Author's Note: Essay submitted to REDBOOK magazine reader challenge to become a state representative for MADE in December 2008.
Update: My estranged husband pled guilty to his crime on 5/18/09. He served 28 days in prison. My daughter and I now live in a safe, undisclosed location.
I am a Hero
My name is Michelle Johnson Major. I consider myself an ordinary forty years old woman. I am a mother and an artist. In fact, I have been teaching high school art for eighteen years now. I inspire, encourage and give to young people through my words and my artwork. I am a loving person. A giver. A listening ear. A kind voice. Yet in all my years of teaching, I was never called a "hero" until a few weeks ago. I was called a hero because I spoke out publicly about the domestic violence that almost ended my life.
Eight months ago, my "voice" was almost taken from me by my husband. He tried to murder me in our home as our five week old baby slept in the room next door. Before he strangled me to unconsciousness, he took a butcher knife and destroyed my entire body of artworkninety four paintings in all. In essence, he tried to silence my artistic voice as well as my life.
Victim
Two years ago, I met and fell head over heels for a charming man that joined the choir at my church. This man seemed to love me passionately and romantically. He was everything I thought I had been searching for my whole life. Finally I found someone who loved me as much as I loved them. Hating to spend even a day apart, we quickly married six months later. I was so blinded by love for him and, probably more importantly, the desire to be loved by someone else, that I did not acknowledge the ugly truth that was starting to emerge in our relationship. I was becoming trapped in an abusive relationship.
The verbal and emotional abuse began slowlyand I didn't really realize it was happening until physical abuse became the accompaniment. Now, having since educated myself on abusive and controlling men, the symptoms and patterns emerging in my relationship seem so obvious, yet when that cycle is your actual life, things can really sneak up on you. I became 'weak, whiney, worthless, lazy and disgusting.' I was 'a fat bitch, a whore and other derogatory words. What a contrast to the beautiful, cherished princess I was just months before. As my body grew heavier with this man's child, I became the object of his rage and I quickly became trapped in a bleak and dismal set of circumstances. In the back of my mind, the 'I'm sorry's and I love you's' did not seem as sincere as they once had. I had a small voice telling me I was being abused, yet denial can sometimes speak louder when it means the loss of hopes and dreams and the fear of loneliness. I walked on eggshells and tried to never show my real feelings. I unsuccessfully tried to anticipate his fits of anger and tried to avoid conflict and confrontation by not speaking up or speaking my mind. I only heard the cruel and hurtful words and felt the intimidation and fear of living with this man who had once swept me off my feet. I realized the truth behind the lies I had been so eager to believe. Getting married did not make him change. Having a baby did not make him stop. He was who he was. He was an abuser. I had become his victim.
The last memory I have of my husband is of his hands around my throat, choking me and screaming at me that he was going to kill me this time. "I am really going to kill you this time". I was begging and pleading with no real voice for him not to kill me. Please don't kill me. I saw only the monster's face framed in blackness. I saw an object moving in front of my face and I realized that was my hand. I could not feel itand the twitching it was involuntarily doing was something I may have seen in a horror movie when someone is dying. In fact, that is when I knew in my heart "This is it. You are going to die now." And then there was nothing. The next memory I have is running towards my steps to escape him, yet he was already half way down the stairs. He had left me for dead right outside our bedroom door. When he realized I was alive and running, he came up the steps blocking my way down and calmly said, "You're not going to leave me. You will not leave me." He then pinned me against the wall and beat my face over and over, pausing only to carefully wipe the blood from my nose and mouth onto my shirt before proceeding to continue to punch my face. Once he thought I could take no more, he calmly turned to walk down the stairs to leave again. I spotted my cell phone on the bathroom floor where he had thrown it as he was strangling me. His careless move saved my life. I ran to the bathroom, locked the door and dialed 911. He heard my voice screaming into the phone, "My husband is trying to kill me, my husband is going to kill me!!!" and he began walking back up the stairs eerily saying "what are you doing, honey? What are you doing? You better think about this, honey". I will never forget the eerie calmness of his voice. Then he fled.
Even more of the psychotic nature of this crime became clearer once the police began photographing my homenow a crime scene. Hours before this nightmare happened, while he was home alone and waiting for me to return, he took a butcher knife and butchered thirty seven of my paintings hanging in our home and over fifty more stored in a hall closet. He told me he had decided to destroy what meant the most to me, knowing that as an artist, I had poured my heart and soul into these paintings. He then took four photos of me off the wall, took them out of their frames, slashed the photos of my face with a butcher knife, and then had the presence of mind to put the photos back in the frames and hang them back up.
Survivor
This last year of my life has been an adventure, to say the least. I lived in fear for my life while my abuser was free on bond. I thought I would have relief from that fear once he was sentenced, yet now he is a free man after serving a twenty-eight day prison sentence. Yes, you read that correctly, days. I have lived a life of wearing sunglasses, hats, changing cars, varying my routine, changing my address, fleeing my home, and much more due to fear of being killed by my husband. Yet an amazing transformation happened to me throughout this last year. I made a conscious choice not to remain a victim and live in fear for my life. I spent two years of my life being controlled by an abuser and I would not let him have that control and power of me ever again.
When my husband destroyed my artwork, he told me he was going to take what I loved the most from me. Days later, as I looked around the home that the police referred to as a crime scene, I had no idea that the butchered paintings and bruises on my throat would save another woman's life, yet that is exactly what I have done as an activist for domestic violence awareness. I have moved from the role of victim to survivor. I have decided to become an advocate for shining the light on an ugly societal taboo that lurks behind many doors and many homes in our nation: domestic violence. I realized that I myself could continue to physically hide behind heavy drapes and doors and peek through my blinds at night. I could sit back and blame the judicial system and remain angry and remain victimized by the whole lacking process the courts have for protecting victims. I could be consumed with hate, fear, bitterness and more negative emotions, but I chose another path. I chose a path that was lit by the truth that comes from sharing my story, my reactions to the abuse, and my healing process. This path is a road of healing and hope.
Hero
I developed an organization called Be A Voice Arts. BAVA is me, Michelle Johnson Major. It is my story and it is my art. My show depicts various self portraits I painting during my abusive marriage and afterwards. The paintings are tortured and emotional representations of fear and terror and the feeling of being trapped in a helpless, hopeless situation. In addition to showing portraits depicting the pain of abuse, I now show many of my portraits that were butchered by my husband. "How Do You Paint the Portrait of Domestic Violence?" shows the paintings my husband destroyed in an effort to bring awareness to the ugly secret many women are hiding.
Viewing these works of art is very powerful and I know lives are being touched by my story the more it is shared. Many women have approached me and opened up about what has happened in their lives or in their daughter's lives. I realized my story touches people. It opens doors for women to use their voices. Yet the most rewarding feeling came when I was called a hero by a student at my high school. Not necessarily for my teaching ability, but for my strength as a woman. My courage to speak out against something that is wrong and considered taboo to talk about has become my strength. My voice made me a hero to a teenage girl. Life can't get any better than that!
