My Story of Domestic Violence Got Redacted, So I Wore It Instead
When I fell in love for the first time, I was sure we’d be together forever, but forever turned sour in just a few short months. I’d heard that my boyfriend cheated on me, so I angrily confronted him in a park. He looked off to the side and started shuffling backwards, as he weakly offered: Are you just gonna believe everything people tell you? The breakup happened fast. My heartache felt dramatically poetic, but it was actually quite cumbersome: I had to set my backpack down and wiggle my trembling arms free of his denim jacket one by one and hand it over. Then I had to reach behind my neck, pull at the leather knot of his shark tooth necklace, and struggle to loosen it until finally I could pull it over my head and toss it at him. With that, I had turned in all my girlfriend accoutrements.
A few days later he began begging for me back, doing wildly romantic gestures and apologizing in long monologues and handwritten letters. I happily fell back into his arms. Then something terrible would happen in the relationship and we’d break up again. His romantic gestures turned into menacing threats, and this break-up-and-get-back-together cycle continued until eventually he did three drive-by shootings of my house.
Anytime I used to tell someone this story, horror would flash across their face, and I would quickly follow it up with, “Don’t worry, it wasn’t as bad as it sounds.”
When we picture domestic violence, we often conjure a muted color palette, shadows looming in the corners, as brutal images tumble about to a vicious soundtrack. But that’s not what it like felt to live it. Abuse occurs in the mundane: It happens as you’re grabbing Skittles from 7-Eleven, and when he’s telling you how beautiful you look that day. Abuse sometimes feels like just another moment when you can’t believe what a shithead your boyfriend is, because your brain learned to ignore the red flags way back when you were even entering into the relationship. During the worst of it, I was not a shattered woman hiding in a closet; I was still wondering if my butt looked okay in my jeans or if I had left my flat iron on.
Chelsea Devantez wearing the dress she made from her journal entries.
I told the story of my relationship and those shootings in my upcoming memoir, I Shouldn’t Be Telling You This, which is out on June 4. But when I turned in the manuscript, I was told to delete the story of domestic violence. They said something like, “It’s too dangerous to share.” I was enraged at the decision and I couldn’t get out of bed for days. I called in sick to work as I wrestled with the concept of deleting the entire story I’d worked my whole life to have the stamina to share.
I am not someone you would ever expect to have been a victim of domestic violence. I’m a comedian and TV writer for a living, I love a bold lip, and sadly, I used to quote Lean In back when I made other terrible decisions, like wearing peplum tops and Santa-sized belts out to the club. You would never expect me to have been in a violent relationship, but that’s because you never expect anyone you know to be a victim of domestic violence. But statistically, it’s one in four—it’s happening to the woman next to you at the grocery store, or it could be your best friend, your mom, your sister, your girlbossing annoying manager. No one looks or acts like your typical domestic violence victim, because our stories have lived in the shadows, so much so that most people don’t know what to look for, including the ones going through it.
We relegate these stories to thrillers and Lifetime movies and murder podcasts. But the more intimate partner violence stories are kept in the dark and deleted from books, the harder it is to have examples in culture of how to say something, fight back, or survive. I had wanted to tell the story of my relationship in a way that could help someone inside one recognize themselves. I even wanted to make it funny, just to be able to tell one of these stories in a genre it’s not usually allowed into. (Now, you are probably wondering how in the hell I planned to make my story funny, but what if I told you that he and his friends called themselves “The Big Dawgs” and would bark in harmony along to 2Pac songs. I mean, c’mon, that’s at least kind of funny.)
So I refused to delete it. Instead, I redacted just enough words so that technically they couldn’t tell me no. Instead of telling my story, I used the black bars in my book to tell a new one, perhaps a more important one: the story of how our systems are set up to silence victims in the name of protection. And now, my comedy gal memoir is more blacked out than a bachelor party.
Before turning in my final draft, I fact checked everything in the book with the dozens of journals I had kept when I was younger. When I began to read through them, I found that a younger me had written pages and pages of details that would put Brett Kavanaugh’s so-called calendars to shame. As my fingers paged through each diary, I realized that despite thinking that “maybe it wasn’t that bad,” it was, in fact, far worse than I had ever remembered. That’s when I decided to do what any traumatized debut author slash comedian might: I scanned 900 pages of my journals via an app on my phone and sent them to the designer Diego Montoya to make into a dress for me to wear on my book tour.
They might tell me that I can’t tell my story, but it doesn’t matter, because I already did, years ago in the pages of my journals that now rest on my skirt.
