Illustration By Christina Wolff / Staff
By Anahy J. Gutierrez
A Perspective
“He is 15 years old,” said the cop, dismissively. “Did you really think he was looking for a serious relationship?”
My attempt to report my abusive ex-boyfriend did not go well. The silence after that question was louder than all the thoughts careening in my mind. Maybe they did not hear me correctly. Maybe they misinterpreted my words.
Reality did not follow the script of my hopes.
“Well then, how can we file a restraining order?” asked my Dad.
My high school counselor extinguished my last bit of hope.
“Oh I would not recommend doing that,” he said. “Police take too long to respond or do anything about it.”
I felt I was being treated like a toddler whining about a little pinch to the arm. To the grownups it was just a stupid relationship between two little kids.
I told them about the times he slapped me, kicked me, put his hands around my throat and pulled me by the hair. I never told them about the sexual abuse because I was ashamed. If they handled my report of physical abuse this way, my heart cannot help but break at the thought of my 15-year-old self also being blamed for the sexual abuse.
The school dean had my Dad and I sign a contract which stated I could not enter a room if my abuser was already there and vice versa. My abuser’s family was given the same contract.
After all he did to me, they expected me to keep out of his way, too.
I wish I could say this travesty of justice stopped there. It was the beginning of the pandemic when performative activism was the newest internet trend. I was scrolling Instagram when I came across a “friend’s” story.
“If I follow your abuser, message me and I will unfollow them,” it read. “No questions asked.”
“But he’s your best friend,” I replied.
The following words are seared into my memory.
“Are you out for revenge or something? I don’t want to ruin both friendships and I have nothing to do with this.”
I was angry for a long time. How could someone take an abuser’s side? Why would anyone ever do that? Why would you post such a thing so dismissive of the victim? These are questions I have asked myself every day. There are no answers. I cannot blame anyone for believing his lies because I fell for them, too.
Anger is a raging storm that destroys my heart’s beautiful garden of kindness, love and compassion. I am no longer angry, I am compassionate. I wish him empathy. I hope he can stop the cycle of violence and injustice. Nothing can erase what he did, but my wish is that he has changed.
It took me years to accept that not everyone is living in the past the way I must. I still flinch at sudden movements or sounds. I have nightmares and flashbacks. I cannot distinguish the difference between my intuition and my hypervigilance. Every person I meet is guilty of betrayal until they prove their innocence.
I have lost count of the times I heard, “Why didn’t you just leave?” or “I would never let somebody treat me that way.”
Were it that simple. Abusers are masters of manipulation. They know how you will feel and what you will do before you even know yourself. You are blinded to reality with a false sense of security that they will safely guide you. If they tell you the sky is purple, you will believe it, even if you see the blue sky with your own lying eyes.
None of us know how we would react to abuse until it happens. I hope none of you find out.
That relationship was the most traumatic experience of my life, yet no one knew. No one seemed to believe I had suffered because I still had straight As and a smile painted across my face. I recall a family member saying, “You look happy” with a huge smile on their face, confirmation that I hid the abuse well.
We were only 15 but my abuser knew what he was doing. He isolated me from my friends and family, ruined my self-esteem and scarred me emotionally. He would threaten to kill me and my family. He asked terrifying questions like “What would you do if I threw your dog against the wall?” while laughing sadistically. His age is no excuse. We must not normalize violence and savage behavior just because “he is a teenage boy.”
Reporting him to school officials was terrifying because I had no physical evidence. His words and actions linger in my memory and that is evidence enough.
I still wonder if the adults who failed me at my high school would feel remorseful if they found out I was diagnosed with PTSD? Would that finally make them take me seriously?
My abusive relationship was not me tattling, it was a cry for help. I was ignored.
Domestic violence victims are too often ignored. Particularly teenage victims.
I am sharing this story in hopes that other people will share theirs. This story is a seed I am planting in my community. It will grow into hope, knowledge, and compassion that I will forever water by helping those with stories like mine.
