The 8-Year Bid

by D’Estin Perry Sr August 23, 2016 at 7:15 a.m.

I used to often tell myself that if I had never gone out that night, my life could have been very different in so many ways. But today, I’m thankful for making it through and being taught so many lessons.

February 22, 2005—my life changed in ways I wasn’t prepared for. KeKe and I went out one night to have a few drinks. We saw a few guys sitting at the bar who asked if we wanted drinks. We were young at the time, and having drinks bought for us was a plus. We had just walked in and said, “Let me go to the bathroom, we’ll be right back.” When we came back, the drinks had been ordered and were waiting. That moment would be the last thing I remembered after a few sips. I blacked out with no recollection of what happened for the rest of the night. The next morning, KeKe and I were trying to figure out what had taken place.

Being drinkers, we often partied hard; one drink shouldn’t have done that. Needless to say, we laughed it off and went on with the next day, thinking we must have had a good night. At the time, I was dealing with a good friend and was getting serious—at least I thought. We were creating a slight buzz around the city, nothing major.

About a month later, I started getting really sick. You know how that goes—green light: here comes baby number two. I already had a one-year-old son; his dad was in prison and pretty much out of the picture. The single mother life had already begun for me at the age of 21. Time went on, and every day I struggled with how to tell my guy friend that I was pregnant. I finally broke down and gave him that call. You know how that goes when you’re not “official” or labeled.

As I told him, his first response was:

"THAT’S NOT MY BABY."

At first, I was quiet, thinking, What the hell? Then I proceeded to explain the situation, sure that yes, it was his. Time went on, and we didn’t have much contact we argued often or just didn't speak much. I was upset he didn’t believe me, but months passed. About seven months in, I got a weird phone call asking me to come over—he wanted to talk. I drove over. He said, “Hey, come in, have a seat.” He asked if I was hungry and how I’d been. Then he said, “Do you remember that night I met you at the bar with your home girl?”

My heart started racing. I said, “Yeah, why?” He told me "Well the drinks weren’t right" and proceeded with "That's my baby" he knew it was his baby. I broke down like a baby, ran out the door, and called my friend to explain. As I cried, he asked, “Is the baby okay?” I broke it down for him, apologizing but also in disbelief.

Ladies, those next six weeks were some of the longest of my life. The uncertainty was unbearable. I wasn’t sure how women do it, but I survived. Here I was, possibly pregnant by a complete stranger and not the guy I’d been dealing with over a year. It was mind-boggling.

October 29, 2006 — I got that late night call and he said, “Come over here", It’s late, I’m in bed. Crazy me, I got up at 2 a.m. to drive all the way from Dupont Road to the East Side. Only to get there, tired, feeling stomach pains, and having to drive back home after an argument. As I got to Clinton Street and Saint Joe, my water broke. I ran home, grabbed my bag, and drove to Dupont. After pushing about four times, my son arrived. I had my eyes closed as the doctor handed him to me. I asked Leah, crying, “What does he look like? Are his eyes blue?” She said, “Nope.” All I could say was, “OMG!” The doctor handed him to me, and when I pulled back his lip, there was the gap.

I think I waited about two weeks after I got home to call him and let him know, Hey, I’ve got your son. Then it all began.

I’ve always believed that if you have kids, you should raise them with their father if possible. I made that choice—and it was one hell of a ride.

All the cheating, fussing, fighting, having to deal with women in the streets, as well as the internal battle to leave the unhealthy relationship—it was relentless.

It took awhile for me to finally reach my breaking point. I recall going to the club one night with friends—at the old Club V—and seeing him there. We weren’t talking at the time; I had caught him cheating a week before. He immediately says, “You’re leaving with me tonight.” I thought, Here we go. His favorite thing was to show off drunk in front of his friends. We leave, get home, kids are sleeping, my little sister is up, and suddenly he starts yelling. Typical. He would drink to the point of no return.

Before I knew it, I woke up thinking I was dreaming because I couldn’t see. I sat up, touching my face in pain. I had lost my eyesight. I had been beaten to the point of unconsciousness. I ended up in the hospital. Everyone asked what happened, and all I heard was, “Dang, who did it?” His reply: “Her friends she was with.” Knowing I had left with him was the crazy part. The doctor asked if I needed the police, he wouldn't let me answer and he told me I’d be okay, but wasn’t sure if I’d ever see again. I had to do further testing. I left with a broken nose and something damaged in my eyes. My face was so bad eyes shut and black.

It took about three months, maybe less, but after all the steroids and treatment, my sight returned—though my vision is still horrible and I occasionally get headaches in my eyes. The fact that I lived was what mattered most.

Time went on, and not much changed. Every time I said I was done, I ended up back there. June 4th, 2008—baby number three arrived. The fighting, drugs, and drinking continued. One day in late November 2008, I pulled up mid-day; he had been drinking with his friends and started an argument. I decided to leave. As I walked to my car put the kids in, he ran up behind me picked me up and slammed me in the middle of the street—like a WWE match—while I was six and a half months pregnant and my other two kids were in the car. My body went into shock. I had a seizure after hitting my head.

His friends picked me up out the street, I was taken inside but left on the couch for hours unconscious and unresponsive. I ended up at Parkview after waking up; I had a stroke and was paralyzed on my right side. Doctors said "I'm sorry D'Estin you might walk again".

Imagine being almost seven months pregnant and unable to move in a blink of an eye. I did therapy for about five weeks and begged the doctors every day to let me go home. I ended up being sent home in a wheelchair with outpatient care—but I refused to settle. I had been through hell, and I was determined not to give up. I regained feeling, got back on my feet, and pushed through.

Time passed. The fighting didn’t stop. The drugs didn’t stop. The drinking didn’t stop. Until finally, I said, I’m done. It took that last time—hearing my son yell, “Daddy, stop! Why are you always hitting my mommy?”—to know it was over. November 16, 2010, we were done.

He continued to try to come around someway somehow he always popped right back up! until New Years Eve Dec 2010 smh he came to my house and refused to leave so you know what I got Dressed and I left ALONE! He stayed with the kids. I returned home that next morning thinking ok he's going to leave but nope he came in the room and I'll save that story but January 1, 2011—baby number four arrived. That was the icing on the cake. By then, I had met someone else and was trying to move on. I had finally reached my breaking point, and that chapter of my life ended.

I could go on about the aftermath, but what I’ve shared is more than enough. I want to say this to all women: If you are in a domestic relationship that is abusive, get out—now. You may think it’s love, but love doesn’t hurt. It’s unhealthy for you and, if you have children, for them too. I lived through it—you may not.

If you leave today you and your kids can live tomorrow!!

To Be Continued…

When I wrote this on August 23, 2016, at 7:15 a.m., I thought I had survived the hardest part of my story. But life wasn’t finished shaping me yet.

In Part 2, I’ll share what happened next—the healing, the rebuilding, and how I turned my pain into the strength and power I am using today to inspire others.

Stay tuned.

Broken Silence: Heal Momma Heal

Real stories of grief, survival, healing, and hustling while rebuilding your life.

This story is part of the upcoming book

Broken Silence – The True Life Story of D'Estin Perry Sr