Today marks exactly one year ago, I stepped on British soil with my then 12 week old son, having escaped *Steve, my abusive husband. It was bitter; cold and snowing. I had no coat, thin footwear and was hungry. My son however, was warm, snug and well fed. I was content with that.
We both had to sign for our son’s passport; something he took great pleasure in saying “Good luck with that”. He tormented me over and over again when he found out I needed his permission as well as him needing mine. I was mentally drained and in agony from being smacked about left, right and centre. Once we did get our son’s passport, the little sleep I did get, would literally be with one eye open! I couldn’t afford for Steve to be even more spiteful by taking the passports away. Almost home…
On March 8th, I had told Steve I wanted to bring all my belongings with me when I go. I knew I couldn’t bring my kittens at that time, but we were making arrangements (or so I thought) to have them sent to the UK, so would settle with bringing everything else. Of course he was having none of it. His exact haunting words were “No, because if I let you, you won’t come back to me”. Yep, he read my mind all right. I wasn’t coming back. I couldn’t allow my son to grow up in an environment like that, besides, this guy is my son’s father, but certainly did not act like one.
Our son was ten weeks old and was quite grumpy. Rather than pick him up to comfort him, or suggest we take him to see a pediatrician, Steve started to yell close to our son’s face about how he was unable to sleep because of the crying. I was shocked. I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed. Fearing for my son’s life, submitting myself to the ultimate selfless act, I wedged myself between our son and Steve and gave him a harrowing warning… “If you ever touch my son, I will kill you”. I was expecting him to hit me, try to strangle me, try suffocate me – something. I was thinking “By God, you’d better make sure I stay down, because if I get back up, you’ll be sorry”. That was the day he realised I was not going to take his crap when it came to my son, and anything he thought of doing to me – Bring. It. On. I’d had enough. He could see that. I saw the fear in his eyes. He grabbed his jacket and shoes and fled to the safety of the car, locking himself in. After all this time, acting like an alpha male, he was just a scared, little boy trapped in a man’s body (if you can call him a man!).
I remember when we woke on the morning of my day of Freedom, March 12th 2013. I had barely slept. Steve drove us to Atlanta airport. (Due to the UK being five hours ahead, I arrived the next day). The journey was an eerie one, but there was no arguing. In fact, there was mainly silence – something I welcomed. When he did talk, he spoke of how he was going to miss us and how lost he was going to be without me. It was only now, he’d ask how my knee was. I suppose he wanted me to think he had changed, like so many times before, not to mention he knew I had a good following in the UK. If my family and friends caught wind of what was going on, and got their hands on him, he knew they’d probably rip him a new butt hole! I told him my knee was fine. It was killing me. I was in so much pain, but there was no way I was going to miss my flight and stay there with this crazy man.
With suitcases checked in, Steve could go no further. Thank God. I just wanted him to go away forever. I played along with him. We hugged. He held me tight and broke down, almost wailing like a new born baby. He told me he loved me. I tried my best not only to say it back, but to say it convincingly. It was hard, but I think I pulled it off. Who cares anyway? My son and I were almost on board our Freedom Ride! We parted. He pulled me back telling me he didn’t want us to go; he didn’t want me to go. He loved me too much. I planted ‘The Kiss Of Judas’ on his cheek. I hated him. He cried some more. This time I joined in too. Not because I was going to miss him, but because they were tears of joy. I had waited for what felt like a lifetime for this moment. My Freedom!
“Free At Last. Free At Last. Thank God Almighty, I’m Free At Last.” ~ Martin Luther King Jr.
(*Not his real name)
Blog of a Mad Black Woman 