Parenting
The Mississippi Cap Concealed the Pain
by Rachel E. Bledsoe
Oct. 6, 2016
During my first year of college, I slipped quietly into a middle seat in a crowded classroom. As I stared down at my blank notebook, I started jotting down notes about geology — a subject I clearly didn’t grasp well enough to recall. My unkempt ponytail was hidden under a dirty white baseball cap, emblazoned with bright red letters that proclaimed my loyalty to Ole Miss. But I wasn’t in Mississippi; I was about 10 hours away, in a university in West Virginia.
The night before, my then-husband had been furious. He was often enraged, ready to unleash his anger on me in any way he could. I still recall the first time he inflicted pain on me. A remote control struck my forehead; I didn’t cry from the physical pain but from the feeling of betrayal. My earliest memory of violence dates back to when I was only 5 years old, and I thought I had escaped that life, only to find myself trapped in a different hell.
After the remote incident, a troubling cycle began: violence, apologies, and then a brief calm, only to be followed by another outburst. Each painful episode came with promises like, “I didn’t mean to,” or “You make me so angry.” He would claim that if I didn’t upset him, he wouldn’t lose control.
As my first semester began, he was furious about my economics class — not our finances, but the fact that I was in a large lecture hall. He accused me of being unfaithful, yelling that I was a whore and a slut. I dropped the class. I continued to work full-time to support us, believing that education would pave the way to a better life. We married on New Year’s Eve in 1999, with the honeymoon suite even preparing for a potential Y2K disaster, suggesting we not use the fireplace for cooking.
Our honeymoon lasted just two days. When we returned home, his rage quickly resurfaced. One cold March evening, shortly after my 19th birthday, everything I did felt wrong. He needed more money; my tips from the café weren’t sufficient. I had picked up Wendy’s for dinner on my way home, but when I arrived, the fries had gone cold during the long drive.
In a fit of anger, he threw the fries in my face. “You should have known they’d be cold!” he shouted. Words turned into shoves, and soon, a fist connected with my eye, leaving me in darkness. I feared I was bleeding; I felt the pressure but saw no blood, just the aftermath of broken capillaries.
Pinned between him and our oversized green armchair, he swung again, hitting my other eye. I wanted to scream for help but knew there was none. He grabbed my hair, and as I fought to shield my face, I managed to break free, leaving him with a handful of my hair. I dashed for our landline, but he yanked the phone from the wall before I could call for assistance. After a flurry of yelling and hitting, he stormed out, taking my keys with him.
Fortunately, I had a spare key hidden away for emergencies. I knew he wouldn’t return that night; he was too angry. At 4 a.m., I covered my bruised eyes with makeup — Clinique concealer, foundation, and loose powder. I added a hint of blush in a futile attempt to disguise my injuries. I donned my Ole Miss cap, pulling the brim low to hide my face as I drove to class, ashamed and desperate to avoid questions about my appearance.
Sitting in that classroom, I reflected on the previous night and decided I couldn’t go back. I was three months pregnant; I couldn’t protect myself, much less a child. I called my parents, knowing I could stay under the radar at their house. I’d learned to be cautious and avoid confrontation. I filed for a restraining order and divorce, returning with police assistance to retrieve my belongings. Tragically, my child didn’t survive the turmoil; I lost the heartbeat after the last fight.
I never wore that Ole Miss cap again.
It took me 15 years to find the courage to write this. I spoke briefly with a domestic violence counselor, and later, I shared these painful memories with my current husband. Now, as October marks Domestic Violence Awareness Month, I hope that by sharing my story, someone else will find the strength to leave an abusive relationship. Love should never hurt. True love is patient and kind. If you or someone you know is facing domestic violence, please seek help.
For more information on healthy relationships and resources, check out this excellent guide on pregnancy and home insemination. If you’re on a journey toward parenthood, explore couples’ fertility journeys with this authority on the topic to find support. You can also read about another important perspective that may resonate with your own experiences.
Summary:
In her poignant narrative, Rachel reflects on her traumatic college experience, marked by domestic violence and the struggle for self-identity. Despite the pain, she emerges with a message of hope and resilience, encouraging others to seek help and recognize the true nature of love.