Abuse survivor has message to share: ‘You’re not alone’

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 29/04/2020 (2020 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I opened my email Saturday morning and saw a message from a friend.

That’s not remarkable — the COVID-19 pandemic has resulted in a lot of old friends reaching out.

That wasn’t why she was messaging me, though.

“I read your piece today,” she wrote. “And there’s some things you need to add.”

I wrote a column Saturday about how domestic violence is on the rise during the COVID-19 pandemic, affecting Indigenous women and children in particular.

My friend is a renowned, nationally known Indigenous activist. For purposes that will become evident, I’m not using her name. I’ll call her Elizabeth.

I haven’t seen Elizabeth for a long time but I do keep track of her on social media. She is strong, proud and advocates for Indigenous communities on issues ranging from pipelines to policies. She has won awards and works both in cities and on First Nations. She is also a single mother who works hard and puts her kids first.

She has overcome a lot of trauma in her life. Like many of us, she grew up poor, struggling and surrounded by legacies from residential school and the Indian Act. As a result, she endured violence at home, in relationships and throughout her life.

Her first marriage ended two decades ago after her husband physically abused her.

“Abuse doesn’t end with the assault though. That’s what you have to tell people,” she says.

She described to me the constant sense of isolation, shame and fear that comes from spousal violence. The hiding.

“You just want to not care, not think, not feel ashamed and guilty anymore. You convince yourself everything is going to be OK. For the kids, for yourself, even for him. But, it’s not OK. It’s never OK.”

Eventually, with help from her family, she left that relationship — a process she says “took years.” She rebuilt herself and her life.

Then, one night last summer, a man she had just started to date assaulted her at a large gathering.

“There was no indication beforehand of an impending attack or even that he was angry,” she tells me. He accused her of “flirting.”

She doesn’t remember much else after that.

“As I came to, I realized I was bleeding and my face was a bloody bashed mess. People heard what he was doing to me in the next room and no one stopped it.”

She didn’t call police until weeks later. I asked her why.

“Do I have to tell you how Indigenous women are treated by cops? You’re asked about your history, as if that has anything to do with it. You’re told you don’t really know what happened. You’re told you started it. No one believes you.”

She eventually did charge the man and found out he had a long history of violence — and people around her knew, but no one warned her.

She was accessing counselling until the COVID-19 pandemic began. Now, those services are full or redirected to women currently escaping abusive relationships.

She’s been told she’s not at risk, so “there is nothing left for those outside of shelters” beyond overworked crisis call lines and emergency rooms.

She has lingering headaches, flashbacks and emotional triggers.

“How many times has anyone walked away from a deadly assault and been able to be normal?” Elizabeth asks me. “Your body heals but your soul doesn’t.”

Now he’s been charged but police are using the pandemic to say they are “overstretched” and “have no place to put him” if he gets arrested.

“He’s free. It’s like they’re waiting for him to kill someone first.”

She fears for her family’s safety and is being stalked online, so she has moved to a secret location.

She still speaks online though, and is teaching her children at home like everyone else — trying to live as normal a life as possible. I had no idea what she’s been going through.

“Abuse leaves the burden on the victim and the world is stacked against those who speak up about it throughout society and social programs. We are left with a feeling like we don’t matter, no one cares, and nothing will ever help. It’s a lonely existence.”

All of this has grown worse during the COVID-19 pandemic. There are fewer services, less assistance, and fewer outlets to safety.

“There are people who care and support but it takes all the courage a broken woman can muster just to see that she is her only hope for salvation,” Elizabeth tells me.

I asked her what she could tell someone in an abusive relationship today.

“Once you make the choice to live, a whole new world opens up,” she says. “You’re not alone, regardless of this stupid pandemic.”

If you see, hear or know of abuse, report it. If possible, help those affected. The 24-hour provincial Domestic Violence Help Line is 1-877-977-0007. The phone number for the Kids Help Phone is 1-800-668-6868.

niigaan.sinclair@freepress.mb.ca