Lie after Lie after Lie

People may wonder how these domestic violence cases often get dropped.  I can tell you why.

First, I was forced to make payments for the lawyer and the bail money.  One day, I even dropped a check by the lawyer's office on Water Street and handed a check for $1000 directly to the receptionist.  Nearly half my pay before taxes.  I wonder what that receptionist thought of a domestic violence victim bringing in a check to her batterer's lawyer.  Something tells me I was not the first.

Then came the district attorney.  He needed a letter of explanation.  Of why I was changing my story.  A detailed explanation.  All typed up and fancy.  I wonder if I still have that word document on an old computer file somewhere after I left my old office.

Good thing I am a good writer.  Good thing I took acting all through elementary, junior high, and high school.  Because I sure gave the performance of my life that day in the county building.  Oh yes, I was a very good actress.

I had practice with Good Cop/Bad Cop two years earlier.  But this time the District Attorney was mostly All Bad Cop.

He was all over me that November Day in 2003.

Why was I changing my story?  Am I telling the truth?  How could the head bashing not be domestic violence?  What really happened that night?

I need that word document to remember how clever I was to create a scene where I was the crazy one ~ out of control ~ that the head bashing was an accident  ~ only a mere accident ~ all three blows to my head ~ only an accident, yes, an accident ~ all because I was out of control that night of August 22, 2003.

I rounded up a freaky psychiatrist ~ the one who prescribed Zoloft in my fourth attempt to handle the anxiety of domestic violence ~ told him to write a note saying I could have a bad reaction from missing a dose ~ that I was out of contol ~ yes, just missing one dose caused it ~ yes, missing a dose could make me feel out of control ~ enough to have someone accidentally bash my head into a wall when trying to restrain me.

So there it was.  A psychiatrist agreeing to write such a note ~ all for the price of another $100 visit ~ note written and attached to word document taking it all back ~ it never happened the way I said it happened ~ No, Mr. D.A., it never happened.

"What about the 911 call?" he asked.

Because 911 does not lie.

"I don't know why I called 911.  Must have been the missed dose of my medication making me think something bad was happening to me.  Yes, I forgot to take my Zoloft that day."

Over and over again.  Lie and lie after lie.

"I forgot to take my Zoloft that day.  He was not trying to hurt me.  He was trying to help me.  He thought I was hysterical.  Oh, yes, and that's why he kept throwing water all over me.  I was definitely hysterical."

"Did he make you say this to me?" he demanded.

"No," I looked him straight in the eye, emotionless, as if I were the one who should have been on trial.

Over and over again.  Lie after lie after lie.

"No, nothing happened.  Nothing happened.  Nothing happened.  It was all my fault.  I was hysterical."

He looked me in the eye and knew I was lying.  Now just as emotionless as me.

He bowed down and dropped the case.

Wiped the blood off his hands.

And said goodbye.