Concealing abuse through a bouquet of flowers

The bouquet of flowers was beautiful and judging from the number of “likes” the image on Facebook solicited, a lot of other people thought so, too.

“Flowers on no occasion…just because. I’m the luckiest wifey ever. Thanks, hunny bunny!” Laurena’s (not her real name) photo caption caused many others to gush, “How sweet!” “You two are such a perfect couple, always stay happy!”

I did not click the LIKE button nor did I make a comment. I wondered if the flowers were actually an act of contrition, a peace offering.

‘Does he hit you?’

Pre-Facebook era, a similar floral arrangement for Laurena was delivered to the office “just because.” When she saw them on her desk, she burst into tears saying that she could not imagine how lucky she was to have such a sweet husband.

Her tears revealed a vague purple tinge under her right eye, immediately noticeable to me who had long since learned how to scrutinize my own face for signs before going to the office. I called her into my office under the pretense of an urgent meeting and shut the door.

Silently, I offered her my compact and told her freshen up. She opened it to check her reflection and was alarmed to see how her tears had smeared her make-up and revealed what they were trying to cover.

“Oh, where did this come from? My God, I can’t remember hitting myself somewhere, but you know me, I’m always so klutzy,” began her litany of plausible explanations.

I once had the same reaction looking at mirrors. Sometimes I would check if the marks were visible and if I could safely go to work. Some marks could barely be seen. Sometimes, even if there were no marks, I was just so miserable that I called in sick.

Laurena was still trying to adjust her make-up and babbling on and on about concealers she liked and didn’t like. “My skin is acidic and some concealers, even the expensive ones—smudge making it look like…”

“Does he hit you?” I asked, interrupting her before I could stop myself. She looked up from her reflection in the compact, unable to speak.

I filled the awkward silence with my own admission. “My ex-husband used to beat me. I know what it is like.”

She nodded and slowly, her tears again began to fall as she recounted their fight.

Violence

It was a petty fight, something about the road going home. She suggested one road, and he took another. After not moving for over 30 minutes, she let out a sigh. He responded by lashing out at her, verbally at first. But he made sure to smack her across the head to emphasize his point about how he knew Manila’s roads better.

When they got home after an hour, he threw her bag on the floor, scattering its contents. Her own powder compact broke.

Her bag. He was always carrying it for her.

I supposed I should not have been surprised. Other people may have thought it was incredibly sweet and caring, the way he would follow her around carrying her bag for her in the morning and in the evening, when he would pick her up promptly at 6 pm even though she wouldn’t be done until about an hour later.

It drew the same reaction as the flowers; many of the single girls wishing they could find their own “hunny bunny.”

I wondered differently, even then. I wondered how his ego could take it, especially since I knew first hand that root cause of violence was not to physically harm, but to intimidate to exert power and control; it was subjugation.

Get out

“Is this the first time this has happened?” I asked, already knowing the answer before Laurena could give it. 

“You need to get out,” I told her as gently as I could. “That’s the only way the hitting will stop.”

No, no, she shook her head. “He knows he’s nothing without me, that he won’t be able to live without me, without our children because I will take them away from him. Subukan lang niya (Just let him try it),” she spat out, her anger and resentment surfacing for the first time.

“But what about you? How long do you think you can go on like this?” I asked. That day in the office, Laurena could not answer my question.

Now years later, seeing the flowers on Facebook, it saddened me to think Laurena still could not bring herself to answer that question. – Rappler.com

 

Editor’s Note: Because of how personal and sensitive this account is, we are making an exception and using a fictitious name. Rita of Cascia is the patron saint of abused women. It is a name chosen by the author herself because of its symbolic irony.

 

Flowers in vase photo from Shutterstock
Man and woman silhouette from Shutterstock