Iarrive at the courthouse, a building I now know too well. The sheer absurdity of this knowledge isn’t lost on me. Before Timmy, I never had to know where a courthouse was—much less navigate one like a seasoned local. Yet here I am, walking up the familiar steps, resigned to another chapter in this nightmare.
At the sign-in desk, I’m handed a wristband. It’s a fluorescent strip denoting me as a victim—or survivor, depending on how charitable you want to be with the terminology. This isn’t a wristband for a VIP concert or a fun amusement park ride. This is a badge of shame, burning into my arm like a brand.
With trembling hands, I fill out the restraining order paperwork. Each word feels heavy as I document the abuse, line by line.
Poured water over my laptop.
Fractured my skull because he didn’t like the song I was playing and punched me.
Poured boiling hot water on me.
Tried to shove deer antlers into my anus.
Smashed the toilet and a pot plant with a hammer, saying he would do it to me next.
Spat on me multiple times.
Psychological abuse: name-calling, mentioning my sexual assault to hurt me.
My handwriting is shaky, adrenaline coursing through me. The more I write, the more I realize how much I’ve normalized. Each incident flashes in my mind like scenes from a horror movie I’ve accidentally lived.
While I sit and wait for my turn to submit my paperwork, I do something I rarely do.
I’m sick of being quiet.
I’m sick of being ashamed and alone.
I’m sick of Timmy and his dad making me feel like a vile piece of shit whentheyare the problems.
So I have a mental breakdown-slash-emotional meltdown on Facebook and post a raw, unfiltered cry for help.
I’m at the courthouse getting a restraining order.
The outpouring of support is immediate.
Vanessa:
Hey, I saw your recent posts. I don’t know what exactly is going on, but I just want to send you love and support. I was in a similar situation once a long time ago… more than once… anyway, the aftermath of those situations left me a very different person than I was before. All of this is to say that, once the immediate dust has settled, if you’re able to find it on you to do so, find a way to get someone to talk to. I don’t know anyone in Sunset Cay (assuming that’s where you still are), but I can give you the name of someone amazing who is located in NYC and I think can do Zoom.
Raquel:
Hi, sweetheart. I am so saddened that you are going through something so horrifying. I have been there, 6+ years of hell. You must alert authorities. You must reach out to professionals. You should probably stop posting to social media if he gets a rise out of this. Tell all your friends, family, baristas, whomever, so they know if anything happens to you. His behavior is not funny or a joke. Please, please reach out to me at any time. I had a gun put to my head as my last straw. Please don’t go the same way I did. Love you.
The comments buoy me, a small but powerful reminder that people care.
Finally, it’s my turn to submit my paperwork. I hand the form to the courthouse advocate, who scans it. “You missed a date here,” he says, pointing to a blank line.
“Oh, sorry,” I mutter, filling it in quickly.
“You say you want him to stay away from you for two years? Make it longer,” he suggests.
“What do you suggest?”
“I’d put fifty, but you put as long as you want.”
I think about it. My mind is still ensconced in fog. I cross out ‘2’ and replace it with a ‘10’.
“Alright,” he continues, “the judge will review these within the next two hours. Come back then, and if they sign off, we’ll have the paperwork for you.”