking on dark streets. The level of disregard for my sense of fear and panic after my repeated requests to adhere to what I felt were basic accommodations, at that point, amounted to what I can only describe as intentional cruelty.
And I didn’t think I had many allies in this “fight” since he was (and is) so well loved and convinced me that I was disliked. From social media to events we would attend together, he’d be the life of the party and everyone’s friend, while I’d be in a corner, scowling like the “mean girl” I would easily be perceived as. I continue to feel there’s some proof of that with how some mutual “friends” currently interact with me on social media and were always careful to engage me publicly in pre-pandemic days while fully aware of the situation; extra cautious hugs and discreet conversations while still supporting him.
I was running out of options. After returning from an out-of-town gig, I made an appointment for a consultation with a plastic surgeon for a non-invasive rhinoplasty; my nose had appeared to shift to the left after the blows I had taken over the years. Luckily – if you can call it that – I was informed that it would heal on its own, but after a long, harsh & much needed lecture from the Upper East Side doctor, I had finally hit my limit and desperately needed an out…so I decided to just disappear. I stopped communicating and wouldn’t take his calls. I unfollowed him on social media. I wanted to move on. A terrifying move at first, but once the initial fear dissipated, I noticed how much better I started to feel. I was walking with a little bounce, smiling more, communicating with friends more, and professional opportunities were coming so frequently that I was turning gigs down. I started to feel like the person I was before I met him.
But there is no survivor handbook. Apologies and accountability — or lack thereof — to the side, I still blame myself for staying for years. This is a battle I have with myself every day and an argument that happens in almost every therapy session.
I finally took some steps and stood up for myself, and after multiple discussions, another one of his frat brothers — my cousin — was the one who brought me to a prosecutor’s office. I had left my abuser to save my life but needed him to be fully excised from it — digitally, physically, personally — and for the pain that I withstood to be acknowledged. He attempted to threaten me with defamation, demanding that I take down posts on social media including accounts I do not have any affiliation with. Much to his disappointment, he was instead arrested and charged with: 2 counts of assault in the third degree, 1 count of criminal obstruction of breathing or blood, aggravated harassment in second degree, attempted assault in the third degree, and harassment in the second degree. I was granted a restraining order while I handed over my journals and devices, and witnesses to confirm any corroborating details.
I would like to say that this is the happy ending of my story, but the court system doesn’t guarantee safety for the abused. COVID delayed the trial process, and his lawyers successfully argued that he was being denied his right to a speedy trial, granting him an ACD (an adjournment in contemplation of dismissal, where he will have the case dismissed if he doesn’t get so much as a speeding ticket in the next year.) Meanwhile, he has continued to carry on his life unfettered, letting our mutual social networks in the New York area and in the Entertainment industry portray me as the frenzied one who is unable to let go of a relationship gone wrong.
But now comes the process of healing, and being able to talk about it without breaking down. After losing mutual friends, having to block his female friends who decided to come for me on his behalf, weekly virtual therapy and 3 orders of protection later, I’m still triggered. Can’t watch certain television programs, I mute or block social media accounts who engage him, I will not say his name out loud, and nightmares have become more frequent. I even avoid certain events I put him onto and orgs I had him join because he threatened me last we spoke. I fear unexpected packages that come to my house because I have nightmares that there is a small possibility that they may be from him coming to taunt me. He’s my personal monster and a person who makes me sick at the sight of him.
Healing is like a slow death. I’m constantly missing the person I was before the abuse. She’s gone and I have to accept that. I also wish I could allow myself to heal properly instead of being so angry that this happened to me. No one tells you about the loneliness of it all; some will tip-toe around you, while others will be pushed away by your sensitivity and triggers. People don’t know how to help you so they avoid you altogether, and you end up feeling like a burden, wanting to talk about it but reluctant to put pressure on friends and family. There is no etiquette guide with abuse, PTSD and CPTSD.
To my fellow victims of abuse, young or old, bold or not…I hope healing comes to you slowly but steadily. Healthily! I wish you patience and grace with that I don’t have for myself yet. But working on it! And even knowing there may be some retaliation from my abuser he promised would come for speaking up and speaking out, I am simply hoping that this is the last journal entry that I ever have to write on the matter.
But if something happens to me after 12/02/2021 when my last order of protection expires…he did it.
Prayers up.
Mo.
The Story Of My Abuse 