No one knew what I was going through, but I thought they knew. How could they not have known? They could think, could they not? How could they not have seen? They had eyes, didn’t they? But who would have believed that the son of a bank vice president, whose family were members of the country club, could possibly be abusive? I doubt that very few in our little town would have considered that a remote possibility. Regardless of what the townspeople would or would not have believed, however, I went to school with a black eye and bruises more than once, though perhaps the black wasn’t black enough, as I carefully concealed the dark shadows with makeup, and perhaps the bruises were not prominent enough, as I did my best to keep them well hidden from sight. No teacher questioned me, nor did my friends, other than to say something jokingly like, “What happened, did you run into a door?” But the life I was living was no joke. I was scared and confused, and as time passed, I became paranoid and defensive, like my abuser.
No one heard the degrading words used or the threats made against me and my family if I were ever to leave my abuser. No one seemed to know anything, but there were plenty who encouraged me to stay with my abusive boyfriend. “You two were meant for each other,” I heard often, or “He really loves you, you know.” There was even one comment of, “You’ve got it made; you’ve got Harry.” They saw the sad puppy dog eyes and heard the pleading words of my abuser during our numerous breakups and admonished me for being too hard on him.