Patti Pfeiffer

Her face buried in hands sobbing into the palms, the officer knelt on the floor below her. Looking up he asked the question which she too had asked herself so often, “Why have you stayed so long?”

Handing her the required document he asked her to sign, verifying she had received information regarding emergency shelters for domestic abuse victims. Through tear impaired vision she took the form and quickly signed, scratching through the identification below the signature line: “Victim.” She was no victim.

As the officer watched, a small smile emerged on his face witnessing her ink-marring action. “I saw what you did,” he merely said, seemingly understanding.

That was then. This is now. I’ve learned so much along the way. Before, I ignorantly stereotyped victims of domestic abuse. Yet my journey brought an education. Domestic abuse is unbiased to age, gender, race, religion, income, habits, addictions, location.

Like an avalanche, the stories kept rolling in. Grocery store, dental office, spa, sheriff’s office, while on walks — it seemed like no place, no location was off limits for complete strangers sharing their own stories with me. Some had it worse, others not so bad. They all had one thing in common: They came out better and happier for having gotten out. They’d overcome, healed, grown, thrived, and lived beyond.

I rented a moving truck only to discover my credit card was lost. When the woman at the truck rental counter explained they couldn’t take cash or a check, I lost it and broke down. Later in the day when I returned, the woman smiled at me saying I seemed much better. She shared, recalling how vividly the exact day she too rented a truck due to a divorce. She understood the awful feelings of uncertainty when leaving behind the former life and venturing into the unknown. She had been married for many years to a man who abused her, staying and taking it solely because he was a church deacon. As she shared, standing beside her was her current husband. He stood there praising her strength, courage and voicing the love and admiration he had for the woman he was lucky enough to have found and married.

My dear friend was married to high-profile physician, who from the first day of their marriage mentally and emotionally abused her, taking the pressure of his work out on her day in and day out to the point suicide often seemed like her best option. She has walked closely with me for several years giving love, comfort, wisdom, advice, shoulders to cry on, ears to burn, hugs, tissues, wine, and always offering a safe place to flee whenever danger invaded my home. I knew of her story as she bravely shared it early on in our friendship. While propping me up shortly after my husband was arrested for domestic abuse/physical assault, she said something I will never forget as it touched me so. “I always asked God why I had to go through all that. Walking beside and with you through this He provided the answer I always sought,” she said.

He was the most seemingly unlikely of all. Tall, dark, handsome, physically fit, an outdoorsman, hunter, fisherman and law enforcement officer. A criminal investigator. He shared like the others, bravely and unselfishly. Nightly he placed a water bottle above the bedroom door to serve as a warning of impending danger approaching — that his wife was coming to beat him. As I picked up evidence from the sheriff’s office, I was left speechless and humbled to have not only a man, but the investigator on my case, share such a personal and what many would perceive as embarrassing and humiliating — a grown man being beaten and abused by a woman.

Another dear friend was used as a punching bag by her raging alcoholic former husband who stalked her until finally, she escaped. Then there was the district attorney’s victim advocate who confided to me her own abuse story.

There are countless others going through the same thing, secretly wishing, and pushing on and willing us abuse victims beyond. And yes, we are victims. No one sets out to be abused, assaulted, mistreated. Most often we didn’t do anything wrong, other than trusting, loving, believing in another, hoping for change. The love proves we were raised right, believing how you treat others determines how you in return will be treated. It doesn’t always work that way, however. And we are easy targets as they look for and prey on those with a heart and belief like ours.

Growing up, my dad had a rock polisher. He would collect rough, rugged stones of every shape, color and size. The machine would start. Slowly it turned, around and around it would go. I would stand there gazing, listening, watching, and eagerly waiting for the magical moment when those ragged pieces that went in came out. One by one, Dad would extract them and showcase each one proudly for his daughter to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over. Polished. Smooth. Shiny. Nearly all perfect. And all unrecognizable from their original state.

I believe every experience we encounter, every ordeal we overcome, every tragedy we move beyond is a rock in our tumbler, smoothing us out, polishing us up, rounding out edges, making us into the unique gems we are were all created to be and destined to become.