This post is a guest entry written by Alexis Siefert; it was forwarded to me by a friend who has communicated with her occasionally. I found it compelling and articulate, and with Alexis’ permission, I am posting it.

I was driving down the road earlier this week when I saw one of those ever-changing signs in front of a business. You know the ones — you’re never sure if you’ve really seen the entire message unless you happen to be stuck at a red light within reading distance. Anyway, this one read “October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.” I was another half-mile away before the true irony of that statement sunk in. And at that point I had to pull over (with apologies to all those cars behind me ~ I know that an unsignaled, multiple-lane change during the morning rush hour is considered an uncool driving practice). I sat at the side of the road, shaking, and hoping I could pull myself together in time to get to work, repair my makeup, and start the day with a happy and fresh demeanor (it happens to be a necessity for primary school teachers ~ if you don’t feel it, find a way to fake it).

I tried to figure out exactly what that meant. “Domestic Violence Awareness.” What does one really mean by “awareness?” At whom are these campaigns really aimed? The abusers? Heck no. Does anyone really think that a PSA done by a celebrity spokesmouth saying, “if you hit her, you’ve gone to far, get help,” is going to make the guy slap himself on the forehead in a V-8 moment of revelation? “Gee honey. I never realized I was being abusive. Honest. I’ll never hit you again.” And they lived happily ever after. The End.

Okay, so the “awareness” campaign probably isn’t really aimed at the abusers. So, the victim perhaps? (what a crappy word — ‘victim’ but that’s another issue all together). Getting closer maybe. However, I still doubt that a PSA, a couple of billboards, and a flyer pasted to the inside of the bathroom stall at the local Fred Meyer are things that will make the light suddenly flash on in her mind either. “Well, dang. I guess they’re right. I’ll go pack my bags and file for that divorce now. It’s been fun, but see’ya.”

Probably not.

So, with whom are we left? Ah, that’s right. Everyone else. All of the friends, neighbors, coworkers. The cousins, brothers, sisters. The casual acquaintances and the counter girl at the corner coffee shop. The people who see her every day. The people who know her. The people who love her. Believe it or not, she probably doesn’t realize that you’re there. Yes, she knows that you’re ‘there,’ but she doesn’t know that you care. YOU know that you’d do anything to help her. YOU know that she could show up on your doorstep and you’d feed and clothe her and give her a place to hide and a hand to hold. YOU know that you’d taker to the police station and stand by her side as she filled out the paperwork for the restraining order, and that you’d stand next to her as her support when the filing clerk reminds her that, “this is a very serious issue. It will follow him forever. Make sure it’s what you really want to do before you file it.” YOU know that you’d help her.

But she doesn’t. Not really. That’s what abuse does. It’s like that drop of water on the wall. In small bits and pieces it erodes your sense of identity. In almost-unnoticed increments he steals her sense of self-preservation. He takes from her the one thing that we think no one can ever take from us. He takes her identity.

And this is where the confusion starts. The general feeling seems to be that “no one can take from you what you don’t chose to give.” And believe it or not, she buys into that. She quickly comes to believe that she’s allowed this. And because she’s allowed this, she deserves it. But it’s subtle. It’s quiet. It’s sneaky and it’s clever. It saps her strength and her self-reliance, and before long she doesn’t have anything left upon which to draw from.

So, am I saying that, as a friend, coworker or acquaintance, Domestic Violence is your responsibility? No. Absolutely not. But like so many things that aren’t your “responsibility” you can help. Please let her know that you’re there. Tell her that she has a place to go. Tell her that you can be called at 2 in the morning when she’s scared and alone and hurt. Don’t feel that you have to be subtle. And don’t be offended when she tells you that you’re way off base, that she’s clumsy and slammed her own fingers in the car door and that she wrenched her wrist playing tennis and that she walked into the door frame, and that she fell down the basement stairs and that she cut herself when she dropped a glass she was washing, and that she … .

Then don’t be surprised when the phone rings and she asks you to come get her.

There are things that I’m not sure ever grow back. There is a sense of trust in one’s own judgment that, once gone, feels very, very gone. In ‘The Power of One’ Bryce Courtenay described a bird of unhappiness that lay eggs of stone in his heart (with apologies for the probable misquote. I’ve once again given my copy away and I don’t have another yet on hand). Although he was describing loneliness, it’s also the most apt description I’ve ever read for the feeling that an abuse victim feels. Weighted down by the magnitude of the decisions she’s made.

Bones mend, bruises fade, stitches are removed. The rest I’m not so sure of.

Another point I need to make. Although I’ve used the pronoun “she” exclusively, domestic violence is by no means limited to male upon female violence. Women do not have a corner on victim status.