VOICES of Acadiana

Our Story Part 1 Our names are Roxanne Martin and Chelsea LeBlanc and on November 29, 2017 our lives would be FOREVER changed! After months of secretly planning, I, Roxanne, was finally able to escape 30 years of domestic violence. No one knew of my plans!!! NO ONE!! No family members, friends, co-workers, not even my children knew of my plans. I knew it would come as a shock to everyone!!! You see, when you live with domestic violence you learn to pretend that things are normal. You don’t want people to know how unhappy you are and how crappy life can be. What I didn’t know when I pulled out of the driveway that morning, is that the deep psychological effects would be long-lasting for both myself and our daughter, Chelsea. And the nightmare didn’t end just because I didn’t live there any longer. Here is our story. Roxanne: I knew leaving him would put my life in danger. I knew this because I’d tried to leave numerous times over the 30 years we were together. When I would attemp...

My name is Roxanne Martin and I’m a survivor of thirty years of domestic violence. I’m not quite sure when I actually realized that I was in an abusive relationship. I met my ex-husband in 1987. I quickly realized that there was something not quite right in our relationship. He didn’t  allow me to wear certain things and hated when I did things without him. Nothing much, but it did catch my attention (red flags). My ex-husband and his siblings often mentioned that during their childhood their own father has been verbally and physically abusive towards them and their mother. Their mother left with them many times, but the kids would always beg her to go back to him, and she would. Over the years, I witnessed first hand how verbally abusive my ex-father-in-law was.  In the beginning of our relationship, my ex-husband and I had been in numerous physical altercations. Most of my memories are of him choking me into unconsciousness. Others are of him slapping me so hard I ...

We were teenagers when we first met. The year was 1990, the first time I laid eyes on him was at a church youth group function. Set against the dusty rose carpet and wood paneling walls, he stood at the front of the church with his friends. He was wearing a mustard yellow and black shirt buttoned all the way up with dark Girbaud jeans. Hands in his pockets. Dark hair, hazel eyes, and a mischievous smile.  My first impression was that I didn’t like him. I should have trusted myself. I was born fourteen years earlier to a teenage mother who never completed high school. Her first marriage was extremely, physically abusive. I was in third grade when we made our strategic exit from his grip. She remarried when I was in fourth grade, but their initially strong emotional connection quickly faded away and for many years they essentially lived separate lives. My mother was a survivor. I learned from her. Just survive. Keep going. But I didn’t want to be like her… I came from a “bro...