People often dismiss a woman’s claims of abuse or mistreatment, because she didn’t speak up right away. Or because she can’t prove what she’s saying. And we wonder why women don’t speak up.

I’m not going to speak in riddles here. I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’m not going to speak in generalities, or vague terms that could apply to anyone. I’m going to speak from my experience. From my own story. I’m going to tell you why I didn’t speak up.

As soon as I wrote that, I realize that’s not actually true, I did speak up. I spoke up many times. My voice got louder and louder. First I spoke up quietly to the people closest to me. Then I spoke louder to the people in the next circle of influence. Then I started yelling, with a bull horn. I yelled it to my pastors, to my parents, to my in-laws, to my sisters and brother. And then I went to the court system, where my voice was finally heard.

I didn’t speak up, because I thought maybe my husband would eventually listen.

I didn’t speak up, because I was taught that if I submitted more, if I loved harder, if I gave more, if I prayed longer, my husband would one day give a rat’s behind.

I didn’t speak up because, when I said to death do us part, I meant it.

I didn’t spoke up because I was taught that divorce is never an option, and I believed that with all my heart.

I didn’t speak up because I had no way to support myself, let alone my four children

I didn’t speak up because I have no higher education, no job experience, and I had lived outside of American culture for eight years.

I didn’t speak up because I didn’t want to lose the love and affection of my family. I didn’t want to lose the privilege of being held in my mother’s arms.

I didn’t speak up because I didn’t think anyone would believe me.

The bruises I carried could not be photographed.  I didn’t speak up, because I’d heard the abuser defended my whole life. I’d heard them be told it didn’t happen. I was used to people telling victims it was their fault. I was used to people telling victims they had to forgive, they had to release, they had to let go, they had to understand the their abuser’s perspective.

I didn’t speak up because I was scared.

Every day I would put on my face. I would play the part. I would mask the sorrow with a smile and hope for the best.

I didn’t speak up because I have always been the brave one, the loud one, the one who knew her mind. No one would ever believe me if I said I wasn’t actually brave, if I said I hadn’t told the whole story, if I admitted that I had protected, and lived with abusers for my whole life.

I didn’t speak up, because I suspected that when I did, it would go to court. I knew that if it went to court, I would be cross examined by my abuser.

I knew that if it went to court, anyone who had ever hurt me, or tried to control me, or tried to manipulate me, could sit in that room and stare at me, and I didn’t know if I was brave enough to face that.

I didn’t speak up, because I was told that if I did, he would take my children from me forever.

I didn’t speak up, because I knew it would ruin me financially. I knew I would lose my home, possibly go bankrupt.

I didn’t speak up, because I loved the people who were hurting me.

I didn’t know how to hold that love and the truth in the same space.

I didn’t speak up, because I was a child when a lot of things happened, a child when a lot of beliefs were set in motion, a child when a lot of experiences were had, and nobody told me they were wrong.

I didn’t speak up because I was ashamed. I was ashamed that I had stood by for so long. I was ashamed I couldn’t stop it. I was ashamed that I was worth so little. I was ashamed I had not modeled the strength and courage I had encouraged others to use.  

I didn’t speak up because I was isolated. I was a paragon a Christian awesomeness. I didn’t speak up because I had “given it all up for Christ”, and I was held to a different standard. I didn’t speak up because I was holding myself to a different standard.

I didn’t speak up because I was angry, I was so, so angry. I was so angry that my anger scared me. I didn’t want to hurt people. I didn’t want to destroy lives. I didn’t want to take action from a position of anger and bitterness. I knew I had to slow down, and allow my wounds to be attended to, so that my anger could take a backseat to the vulnerable emotions the anger was masking.

I didn’t speak up. Until I did.

If you’re gonna ask a woman, or any person for that matter, but ESPECIALLY a woman “why didn’t you speak up?” or “why didn’t you leave?”…

You better be ready to shut the f*** up, sit down, and put your listening ears on. You might learn a thing or two that could help change the world.