It was early December of 1984. I was eighteen and had only been married a few months. We had been to a housewarming party for a couple I had never met. In fact, my husband was the only one I knew. Late that night I had just gotten into bed when my husband suddenly charged in, flipped on the light, and jumped on top on me.I was no match at 98 lbs and like a rag doll. He easily pinned my wrists on either side of my head while he straddled me and screamed in my face. He said the most vile, hateful, hurtful things I had ever heard. I’m too ashamed to ever even repeat them. The least vile was that I was a whore and wanted every man at the party. He was spitting in my face with each word and just looked possessed by a demon. The next thing I knew I was being dragged down the hall by my wrist and just tossed outside in the rain wearing only my t-shirt. He yelled a few more things and slammed and locked the door. Whores couldn’t sleep in the house. I was to sleep outside in November…in the rain…. in my t-shirt. I had just turned eighteen, just gotten married, and.moved eleven hundred miles from my family with him. I remember sitting on the cold, wet concrete porch step with my knees pulled up to my chest shivering and crying, wondering what the hell just happened. What did I do? Why was he doing this to me? Didn’t he love me? How could he treat me this way? I eventually walked down the alley behind our apartment, yes, barefoot and in a t-shirt. I used the pay phone at the convenience store to call my parents collect. I just didn’t know what to do. As I was talking to them he found me and apologized over and over and convinced me to go back with him to the apartment. It was thirty two years ago but I remember it in color like it happened yesterday. Some memories are etched forever into your core, you carry their pain for the rest of your life.