If I did not know before, I definitely knew then that I was in an abusive relationship. My heart can’t stand much more of this, I’d think. In an attempt to keep my presence of mind, in an attempt to keep my hope, I’d think about a new life. I’d think about a life without Lyulle in it. I’d think about a life with only Brooklyn and me. I’d think about anything that was not my current life.
In March 2012 I moved to a new community. This time, for sure Lyulle, was not with me. I still saw him regularly. I still slept with him on the regular; he was my baby daddy and my man. I was still fighting this case with Brooklyn, still getting my ass kicked, and still not speaking to anyone in my family except those who knew the truth about what was going on. Once I moved, I told Lyulle I was pregnant again.
He was furious. He’d told me to have an abortion, but I was seven or eight weeks along. It was a wrap for that as far as I was concerned. Gem had applied for benefits for Brooklyn in Summit County, which killed the case in Franklin County, killed the medical coverage, killed my free birth control, and in turn saved my life because maybe this nigga would stop beating me so if he knew I was carrying his child. Nope. Can you believe I was wrong again? This bozo muthafucka was still kicking my ass. I should have known from the first pregnancy that he would continue to be himself, but somehow, I just thought he’d wise up and somehow develop feelings for someone other than himself, and I was not necessarily referring to myself but to our unborn child.
He’d push me down on concrete. He’d be so mean. He’d humiliate me. He’d slap me and punch me in the face. He was trying to stress me out to the point of losing this child if I did not abort. I did not abort. Instead, I went to the police.
During one night of tremendous abuse, I had blows to the head and face. He’d knocked my head into a wall while I was laying on the floor in my townhouse. Falling asleep briefly, I awoke to dress for work near 6:00 a.m.
“Where are you going, Jericho?” Lyulle questioned.
“To shower. I have to go to work,” I responded.
I showered and dressed for work, business as usual. I had to keep going. I had to sustain myself. This muthafucka was not going to help me with shit in my life. In pursuit to work, I saw two cop cars in a vacant parking lot and pulled over to them.
With my marks of abuse—some scarring, scratches, and a busted lip—the detective took a full report. I was about three blocks from the bank where I worked. I called the job. The detective informed my coworkers and bosses of the issue I was having, and they came to my aid. They came quickly and told me I would not return home. Sara, my coworker, offered her home to me and opened up her doors, and I went with her and her husband. I had a few days off work and little communication with Lyulle.
But he’ll be calling me soon to check in, and like clockwork, he did. I did not answer. He soon found out. I was not playing concerning this new life I was carrying, and he would not have me lose it.
I trudged along in the shit-slide we’d created or, rather, I’d created. With the case, with Brooklyn about to lose custody of my son, and with dodging the sheriff’s department that was now trying to subpoena me to court for these allegations I had put on Lyulle, Lyulle was staying as far from me as possible. I was on the verge of breaking. We’d be cordial and familial when we needed to be, and he played the part of a supportive friend and father well. In a way, he was being his true self in front of people, but that was not the person I was experiencing every day. Thankful for the limited amount of peace, we made it to June.
“You have won your case. You may go pick up your son. Go pick him up as soon as possible.”
At work, my coworkers rejoiced with me over the e-mail I had just received. It was true. It was real, and it was really over. Gem had the audacity to counter for visitation, and I had to bring Brooklyn to her. Are you kidding me? I hated her. I was not thinking about her or anyone else in my family seeing Brooklyn after all of that cockamamy bullshit I just had to deal with.
Now four months pregnant and finally bringing Brooklyn home, I thought Lyulle would be just as happy as I was. He may have been, but he did not show it much.
Whenever I or Brooklyn needed him, he’d come. Whenever he needed something from me, he’d get it. We still slept together—funny but true—and this was one of the things that hurt and confused me. If we weren’t together, if he had relations with others, and if he did not want me to have his child, then why in the hell was he fucking me? This is a question I will forever have in my mind and heart. This is the culmination of a selfish muthafucka. I am not shit to you, yet you still wanna dick me down, call me all day long as if I need to answer to you, and various other moves and maneuvers. Did I have him fucked up?