I wrote the story of Anna Coleman, in my book Fractured Tears: A Struggle for Justice, which was a fictionalized story based on events that took place in my life.
This is my story: Part I
November 2, 2005, is the date that changed my life forever, and showed me that I could survive. That I was strong, and it did change, my life, and myself, forever.
November 2 of 2021 marks 16 years since what I call “the incident” happened.
Here is my account of the events on that date and the months of fighting to get justice for myself and my children.
I should probably start at the beginning. The beginning, yes, such as it was. When I look back now, the pain still haunts me of the last few days we spent together. The most horrifying of times. The fear of my own death. The fear of my children finding me dead. It’s been over three years, as of writing this, but I still have the reminders. Not just the taunting memories, but the physical pain. As I type out these words, my hands are in constant pain. They call it neuropathy, which may or may not be caused by the never-ending migraines I have suffered for the past three and a half years since the incident. I guess I call it an incident, because it definitely was not an accident. It was intentional malice against me at the hands of my husband. Yes, he is dead now, but the fear can still haunt me.
On November 2, 2005, my husband at the time, severely beat me for over forty-five minutes. It didn’t start that day, and it certainly … well, the beating of his fists stopped, but the pain and suffering that I had to go through, that my children had to go through still existed beyond that day. This is my story.
Shattered. I feel broken but it’s best described as shattered. When the heart explodes into a million pieces like a glass vase being thrown from the Empire State Building, death is within reach.
I want to become whole again, but when I take two steps forward, I seem to have to take two steps back. When the heart is broken, the soul is not far behind. Trying to find the inner strength that everyone says that I have. I don’t know if it’s inner strength or even outer strength. I think it’s the will to want to live. It’s also the will to make it through every day. The days I don’t want to get out of bed, I force myself to plant my feet on the floor.
When I could just cover my head and die, I get up. In my own private and personal prison, I try to escape. Digging the tunnels in my head to help me find my path, but the pain is still there. Every day I endure the physical pain, but it’s the emotional pain that keeps me feeling shattered.
Climbing the mountain without the end in sight, I keep moving, hoping that I will reach my destiny.
The day I died was the day I was reborn. When I saw the life that I had led, I almost welcomed death.
He stared into my eyes, and I saw the hate looking back at me. There it was. I had never seen hate in anyone’s eyes, but when I saw it, I knew what it was. He was supposed to love me, but at that moment, I saw hate.
Fists flying at my face. Punching harder with both hands and the blows hurt worse than the previous. I cried and begged for my life. I begged him to love me again. He looked at me with hate. He wanted me to die.
There is a fine line between love and hate, but once you cross over or break the line, there’s no going back. Fear of my life, but not fear of dying. The fear came from not wanting my children to see me dead. If it were just me, I would’ve died. I wanted to die. I wanted the pain to stop.
Each kick to the head, each punch to my eyes, caused my life to flash before my eyes. This is not my life. This is not how my life should end.
With his hands wrapped around my throat, each squeeze was harder than the last one. I remember the words, “You will die tonight… I will kill you.”
The flashes of my boys’ faces shined through the darkness. I kicked and kicked and ran. I ran as fast as the pain would let me. Running, not knowing where to go, but then feeling the need to hide.
As I crouched behind the bushes, I could feel the coldness against my face. That brisk November night, I thought I would die. I thought I’d never be safe again. Death was only a heartbeat away. The fear of death was not there, though. It was the fear of being afraid. I hate being afraid. I hate wanting help. I hate needing help.
As the darkness fell, I knew I had to keep moving. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I was blinded without my glasses, so I followed the blurry lights that peered through the darkness of the trees. I listened closely to traffic in the distance.
If he followed me, he’d find me if I used the streets. Making my way into the woods and cutting through backyards. Crossing streets after all the traffic had passed.
Branches swinging at my face, tripping through leaves and falling on rocks. I needed to go on. Resting for a while, I contemplated lying down and dying.
I could feel her presence. She told me to keep going. I felt my mother, though she had been dead almost nine years. I wanted to be with her, but she told me it wasn’t my time. I had so much to live for. First and foremost were my children. I needed to save them. If I died later, at least they would be safe.
As I reached the top of the hill, I lost my balance and tumbled down the hill. As I reached the base of the tree, I thought this was the end.
I managed to pick myself up and keep going. Just when I though I couldn’t go any further, I saw the lights in the distance. I slowly moved closer. My legs, frozen from the cold and painful from the kicks, could barely carry me.
I looked closely at the sign in front of my face. I squinted to make out the words, “Authorized Police Vehicles only.”
I slowly made my way to the building and dropped at the back door. As the women looked down at me and asked me if I was OK, I just replied. “I need help.”
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