Finding Jenn’s Voice: Charley’s Story

Posted on November 25, 2014 by Lisette d. Johnson

For most expectant parents, pregnancy brings with it the anticipation and excitement of the pending birth of their child as a culmination of the union of their love for one another. In an abusive relationship, pregnancy is a direct competitor for a woman’s attention and violence can escalate as the pregnancy progresses.

Pregnancy and leaving an abusive relationship present the greatest risks to the safety of a woman and both are primary causes of intimate partner homicide. Yet many of these same abusers who attempt to kill their partners are granted visitation rights through the legal system.

Charlotte’s story is a frightening reminder that until the legal system protects mothers, it cannot protect children.

Charlotte’s Story:
My name is Charlotte. I survived an attack in January of 2009 when I was 15-18 weeks pregnant with our child (now age 5). My then boyfriend was in a jealous rage accusing me that the child was not his. He tormented me on the couch, taunting me not to even bother to call the cops because his cousin is a police officer here and on patrol and he wouldn’t do anything about this or help me.

He bit me, choked, slammed my head against a wall for over five minutes till I had no fight left. This wasn’t the first act of physical violence I experienced with him. But it was close to the worse, especially since I was pregnant. I went to the hospital 2 days later because I experienced vaginal bleeding from some sort of detachment.

My 5 year old is truly a gift from God.

In a 2 year period 2009-2011
I had 6 (NO CONTACT ORDERS, DANCO, HRO) MY abuser violated the order’s 5 times. One day he called me from JAIL 26 times. He was in jail for violation of the no contact order. From 2009-2014 I have had a total of 7 restraining/no contact orders. My existing order is valid until the year 2031.

My abuser filed for visitation back in July 2014. The order would have to be amended by a judge for him obtain any form of visitation or legal custody of any sort.

I am so honored to have been chosen to recite the details of what I lived through. The documentary is named “Finding Jenns Voice” To bring awareness of the risks of intimate partner homicide during pregnancy and domestic violence.

The most dangerous time for a woman who is being abused is when she attempts to leave. Have a safety plan!

Everyone deserves happy & healthy relationships!

Charlotte

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TRFBoise

Posted on November 10, 2014 by Lisette d. Johnson

The weather has been stunning lately. Snuggling in warm against the chill of a cold morning, I look out into the yard to see the first light peeking through the trees. Filtered through the gold and bronze hues, the promise of another gorgeous fall morning rises with the sun. While I’ve felt balanced these past months, healed, the past few days a darkness has loomed. I can’t quite put my finger on why I’m feeling this way when all seems to be right with my world. I try to shake it off and be present with the beauty that is unfolding.

I notice pictures on my nightstand and am reminded I need to get them scanned and sent to the documentary producer. I have taken them out of what I call my box of pain. In it I have stowed and locked away all the painful reminders of that day; police reports, search warrants, newspaper articles, surgical notes. The box holds the somber vestiges of TRFBoise, my trauma name, assigned to protect the anonymity of anyone who comes through the emergency department trauma bay.

The first pictures taken of me in the hospital, surely graphic and uncomfortable to view, were erased later that week from the camera by whoever was taking pictures of my daughter dressed to attend her first Cotillion. The few pictures that remain, taken a few weeks later, sit on my nightstand.

I pick them up today to take them with me as I leave the house, pausing a moment to actually look at them. These wordless images tell the story of the extent of my injuries, which my mind has tucked away just as I have physically tucked away the box. As I look, I am back there.

Though I know the number intimately, I once again count the thirty nine staples that held my abdomen together, the twenty five where my right breast was reattached after closing my chest cavity. The extensive bruising still appears purple and black in the picture; eight or so inches encircling an exit wound, on either side where chest tubes were inserted and at the entry wound in my back.

I’ve always felt like the first bullets could have been a terrible mistake were it not for the one in my back, reminding me of the chilling intent. How peculiar the feeling to know someone wanted you dead, let alone someone who you spent virtually your entire adult life with.

In an belated aha! moment, simply glancing by the pictures sitting innocuously these last few days has stirred the depths. My unconscious mind is in apparent conflict with my perception of being detached from the woman in these pictures. Though I have moved from those early days, this is me, this is what I’ve been through, this is my life. It is a miracle, it is gift, it is short, too precious to waste. TRFBoise duly acknowledged, I must dispel my sadness, come back to now, and be present in this spectacular day.

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Finding Jenn’s Voice: Lisa’s Story

Posted on November 1, 2014 by Lisette d. Johnson

Eleven women. Unique, yet the same. Chilling stories that are our own. We came together from across the country with the purpose of recreating a story which lives in each of us. It stirs, it sobers, it haunts us. It is a story in many ways like our own, though our endings were different. We are still here to tell ours, where so very many others remain untold or permanently silenced through death. What would they say if they could tell others?

You see, it is never as simple as he killed her that day, as is reported in the news. There is a woman; a vital, vibrant soul with friends and family and people who loved her. There is who he is. Leading double lives. One for the public to see, one with her. There is how he treated her. There are always the events leading up to it. There are signs. Danger ahead signs. Rear view mirror signs few interpret until it is too late.

The eleven of us gathered on a rainy fall morning on the top floor in a revitalized old industrial revolution factory. Windows lined the space, yet the day let little light in. A century old oak floor creaked against the film crew’s footsteps, fading until our minds finally excluded any presence of them, of the cameras and lights; leaving only the large, hollow space our small triangle anchored as we spoke.

In each of us was the echo of it could have been us. Like Jenn Snyder, who was killed by her unborn baby’s father when she chose to end their intimate relationship and continue her pregnancy being supported by her friends and family; it could have been us. With mission and purpose, we gathered to talk about our experiences on camera within the context of intimate violence. Through our own, we were telling Jenn’s story.

Lisa’s Story
I was in an abusive relationship for almost two years. I have not spoken up openly about this for the fear of being blamed, for fear of people thinking it makes me a different person, and for fear of judgment. I left a little more than a year ago, and in the process of leaving, my abuser almost took my life.

But today I say no more. I will not hide in silence, because the silence is what perpetuates the epidemic. He did this to me, I have no shame. I do not fear the few who will say ‘she should have just left’ or ‘why didn’t she leave’ (code for: It’s her fault he abused her). To those people my reply is this: 75% of intimate partner homicides are committed after she has already left. Leaving is the most dangerous time for someone in an abusive relationship.

Myself and ten of the strongest and most courageous women I have met filmed footage for a documentary film to give a voice to a wonderful woman, Jennifer Snyder. This woman had a beautiful soul. Her precious life was taken from her by a man who was supposed to love her. She was pregnant. Jenn did not deserve to have her life taken. She will never have the chance to speak out. So today, I speak out in the name of Jenn Snyder.

Did you know that the leading cause of death during pregnancy is homicide? This crime is preventable and there are numerous red flags. Today and every day, I vow to take a stand against domestic violence and speak up on behalf of those who are no longer with us. Jenn, you are forever our soul sister.

Since I was a young girl I have said “When I grow up I am going to be just like Mulan and Pocahontas. I am going to stand up in the name of doing the right thing and helping those in need. I am going to write my story.” So I tell you now – I am dedicating my life to standing up for victims, I am going to write books and a blog, I will create a dance production, I am going to stand up to the criminal justice system that has served so many injustices. I will fight for what’s right.

I will no longer hide in silence. Silence creates an epidemic. My name is Lisa. I am a survivor and today I thrive. I am not ashamed. Here’s to saying no more to violence and male entitlement.

Thank you to Tracy, my soul sisters, and the newest additions to my family for helping me to find my voice. I will always remember how grateful I am for this empowering weekend.

Love and Hugs,
Lisa

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Ripples

Posted on October 18, 2014 by Lisette d. Johnson

I am at my neighborhood picnic on the river. I watch passing boats and observe the silky ribbons of wake they leave become wider and longer and more expansive as they reach and effortlessly lap the river bank , which in turn absorbs their energy to push the water back into the flow.

I see a neighbor and we are chatting to catch up when her child inquires as to my son’s absence. Younger by several years, this boy is quite fond of him and eagerly asks where he is; questioning what he is doing but really wanting to know why he hasn’t come.

As an afterthought, he wonders aloud does my son still miss his father, not knowing the anniversary of the shooting is close. I look to his mother reassuringly that I am okay with the question. Though I respond “I imagine he does”, I realize I am answering this way simply because that is the right answer to give this young boy. I honestly don’t know the answer.

I don’t know if my son does or doesn’t miss his father because he refuses to talk about him. It has been over a year since I last mentioned his father and was immediately shut down by “I have told you before, I don’t want to talk about him. Don’t mention him again.”

The boy, who is now slightly older than my son was at the time of the shooting, states confidently, as though to inform me of something I might be unaware of, that it is not safe to play with guns. I assume his parents explained what had happened by saying it was an accident, trying to use it as a learning tool.

Five years older now and clearly more discerning, perhaps their earlier explanation no longer satisfies him. He hints at intent as he inquires why my son’s dad shot me and himself if he was only playing with a gun. He attempts to make some sort of sense of what happened. I redirect him that it is never safe to handle a gun.

I am reminded the force of ripples continue from the epicenter until something stops it. Children are swept into and carried with the ever expanding rings of the secrets our house held. From the night before the shooting, ripples expanded out to my children’s friends who were here, encircling their parents who watched the TV news in horror the following day; left to explain to their own children what had happened. Reaching the elementary and middle schools my children attended as they held assemblies to explain the inexplicable offering extra counselors to process, into my church and the greater community, into future generations of children in storytelling; the tide will continue to carry us out with it.

If it had just been me, I might have been silent. When I speak out against violence I most consider the innocent children. My children, their friends, this inquiring child who grapples with information he still cannot and likely will not ever truly understand; for all who lost a little piece of their own childhood as they were pulled into premature wisdom through the knowledge of evil that day, that other children would be spared, I continue to speak.

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The Night Before, Five Years Later

Posted on October 3, 2014 by Lisette d. Johnson

Days go by now, and with the help of EMDR therapy it all is starting to seem like a distant memory, another life in another lifetime, unbelievable though real. Still certain movements, memories, pictures bring me back into that life, that day.

I was shocked to see me in a picture taken just five years ago. You can see on my face the toll it had taken on me. My desperation is evident. This picture was taken at my son’s early birthday celebration at our house. Looking at it I can still feel the sense of foreboding I felt in the stillness of that brilliantly moonlit fall night.

After his friends had been picked up and everyone was in bed asleep, with a macabre sixth sense presenting as melancholy, I contemplated my life was about to change and would never be the same again. As I wrote this I was feeling unsettled and completely isolated so I reached out and shared it on Facebook that night before he shot me.

Surely this must be a dream from which I will awake and feel the warm reassuring breath of the man I love next to me. I will watch as the moonlight illuminates his chest moving quietly up and down, and reflect on the sweetness of his kiss, the heat of his skin on my fingertips. Solid, unwavering, steadfast.

Surely this dream cannot be the life I have known, have accepted, have lived years suspended between passion and pain, holding on to only fleeting moments as proof love exists; a life lived as someone else while emotion lay buried beneath layers of secrecy, protected from the harshness and uncertainty of a barren landscape. Surely I am not she who hides in the dream…frightened, frozen, tentative; watching, waiting. I do not want to know her pleading, resignation, hopelessness.

Surely whatever darkness I dream is far away and cannot hurt me. I will awake to hear the crickets in the cool fall air and be comforted by familiar surroundings. He will stir and draw me close, gathering me securely in his arms. We will slumber, entwined, peacefully. Surely the morning light will reveal what is true and good. October 3, 2009

Graham's 10th Birthday 010

My life was about to change forever, though I could not have understood then what that would end up looking like. I just knew I was leaving the house that week if he once again refused to, as he had the twelve weeks since I’d asked for separation. By this point I knew when I walked out I would probably lose everything. I knew there was a good chance he would get custody of the children. I knew I was walking away with only my faith.

Some people say I won. I lived. I live with my children. He can no longer hurt us. I am free. I have the house. My faith, uninterrupted, still sustains me. If someone wins, however, then there has been a loss. The little boy in that picture was forever lost that next day, as was his big sister; thrust into the intersection of evil and death and robbed of the carefree innocence of childhood.

No longer the woman in that picture, maybe I am victorious. But I never wanted a competition, a war. I only wanted my life back and the man in that poem to come forward. Clearly, he was not that man.

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