Trapped

Some people have the strength to believe in things that are near impossible. They beg and pray and hope and wish until they’re so exhausted they can longer see straight. They have enough faith to get them through whatever tragic event that comes their way, even near-death experiences. They ooze with confidence and joy at all times and never let anything get to them or bring them down. Those same people walk around with their heads held high and their tongues heavy with words of importance.

Those people I envy greatly.

People like me; we’re different. We don’t walk around believing everything is going to be okay. We try, but something always happens to prevent us from being able to hold onto what little faith we possess. Girls like me—even guys in my situation—get the faith beat out of us. We try to be strong, but each and every slap, every hit, and every push just makes us weaker. People like me are what you could call fragile. We walk around with our heads down and constantly look over shoulders to make sure no one is behind us. Call us weak. Call us cowards. Call us what you want. Nothing you say or do will help us in any way. Nothing will change the fact that most of us go home to physical or mental abuse every day.

My name is Kymberlin Anita Sanders Stevens, and I am in an abusive relationship. The guy’s name is Taylor James Braun, or just TJ to his friends, He seemed nice enough when we first got together, but after a month or two, his true colors started showing. His temper would flare at the smallest of things and I would find myself being backslapped to the floor. It was so scary. . . To this very day I still get scared when TJ gets mad. Three years filled with the same ol routine and I still didn’t know what to expect when I’m “home.”

The abuse started out small. He would call me names, tell me I was stupid, or scream swear words at me. The abusive words became violent shoves that hurt me almost as much as the degrading comments. The pushes were just the beginning of the physical abuse. Next came the occasional slap or two that really gave me a shock. The slaps upgraded to punches in no time, followed by forceful kisses. Along with the abuse came the controlling attitude. The more I got hit, the less I saw of my friends.

My world had become one big, scary nightmare in such a short time. All my dreams, my desires, my beliefs . . . everything was gone. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t move—I couldn’t do anything without fearing that someone was going to hit me. When someone moved, spoke loud, or got mad, I found myself involuntarily flinching. I was a nervous wreck and absolutely hated everything I had become.

Despite having the shit beat out of me all the time, there was still a part of my old self—the old me—begging to come out. It was that part of me—the remains of who I once was—that begged, kicked, and pleaded for me to get some help. The new me—the cowardly victim—refused to do anything. Why; because I was scared. TJ knows a lot of people, and if I got him in trouble, I would have to worry about not only him but his friends too. I was completely screwed either way.

It’s not like I have anybody to help me, anyway.

In a world so full of people, I’ve never felt so alone. My friends and family had given up on me long ago when I was forbidden to speak to any of them. TJ even let my dog, my baby—the only one I had left to talk to—outside, where she ran away from this hellhole. I had never experienced the true meaning of “alone” until I found myself in an abusive relationship.

I was nobody longing to be somebody. I longed for someone to love me; to know what it felt like to be embraced by a man that truly cared for me. I wanted to be touched, held, and loved by someone with nothing but passion.

None of that would ever happen, though. No one wanted me. No one loved me—not even TJ.

My life was screwed up beyond repair. Nothing was going to get me out of this situation. No one was going to step out of their perfect little world to help me. I was nobody with very little faith and that’s how it would be until God decided to take pity on me and end my life.

I don’t even know how I’ve lasted this long. Nothing is keeping me going. I refuse to watch TV, or even turn it on for noise for that matter, because I don’t want to hear people complain about their lives or some nonsense like that. The radio just wasn’t an option. Any kind of music makes me think of my brother—the very brother who left me to pursue his dreams. My brother was my hero growing up. I admired him greatly—that is until he left me to become a big Rockstar.

I highly doubt my job as a waitress was keeping me going, either. Working at the restaurant was not fun. I wasn’t one for socializing and all the other employees at the family-owned restaurant were. I didn’t say much to any of them, especially the girls who were all much prettier than me. I talked to Jerry, the owner of the place, but mainly because I had to. I would smile at customers and say the typical things a waitress would say, and then, I’d scamper away to the back at the end of the day and go “home” to another beating. My life was a never ending cycle and I hated it.

I would have ended my life long ago if it wasn’t for the simple fact that I was too cowardly to do it. I didn’t have the guts to do it. I couldn’t kill myself. I was too scared of what would happen. I wasn’t good enough to go to Heaven, and I was already in Hell, so there was no point in attempting suicide.

I, Kymberlin Anita Sanders Stevens, am a pathetic, hopeless, little cowardly reject that deserved nothing but the daily beatings I received.