It Ends With Us

One of my old besties suggested I start journaling when I get overwhelmed by the emotions arising from sharing parts of my story with every person I reconnect with. This is my first entry.

It’s a Saturday. I spent most of the day conducting research for my thesis, which I’m excited about now that it’s coming together. Getting my degrees and license saved my life and gave me hope. Earlier, I stopped to cut my hair during a small hurricane in Coral Gables. God, I missed the rain. I could stand in it all day. A crazy Cuban woman ignored my request to only cut my ends and I now look like a wannabe Sabrina Carpenter. Luckily, my hair grows fast so it should correct itself in the next few months. Maybe, I’ll retreat into hermit mode until then.

My lovely friend, Bertha, suggested I watch a movie called, It Ends With Us, though she later said maybe it would not be a good idea. I had heard of it in passing so I looked it up tonight. After all, watching Sleeping With the Enemy helped start me on my road to surviving him. I just watched the trailer. It looks heartwrenching and sadly beautiful. It also really got to me.

I hate that I immediately began to cry as I thought of my own experience with DV. I stopped myself, realizing I’m at the point in my life where I’m on the good side of the trailer when the girl starts to become a survivor. I just spent last night with two friends I have a lot of love and respect for who were amazingly supportive. The hug with her friend in the trailer reminded me of last night with my girls. Miami is home. It sweetly welcomes me daily with memories of my past and faces forever engraved in my heart.

Miami has been a daily time travel trip back to the 80’s and 90’s. I’m overwhelmed with nostalgia. Every street and corner represents a first time, a face, or distant memory. I spent the first year after I left my ex-husband healing through therapy and a focus on the career I began to build quietly while I planned my escape. Now that a year and a half have passed, I ended up relocating to the city where I grew up, where the version of family I built awaited and new like minded friends gave me a home. I feel like I am coming back to life more with every passing week as the stronger version of me that grew up here guides me back to the things I loved. I just called my dad asking for my old camera back. Little Havana calls for my lens and tiny coffee shops beckon with promises of interesting characters in guayaberas.

I want to stop shying away from recounting my story. I promised myself now that I have moved on from him, I will be stronger about not contributing to the stigma where we are all continually shamed into silence. This wasn’t my fault. This wasn’t hers. This wasn’t my friend’s daughter’s fault. This wasn’t any victim’s fault. If we don’t stop questioning and invalidating victims, there will continue to be an epidemic where women get killed daily. Gabby Petito died because untrained police judged her natural human reaction to abuse, while they ignored the cold and unfeeling smirk on her fiance's face. Her story helped save my life as I filed for divorce the month after they found her body. How easily could that have been me?

I’m starting to feel like I not only need to take control of my narrative back but I need to find my voice around this issue. I’ve decided I’m going to advocate for DV victims on the side. I’m going to begin with this blog journal and start using photography to tell my story. I will eventually follow this with a social media account, website, and advocacy campaign. I am done walking on eggshells, being controlled and silenced. I will watch the film my friend recommended and build a stronger shell. I refuse to be defined by what he did to me. I’m not a victim. I’m a proud survivor. As the title of the movie so eloquently states, This Ends With Us.