留下来,难相爱

This year’s assault by 1）Ray Rice of his thenfiancée， now-wife， sends the same shivers through my body as the police photograph of Rihanna’s battered face five years ago.

Rice and 2）Chris Brown have made domestic violence famous. It doesn’t feel like a dirty little secret from low-income， struggling communities any more. It happens in all walks of life.

Yet， there is such a stigma clinging to domestic violence that it continues to make me feel embarrassed， humiliated and shocked when I think of my own assault.

On 3）Canada Day in 2010， I locked myself in my bedroom and crawled into a ball to hide from the prying eyes of the outside world. I spent the day knitting together a web of lies to present to my family， friends and colleagues to explain the mass of bruising and swelling on my face. The cuts and grazes on my body could be hidden by carefully placed clothing.

The horrors of the early hours of that day still make my palms clammy and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I had kept the intimate details locked away in the darkest part of my memory until I saw the security footage of Rice punching his partner unconscious. The moment his fist hits her face， painful 4）flashbacks hit me like a bolt of lightning.

I， too， was dragged from room to room， but my memory was not protected by an unconscious state. There were two smashed mirrors， a bathroom door kicked open， a TV screen 5）crumpled.

I was finally pinned down on the bed we shared， his strong legs securing my 6）flailing arms， leaving his fists free to connect with my face. I can’t remember the exact number of punches， but I do remember thinking I didn’t want to die.

Thankfully， a neighbour rescued me. He knocked on my door and the punches stopped. That neighbour probably saved my life. He took me to his apartment， which was directly above mine， and his frightened girlfriend helped wash the blood from my face.

“I’ll call the police，” she said， but as soon as I heard the word police my body stiffened with fear. What would my mother say？ What would my brother do？ I didn’t want to be the cause of any more trouble.

So I thanked my brave neighbours through tears and headed back downstairs to start weaving my web of lies.

Why did I feel shame？ Why did I feel embarrassed？ I was the victim！ I had been attacked by an ex-soldier with overwhelming strength. Why did I have to lie to those closest to me？

All these questions came flooding back recently， spurred on by the highly publicized domestic violence cases in the celebrity world.

It was the thought of my intimate relationship being judged that drove me to hide my injuries. I 7）concocted a story about getting mixed up in a bar 8）brawl. “A 9）wayward elbow caught my face.”Did I come to believe it？ I don’t think I did. But I had to tell the story so many times that it began to feel real. And that’s when I started to block out the attack.

Maybe it didn’t happen， I thought. Maybe it was all just a bad dream， and I do have a happy life and a loving relationship.

I was saving face. I didn’t want to admit that I’d made a bad judgment of character. I didn’t want to admit defeat against the expectations of society； perfect partner， perfect relationship， perfect job.

And so I convinced myself it was a “10）blip”in the relationship. Maybe I’d provoked him. Maybe I deserved it. Nobody is perfect.

“We’ll go to counselling and talk about it，” I decided. “Everything will be okay. Everything will be perfect again.”

I was still spinning the lies when I ventured outside， and those lies became my reality. On July 2， I carried on with my life and my relationship.

11）Behind closed doors， we were both apologetic， both 12）racked with guilt： He， because he had to stare at my bruised face and see the reality that his hands had inflicted those injuries， and I， because I stayed， because I wanted that perfect life to continue.

We stayed together， living the lies， for two more months.

I am not sure if the assault will have an effect on my future relationships. I’ve tried not to let it define me. I’ve spent four years trying to become a stronger， more independent woman.

It’s okay to be on your own， I’ve learned. It’s okay if you don’t have a perfect relationship. Don’t be trapped in a relationship where you are a victim， male or female.

Society needs to shed the stigma of domestic violence. Reach out to victims， knock on your neighbour’s door and tell them that it’s okay to admit defeat.

今年球星雷・莱斯殴打其当时的未婚妻（如今已成为其妻子）的事件就跟我五年前看到警察曝光蕾哈娜被打得鼻青脸肿的照片时一样，让我浑身打起寒颤。

莱斯和克里斯・布朗让家庭暴力一夜成名。感觉它已不再是煎熬困苦的低收入人群之间那肮脏的小秘密，而是发生在各个阶层人士之中。

然而，家庭暴力始终萦绕着一种耻辱感，久久笼罩着我，让我每次想起自己被殴打的经历时都不禁感到尴尬、羞辱和震惊。

2010年加拿大日那天，我把自己锁在房间里，蜷缩成一团，妄图躲开外界窥探的眼睛。我花了一整天在编造谎言，好向我的家人、朋友和同事们解释我鼻青脸肿的缘由。只要仔细穿戴好衣服，我身上的割伤和擦伤是可以被遮盖起来的。

那天早些时候的惊恐，至今仍让我手心冒汗，毛骨悚然。

在看到莱斯将他的妻子暴打至昏迷的监控视频之前，我一直将自己的那些私密细节封锁在我记忆中最阴暗的位置。看到他的拳头打在她脸上的那一刻，痛苦的记忆像闪电一样击向我。

我，也曾被人从一个房间拖到另一个房间，然而我的记忆并没有得到失去意识的“呵护”。我记得两面镜子被打烂了，浴室的门被踢开了，一个电视屏幕也被打褶了。

最终，我被按在了我们的大床上，他强有力的双腿稳住我胡乱挥动反抗着的双臂，这让他的拳头可以随意地打在我的脸上。我已记不清自己被拳打了多少下，但是我清晰地记得我不想就这样死去。

一位邻居拯救了我，谢天谢地。他敲了我家的门，敲门声让拳头停住了。那位邻居也许救了我一命。他把我带到他的公寓，就在我家楼上，他的女朋友惊呆了，连忙帮我冲洗掉脸上的血迹。

“我打电话报警，”她说，可是当我听到“报警”这个词时，我的身体立刻因害怕而僵硬了。我的母亲会怎么说？我的哥哥会怎么做？我不想制造更多的麻烦。

于是我含着泪水感谢我那两位勇敢的邻居，掉头下楼回去继续编织我的谎言。

为什么我会觉得羞耻？为什么我会感到尴尬？我可是受害者啊！我被一个孔武有力的退伍军人殴打了。为什么我要对我最亲近的人撒谎？

最近所有这些问题不断向我涌来，因为这些遭大肆曝光的名人家暴事件而愈演愈烈。

一想到我那段亲密关系会被评头论足，我就只想隐藏起自己的伤口。我捏造了一个故事，谎称自己被无辜卷入了一场酒吧斗殴中。“一只挥舞的手肘打中了我的脸。”我自己会相信这样的谎话吗？我自己也无法说服自己。但是我必须不断地重复这个谎言，直到它听起来像真的一样。就在这个时候，我开始屏蔽那次殴打事件。

也许它并没有发生，我心想。或许它只是一场噩梦，我确实过着幸福的生活，拥有一段恩爱的恋情。

我在为自己挽留面子。我不想承认我遇人不淑。我不想承认失败，承认自己无法得到社会期望的完美伴侣、完美爱情，以及完美工作。

于是我说服自己，这段关系里出现了“突然的转变”。或许是我激怒了他，或许这是我应得的。毕竟人无完人。

“我们去做心理咨询，好好谈谈吧，”我下了决心。“一切都会好起来的。一切都会回归完美。”

当我鼓起勇气走出去时，我还在继续编造着谎言，而那些谎言成了我的既定事实。7月2日那天，我继续过着我的生活，维持着我的感情。

私下里，我们都觉得对不起对方，深感愧疚：他，因为他不得不看着我那淤青的脸蛋，面对他亲手造成了这些伤口的现实；而我，因为我留了下来，因为我希望那段完美的生活能够延续。

我们继续在一起，活在谎言之中，这样持续了两个月。

我不确定那次殴打会不会对我未来的恋爱造成影响。我尝试着不让自己受制于那次事件。我花了四年的时间，努力成为一个更加坚强、更加自立的女性。

我认识到，自己一个人并没有什么大不了的。你的恋情不完美也没什么大不了的。无论你是男人还是女人，都不要陷入一段让自己成为受害者的恋爱关系之中。

社会应该摆脱家庭暴力的污名。向受害者们伸出援手，敲响你邻居的大门，告诉他们，承认失败并没有什么大不了的。