Dear Diary: Domestic Violence Shelters are Triggering, and I Lost My Baby

Trigger Warning: Pregnancy Loss, Divorce, Substance Abuse, Hospitals, Domestic Violence, Adultery

Baby Nursery

Dear Diary -

It's been a while since I've written anything - a page in a book, an article, a blog post, or even a poem. My husband of nearly eight years admitted to falling out of love with me back in October. He said he hadn't loved me for years, regardless of the fact that he told me otherwise the entire time. He had been cheating for quite some time and resented me for my fertility issues. He had a girlfriend before he even moved out of the apartment we shared, the home I worked so hard to create for us. I begged him to stay, in spite of the fact that he had never been fully kind or loving to me in our relationship. The constant gaslighting, ridiculing, frustrations, resentment, financial control, it all became so tiring. In spite of his lack of affection and concern, my world revolved around him. When he left, I felt lost and broken. He looked me in my eye and told me I wasn't good enough. Said "who knows, maybe in a few years I'll realize I made a mistake."

A month later, I thought I was healing - I fell into a new relationship. This man was handsome, passionate, funny, and I felt invigorated by the honeymoon phase. These rose-colored lenses made me look past the intense alcoholism. I ignored the angry outbursts that made me nervous, and the self-harm. I ignored the restraining order from his recent ex-girlfriend and ignored the fact that his job let him go, and that he didn't quite feel the need to begin looking for another. None of these things mattered to me because I could see his heart, and his desire to be good. I've always been one to ignore the red flags and warning signs and look straight into someone's soul, I see their innate goodness and purity, the innocence that still exists behind their pain. I love quickly and desperately, and this man was no different. I didn't care that his anger and substance abuse problems triggered my anxiety and PTSD, I loved him, and he loved me.

I started drinking, though. I have never liked being drunk, but I was drinking heavily and constantly. I found myself collapsing on the floor, sobbing. I found myself unable to stay awake or care about things anymore. I was trying other substances and began to realize the rabbit hole I was entering. I didn't care, though. When they say misery loves company, they mean it. I was miserable, and so was he - we were blissfully miserable together.

Then I got pregnant.

I was told since I was 19 years old that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for me to get pregnant. It was a point of contention and heartache in my marriage, and I had come to accept this loss as my marriage ended. Then, it happened - I was in the emergency room for bleeding and pain, and they told me I was pregnant. I was equally elated and terrified. I told my boyfriend, and we became excited as we decided to keep the little miracle.

We were still sick, though, and I became sicker.

I began to suffer from an incredible amount of pain and experienced a severe case of hyperemesis gravidarum. I desperately needed to be taken care of, but my boyfriend simply wasn't capable. All he could do was drink, smoke, yell, and sleep. He wouldn't yell at me, just to clarify - he would yell at himself, or simply at the world. This is a man, as beautiful as he was to his core, that was in a world of incredible pain. He couldn't see past his own suffering. I went ten days where all I ate was a banana, half a piece of white bread, and a few sips of water. I was so, so incredibly sick. I couldn't do anything but vomit and pray to sleep for longer than a couple of hours.

I was ready to die, I had accepted it and craved it.

My friend, the sibling of a mentor I had met when I was in foster care, came and took me to the hospital. I was delirious, I couldn't do anything but cry and vomit. I was hooked up to IVs and given medicine and ice chips. I had to be slowly introduced back to food, starting with liquids. It was miserable. In my state of duress, I was convinced to sign a piece of paper stating that my friend could enter my apartment and take my animals out of the situation. As the days went by and I was discharged from the hospital, I hadn't been on my psych meds for nearly a month and still didn't have any solid foods in my stomach. I was weak. I didn't go back home. My friend decided not to give me my animals back. They decided I couldn't get dressed on my own, didn't know how to eat properly, wasn't capable of making my own decisions. Because of this, they convinced me of a decision I will never forgive myself for being too weak to decide against - the decision to terminate my pregnancy.

I'll never forget the pain, both physical and emotional. I'll never not miss the feeling of knowing life was growing inside of me, after being told it wasn't a possibility. I'll never forget seeing the child in my ultrasound. I'll never forget that I wanted to make their room Winnie the Pooh themed, or that I was probably going to have a girl. I knew it would have been difficult, but remembering how much I wanted to be a mother my whole life simply made me believe that I could do it no matter what. It wasn't in my cards anymore. With each day that I bled after the procedure, I cried out in guilt and shame. I wasn't strong enough to protect my baby, or myself. I signed the papers. I let it happen. When I was finally able to use my brain again, I obsessed over the fact that I no longer had my baby. I can't believe I allowed myself to be so easily convinced that this was the only wise decision. I tried to convince myself constantly that it was what I wanted, but I couldn't fool myself, no matter how hard I tried.

In the midst of all of this, I wasn't allowed to speak to my boyfriend. I was being told to get a restraining order, to not have any direct contact. I was told he was abusive, that he was a monster. As I was being told these things, I was also trying to convince myself of them.

He wasn't a monster, though. He was a human being, suffering and lost, and I loved him. I missed him. Maybe he was abusive, but it wasn't out of malicious intent. It was out of his inability to function normally, his need to self-medicate. He couldn't handle the weight of how life had treated him. Everyone said I was making excuses, and maybe I was, but just as I needed someone to not give up on me, I wouldn't give up on him. I couldn't accept that our relationship was going to end, especially for things that were out of his control.

I still went to a domestic violence shelter.

I was hesitant. However, it has been the best decision of my life so far. I hadn't realized how much I've been suffering, not just lately but for the past eight years with my husband as well. All of the sudden, I had resources, and I wasn't alone. I also had support for making my own decisions, not people telling me that one decision was better than the other. The DV manager knows that I haven't given up on my boyfriend, and she simply advises me to be cautious and to put myself first (for once). My boyfriend is investigating the possibility of rehab, and knows he's broken. He doesn't want to see me, to see us, suffer in this way again. I don't either. I'm hoping, praying, and begging the universe to allow me to finally begin to have a life I don't have to worry about losing again. I've lost everything more than once, I'm desperate to not have to lose it all once again.

DV shelters are triggering. Luckily, I'm in an extension of the shelter, so I'm not at the primary location. The primary shelter would have been a big house full of rooms filled with different broken women and children - sound familiar? I'm thankful they were able to help me in a different way, as I'm almost positive being in that sort of environment again would have been the straw that broke the camel's back. My dog is with me, thanks to the DV program manager convincing my friend to let me have her with me. My cats, however, I'm missing terribly. I hope with all of my heart we are reunited when I begin to build my life back up.

I lost my baby. I'm not going to be able to forgive myself or show myself grace anytime soon, unfortunately. I had never felt so weak and small.

This diary entry is one of grief and loss, and I suppose hope. Although, the hope is followed by fear of more loss.

I guess I'm another statistic. According to Montclair State University, approximately 21% of emancipated foster youth wer

e in a violent relationship. Hopefully I can make my way into a more positive statistic in the coming days, months, and years.

And throughout everything that has happened since October, I still just want my mom.