Kerry D.

Photography by Ally Szabo

If you're reading this, I hear your silence.

When I first wrote this letter it was sophomore year, since then I've withdrawn and rewrote it a few times. I couldn’t get the words right, I still can’t. 

I have always been fairly quiet, I don't like conflict much. 

Ever since I can remember I found it difficult to speak up. I never wanted to feel like a burden or cause unnecessary issues. This ranged from correcting an order that was wrong at a restaurant to not sharing the things I was struggling with. That includes several years of abuse. When I was 16 I had my first boyfriend, I also had no clue what was healthy or not in a relationship. The small things like jealousy turned into what I could and couldn’t wear, who I could hang out with, how much makeup I could put on. There was a need to constantly show where I was, who I was with, what I was doing; to share every second of my life. He erased every aspect of who I was until I couldn't recognize myself in the mirror. And yet I stayed. 

I think a lot of us like to hope things will go back to how they were or get better, especially when we know what something is like when it's good. That was my mindset a lot of the time, and when the verbal assaults and death threats began I was too scared to speak up. It was more out of the fear of being judged by those around me. How do you tell someone your boyfriend wants you dead? I didn’t know how to believe the idea myself, that someone I once felt safe with was now my greatest threat. “How would they understand? They would blame me partially for letting it get to this point.” There didn't seem like a way out, so I stayed. 

There’s a lot we don’t learn about abuse. It might be closer than you think. It’s easy to hide when there’s not always bruises or scars to show. Emotional abuse doesn’t leave physical proof, it doesn’t require makeup or baggy clothes to cover up. The threat to end your life isn’t etched in your skin for someone else to read. It does leave a dent in your life. There is one thing that I have learned, and it is that there is no one way to heal or process traumatic events. There is no right or wrong way to handle a situation. A letter can’t do my story justice, but it can speak for me when my voice is silent. 

Kerry D., Villanova University

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