When I learned what the site was really for, my face burned with shame.
If I logged in with only my username and password, the site was a normal knitting club that featured members’ instructional videos, collages of knitting projects, and page after sunny page of patterns that you could use to knit the scarf of your dreams. But when I used my member code I’d received during registration, it pulled up another version of the site—like the “upside-down” of knitting. There were knitting images and advertisements on the borders, but that’s not what the site was for. It was an “online shelter”, a means of support for victims of domestic violence. Former survivors helping victims leave their current abusers, or sometimes, they just offered a nonjudgmental ear. There was information about actual, real-life shelters, and with the click of a button, I could join a waiting list for a discrete shelter in my state.
Women supporting women, and there were men too. But not just support. Sometimes they saved each other, too. Like Roberta, for instance. One night, Roberta’s husband turned more violent than usual. She sent her mentor a safe word which apparently meant “call police now”, and when they got there, she had a gunshot wound. They took her husband to jail and they saved Roberta’s life just in time. Now Roberta was one of the mentors and she liked sharing her story.
The first time I learned what the site really was, I felt humiliated, angry and scared. If Rachel knows, then who else does? Does my family suspect? And, who the hell does she think she is? What if Martin finds out? He’ll kill me; he might even kill Rachel.
I closed the app and it stayed that way for a couple months. Then one day, after Martin screamed at me for letting Lily get up too early and threatened to shut her up himself, I logged back in. I’d told myself that I didn’t even remember my “special code”. But my fingers remembered as I punched in the letters, and I sat on my bed, staring at the menu screen while Martin slept less than a few inches from me.
There were safeguards in place, like the app would shut itself off if you were idle for longer than sixty seconds, which honestly, was a pain in the ass most of the time. And if you clicked the exclamation point five times, the app would lock you out until you called to restore your account. It was a safe place, or at least it was designed to be.
That first night on the site, and for many nights after, I lurked. I read the other members’ posts—some of them had successfully escaped their abusers and some had decided to stay. You could comment on the posts, and I was shocked to see that no one ever posted anything judgmental. Maybe there was an admin who screened the comments for nastiness, but I liked to think the “club” was so tight-knit (pun intended) that we respected each other’s decisions and knew, personally, that pushing never helped a woman leave. We were, as corny as it sounded, learning to “stitch” ourselves back together, one thread at a time.
There were articles and resources. Quizzes and lists to help identify signs of abuse. Personal online journals to document incidents and upload photos, if needed.
I found myself clicking on it most afternoons while Lily ate lunch or watched cartoons. I was scared to post anything or make a comment. Scared of leaving some sort of footprint on the world and scared of being judged, even though these women didn’t seem like the judge-y type.
I finally filled out my profile some and added a user pic. I even typed out a big long post about my father and Martin, but then I deleted it before I clicked “post”. Two days after that, when I logged on, there was a message in my inbox.
I dreaded reading whatever message awaited me, and I put off reading it for hours. But then, finally, I realized it was from one of the members. The name on the account was simply Al, with a profile pic like most other profile pics on the site: not a personal photo. It was a stack of books with a rose on top. I’d seen Al a few times before, commenting on others’ posts. What could this person possibly want from me? Taking a deep breath, I clicked on the message.
Al: I like your profile pic. Northanger Abbey is one of my favorite Jane Austen novels. There’s this line I like: “There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, but it made me smile. A few days later, I responded.
Me: Jane Austen is great, but lately I’ve been reading more modern stuff. Have you heard of the Twilight series? I thought I’d hate them, but they’re really good. Hold on, let me go find one so I can tell you the author’s name.
Al: !! You don’t get out much do you? 😉 That series is everywhere these days! They made them into movies, have you seen them?
My face heated up when I read that response. Martin gave me books, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone to a bookstore myself. I didn’t know if a book was selling well, or in the “bestseller” section, these days.
Me: No, I guess I don’t get out much, like you said. No, didn’t know.
Al wrote me again, but I logged out. Even the other members are shocked about how little I get out—how sad is that?
The next time I signed into the club app, I had three unread messages waiting for me.
Al: I’m sorry if you thought I was making fun of you. I don’t want you to think I was trying to put you down, please don’t think that.
Al: Hey, I don’t want to bug you. Just wanted to tell you about another Stephenie Meyer book I started reading this week. It’s called The Host. Who knew she had more books out?
Al: I just wanted to apologize one last time. Please don’t avoid the club because of me. I have a terrible habit of sticking my foot in my mouth.
For some reason, I was smiling as I read that last message. I wrote back:
Me: You JUST NOW read The Host?! What sort of rock have YOU been living under? I absolutely loved that book. Look, I’m not mad. Just sensitive, I guess. I didn’t mean to ghost you…I was just embarrassed. Can we be friends? I could really use one.
So, that’s how our daily conversations began. We talked about books, that’s all. Until Martin started to question me about why I hadn’t been knitting anything. Why don’t you try a little harder? he said. So, I asked Al to help me with actual knitting. My first scarf turned out terrible, but Al didn’t think so. I appreciated the encouragement, and after a while, knitting was sort of fun. We talked about knitting and we talked about books.
I didn’t mention my marriage until after my arrest.
Al: I’m so glad to see that you’re online. It’s been a while. You okay?
Me: Not really.
Al: Want to talk about it?
Me. Not really.
Al: I understand. For me, it’s always been easier to forget. Even if you don’t want to talk, I’m here any time you need me. You know that, right?
Me: I do. Thank you.
I rubbed my cheeks until they burned, then I typed out another message. I clicked send before I changed my mind.
Me: I went to jail.
Al: What?!!! What happened? Are you OK?
Me: I think I’ve been reading too many of these other members’ stories. Lately, I’ve been standing up to him. It’s like I recognize the abuse so easily now, and I can’t tolerate it anymore. I just can’t.
Al: What did he do?
Me: He locked me in our bedroom for two days. You know what’s funny? I was afraid to bang on the door or scream. I was afraid one of the neighbors would call the cops and they’d take Lily away from me.
Al: Is Lily your daughter?
Me: Yes. Want to see a picture of her?
Al: I’d love to.
I searched through my phone’s photo album. I didn’t have many of Lily, but the ones I did meant the world to me. I selected one of her eating spaghetti at the kitchen table. Her pink, plump cheeks had splotches of red sauce on them.
Al: Aww she’s gorgeous.
Me: Thank you.
Al: So, how did you get out of the bedroom?
Me: I begged him to let me out eventually. He couldn’t handle watching Lily on his own for two days and he had to call into work. On the first day, he was daddy dearest: “Isn’t it so much better without your mother here?” he asked her. But she knew I was in there. I mean, she’s only three, but she’s smart. She kept crying for me at the door and it ripped my heart apart. I try to buffer her from these things whenever I can…but it’s impossible for her not to see it! He started getting frustrated with her and shouting at her not to cry. I was so scared, and I decided that when he opened that door, I was going to kill him. I scratched and clawed. I even tried to choke him. But then he gained the upper hand. He locked Lily in the room instead! And do you know what he did next? HE called the cops on ME. He told me to spend some time in jail thinking about what it means to be a good wife. He said that since Lily doesn’t exist on paper (I gave birth to her at home on my own because he was convinced my previous midwife and other doctors’ medical interventions could cause miscarriages), that it would be easy to make her not exist in real life. He said: I will kill her. KILL HER, Al. I was so scared. The whole time I was in that jail cell, I was so scared of what he might be doing to Lily, but I feared what he’d do if I tried to tell the cops my story. After all, he was the one with the marks on him, not me. If I leave, he’ll kill me. But if I stay, he’ll kill me too. And at this point, I don’t care about me. I just want to keep my daughter safe. I thought by staying here with him, I was keeping her safer than if I tried to leave, but now…god I don’t know, I’m rambling now.
Al: Jesus. I’m so damn sorry. That sounds like something out of a horror novel. Will you let me help?
Me: How? How can you help me?
Al: I don’t know. But let’s brainstorm ideas. We can make an escape plan. Together.
Me: But you don’t understand. He has cameras outside, and this security app that alerts him when there’s motion in the front, side, or back of the building. I tried to leave once while he was at work. I packed up some of our stuff and everything. We got less than a mile away, when he called me. I tried to speed up, but he caught up with me two towns over.
Al: Let’s both think on it for a couple days and come up with ideas. We’ll figure a way around all that, okay? We will do it together. I promise.
We spent the next couple months hashing out a few plans to get away from Martin. There were times when I didn’t think I could do it. There were even times, good days with Martin, where I felt a tiny glimmer of hope, hope that he might change.
But he still hasn’t changed. And as Lily gets older, I can’t help wondering what sort of life she could ever have with Martin, even if he was less violent.
I’m leaving for good this time. And the only person I can tell is Al.
Because I trust Al with my life.