I’m A Strong, Woke As F*ck Woman and That Didn’t Stop Me From Being a Victim of Domestic Violence

He never hit me.

He pinched me. He pushed me. He grappled with me over my phone if I tried to call for help.

Every time I approached him after he sobered up, he’d roll his eyes and say, “You act like I hit you.”

I’d check myself. Did I act like that? Was I overreacting?

I must have been. He was right—he left no marks on my skin.

And, after all, women like me don’t get abused. We’re feminists that fight the patriarchy with all we’ve got. We knit pussy hats and drink wine. We lament about unwanted backrubs from middle-aged bosses that are just safe enough to not report to HR. We donate to Planned Parenthood.

We aren’t victims. We’re woke as fuck. We’re strong. Empowered. Educated.

Women like me, we thrive in the liberal bubble of academia. There’s no room for domestic violence when your master’s degree is hanging on the wall.

Women like me watch abused women on TV, covering their black eyes with dark glasses and crying in broken down motel rooms. We see young girls held prisoner by older men that take advantage of their naiveté. We read stories of domestic violence, often through the eyes of women of color, trapped in social dynamics that allow them to be victimized. We sympathize. We discuss vulnerable populations at our book clubs or on our forums or on Facebook.

But it doesn’t happen to us, the privileged and educated and aware women.

It wasn’t happening to me.

And, as I planned my exit strategy, I wasn’t a victim. Victims don’t strategize, right? I was just unhappy. Too focused on my career to tend to my marriage. It was my fault that it hadn’t worked. It was my fault that he was never sober anymore — I was always writing instead of being a good wife. I had no time for him with my full-time marketing job and travel and this excuse and that excuse. I used these excuses to avoid him and also to avoid my friends, because I just couldn’t bear for them to see the changes in me. I thought if they saw me, they’d know.

They’d know that I was failing. I was failing to please. Failing to keep my husband.

Empowered, woke as fuck women don’t fail. Not us. Not me.

The exit strategy formed in a hotel room in Vancouver. First, I called a therapist. I told her I wanted to work on self-esteem problems. I didn’t tell her I was filing for divorce as soon as I arrived home. After all, my self-esteem problems were contributing to his ability to love me. Right? Okay. Next, a to-do list. I googled a divorce flowchart for the state of Colorado. I’d file paperwork. Refinance my house. Get my name back. Claim my life as my own.

Finally, a breakdown.

I had to reclaim a life that I didn’t want for myself.

A life where I lived in the before and after of domestic abuse.

I wasn’t even thirty. I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t planned for this. It wasn’t part of my structured, 5-year-goal list. How could I tell people? What would I tell my friends? My family? My future relationships?

How could I tell people that I was the victim of domestic violence?

I slowly dispersed the news of my divorce, barely giving details. I proudly held my head up during the day. I cut my hair. I worked on my consulting, volunteered at a non-profit, began renting out my property.

Bouncing back seemed easy on the outside.

But as it all unraveled, I fell far from the ideal feminist and cool girl I pretended to be. I barely held on through the panic attacks from PTSD. I was passively suicidal, hoping for a plane crash during every work trip I went on. I was, for the first time in my life, afraid of men. Afraid of the smell of booze on their breath. Afraid of being alone with them.

My friends suggested I eat, pray and love.

I never had the guts to say that eating, praying and loving don’t solve the pain that domestic abuse victims feel.

They didn’t see me as a victim, though.

Because I didn’t let them.

Sometimes, I wish I had.

I wish I had been truthful. It wouldn’t have stopped what happened to me, but it might have helped other woke as fuck, empowered women to understand that they could be victims. That if they were victims, they were not alone. That domestic violence can cross all boundaries of education and empowerment and privilege.

I didn’t say it then, so I’ll say it now.

I am the victim of domestic violence. I married a man that I loved and he abused me. I was vulnerable and I was hurt. I live with the trauma and it has changed me forever.

And no, he never hit me.