“I told myself I was tough”, she said.

“I told myself I was strong enough to stand by him”, she went on. “He has a troubled past and I understand why he might…”

She was no doubt tough. She had come into my office with her boots authentically worn from long days and dust. She placed her wide brimmed cowboy hat on the side table revealing her face with lines etched by the sun. Her long sleeve button down shirt was tucked into pressed dark denim Wranglers adorned by a silver belt buckle. She told me about her horse who had been her companion for the past fifteen years, her cow dog, and her days counting cattle and mending fence. She said she preferred solitude and despised being the subject of pity. “I have never been to anybody like you before”, she said. “It just never felt right to complain”, she continued while she shook her head and stared at the office floor.

At the time, as a bonafide ‘beginner’ in my profession, I couldn’t help feeling intimidation, respect, admiration, and curiosity all at once. She exuded an old-fashioned wisdom and grit softened by humility.

She told me about her anxiety. She told me that she could generally escape the worry amid daily demands on the ranch and with the freedom she felt on her horse’s back navigating endless acres of high desert and sage.

Inevitable aging and the toll of ranch life had forced a slow-down. She told me two much younger ranch hands were hired and the herd was downsized, which offered a reprieve, but also more moments of stillness seldom available in the past. Distractions became fewer and God help her, she was not going to get one of those “darn smartphones”. The opportunities to bury the day’s worries in hard work became scarcer.

For a long time, the story she told was not being able to overcome the tightness in her chest, the pit she felt in her gut, the lost “pep in her step”. She avoided using words like ‘sad’ and ‘afraid’ and often apologized for “bombarding me” with so many problems despite my repeated reassurance.

At times, she exuded suspicion and stubbornness when we discussed strategies and ways to cope. Nevertheless, her attendance week after week did not waiver.

One week, nearly six months into our work together, she sat down on the couch as always, put her hat on the side table as always, and then tears fell. Most always armed with stoicism and a ‘safe’ emotional distance, her tears caught me off guard. I attempted to gently inquire knowing that this was a pivotal moment…

“Can I show you something?” she said. I nodded with equal parts encouragement and concern.

She unbuttoned the cuffs on her shirt and with tears still falling rolled up her sleeves.

She held out her bare forearms discolored with visible shades of blues, reds, and purples and then stated, “there’s more”, and she slowly removed her shirt. Trying to hold back the intensity of my own emotions, I stood up from my chair, put a hand on her shoulder and could only think to say, “you are safe here”.

I scanned her upper body etched in bruises and redness- up and down her arms, the contours of her back, the base of her neck, along her ribs. Amid the damage, I couldn’t also help but notice her physical strength and stature that seemed to be in such stark contrast to the violence forcefully inscribed all over her body.

He had been described as an “old cowboy who liked whiskey”. He had been a Vietnam veteran almost certainly haunted by the trauma of war. She told me his rages would come without warning and she would become his target. Sometimes months would go by without incident. Accusations of infidelity, belittling, and name calling would escalate into punching, pushing, kicking, and hair pulling.

Afterwards there was usually an apology and sometimes a letter with promises never realized. Enduring the fear of staying was somehow lesser for her than facing the fear of pity and a future unknown. She tried her best to see her tolerance as toughness and in the lonely moments, found bits of reassurance riding out to her favorite viewpoint and taking in the beauty of the land when all else seemed so ugly.

I was the first person she told. Amid her desperation, I withheld my temptation to respond with a directive to ‘leave’ as it is almost never that simple. As she stood in my office exposed, vulnerable to the core, and overwhelmed with uncertainty, I struggled to find words. So instead, I could only say to her what was most evident to me… “I have never seen you so tough” and this I repeated week after week as we navigated the journey ahead.

This story is in honor to all the men, women, and children who have experienced or have been witness to domestic violence. 

Details of this story and names have been withheld due to confidentiality. Client consent was granted prior to publication.

Thank you for listening.

With gratitude,

Audry Van Houweling, Owner & Founder, She Soars Psychiatry, LLC

Sisters & Silverton, Oregon, www.shesoarspsych.com