Recollections of a Battered Man: "The truth I knew beyond any doubt, took a battering worse than the blows to my body."
I awoke in the night out of blessed sleep to the depressing consciousness of the pain. The dream I could see was really just a nightmare, and the nightmare was really just a memory of things I wish I had forgotten, things I wish I had never known. The dream you see is not my sleep, but my life, and the sleep is the real me who is free.
It wasn't always so. There was a brighter time, and not so long ago, but then came the abandonment, the loss of hope, the cataclysmic disaster, and the cruelty without end.
Into the dark and unfriendly ocean of forsakenness my spirit sank in despair as my shattered life lay before my eyes like a horror too incomprehensible to understand. I clung to the truth like a ship wreck survivor, hanging to a small piece of floating wreckage. Time and life itself dissolved into meaningless existence, each day worse than the last, as the shell of my former self occupied my days, my space, my roles, with what it was I was supposed to be.
Like a cripple mugged by thugs I lay in the stillness of my powerlessness and prayed to be whole again. In a world where men get tough or die I now just walked on the torn cartilage in my knee, that didn't heal, and denied the pain, because the lies I'd seen were the real injury to me.
How could they tell me, what happened to me didn't, and that things that happened to me, I really did to someone else, when I didn't? What kind of people are these who say they care about domestic violence, but don't care about me?
If lies can wound then truth may heal, but the salve of justice is denied to men so the innocent wait, while the evil steal from them.
It was just by chance I found a place as I searched for others who knew. Like a hand reaching out to me from a rescuing ship, the words reached out to me with the hope that couldn't be found on any formally funded domestic violence site. I had found a friend, and was reassured to see the acknowledgment that a man could be a victim of domestic violence too.
"It isn't what you know that harms you," read the message, "It's what you know that just isn't so that really puts a hurtin' on. you." I can't tell you fully to this day what a blessing those gracious words were to me as I peered out from the abyss of my battered, bruised and betrayed life. I saw the words "Battered Men," and then said, "That's me, I'm not alone. I'm not alone."
I've struggled to heal from the deep, deep pain of betrayal, cruelty, and inhumanity that I've experienced at the hands of America's evil domestic violence system. The denial of my victimization haunts my memories, even still, with a terror that is never far from my thoughts. How could this have happened to me?
The trust and safeness I once felt for a system of government and laws in America is long gone, and replacing it is a constant bitter taste born out of "the denial of me" by those lechers controlling shelters of refuge, safety and justice. With a full understanding of their misandrist corruptness, I now go on, knowing that it will never be like before in my life, and that I will never have an inkling of confidence in that corrupt, evil system as it exists today.. To this day, that system remains so entrenched in the deceit of domestic violence law, that it cannot see valid victims of domestic violence, just because they're male.
