Monday, January 31, 2011

God As My Savior

During the four years of isolation, I can honestly say that I felt God's presence just as much as when I watched my mother slowly die for two months in the hospital.

I barely had anyone to turn to then ~ hiding the abuse from most of my immediate family ~ and finding every woman friend ~ except one who I am still friends with today ~ my friend Delia ~ slowly or quickly drift away when my situation grew worse.

There were times when I wish I could have called a relative to let me come over to stay the night, but the one time I felt I could pack up Lil' Red safely and get away, the relative turned me down for reasons I cannot remember.  Maybe he did not understand the gravity of the situation.  I do not really know.

My prison consisted of a home that was once very welcoming to me ~ with knotty pine walls and two woodstoves ~ a place that quickly became the most frightening place on earth to me.  It took over a year for him to convince me to move in with him.  I think I only did to keep the peace.  From the first month on, a repeating argument was his wanting me to live with him.  I think I still was holding on to my ideals of wanting to be married to the man I lived with or something along that line ~ but also hearing my domestic violence advocate telling me that once I moved in with him it would be very hard to leave.  She was right.

And so I left the tiny little studio I had found near the university in my first attempt to break free from him.  My dad had helped me move out the Ben Lomond apartment only 9 months earlier.  And I never told poor Dad that I had moved away.  Dad never visited me there, so I just had my mail forwarded and started up a voicemail service with a Santa Cruz number, so Dad would think I still lived there.  I had already changed my number twice in those 9 months in my futile attempt to end things completely with my abuser.

Life in Felton was a series of calls to the hotline while he was out in the driveway working on motorcycles.  My most vivid memory is looking out the window from the outside door to the master bedroom watching him work while I cried to the advocate on the other line ~ making sure he would not catch me seeking help.

Two years later, it was the same corner of my sick world that ended in the worse abuse ever ~ when I finally called 911 ~ but never managed to get to a hospital after having my head bashed into the wall three times.  The police called it a closed head injury.  No broken skin ~ no blood.  But pain that lasted for three days.  And a neck that could not turn for three days either.

I talked to God during these horrific times.  I would always say "God Help Me!"  He really was the only one who witnessed the abuse 24-7.  He listened to my tears.  My fears.  My hopes.  My dreams for a better day.  He was with me when my woman friends ~ from my domestic violence group or his A.A. program ~ turned their backs on me one by one.  I had not met Delia yet.  So before 2004, it was pretty much God and me.  I think back to those days and realize I did not even tell my sister the full story.  I was so isolated ~ tucked away in the Santa Cruz Mountains ~ that if it were not for working for the same university, I barely would have seen my sister.

So God and I spent many hours alone.  I prayed, and I asked for strength.  To get me through another day.  I looked out the window from the room I was mentally locked into from fear ~ saw the sunshine beating down on the pavement as he tinkered with the bikes ~ and asked God to help me leave this prison ~ help me free myself from my captor ~ from the man who really seemed to enjoy hurting me.

I never got mad at God for any of my troubles.  I knew he was with me even in the most desperate of times.  I knew he could not just wave a magic wand and make me wake up from this horrible dream ~ this horrible reality that I had found myself a part of day in and day out ~ no God could not fix my problem ~ but he led me to others who could help ~ and to better friends ~ who understood me and supported me where I was at in my situation.

I got close to God when my mother died and gave me the final gift of telling me who she was already seeing on the other side.  If I had ever doubted that God existed, my faith was sealed when Mama told me she saw Grandma Runyan in the doorway four nights before she died.  Yes, I knew that God was with us then along with her other relatives in Heaven.  And I knew my mother was with me now as I endured the daily torture of being with someone so unpredictable that I never knew what to expect from each minute of the day ~

"God Help Me, God Help Me!" I cried out loud each day.

And he did.

He protected me every minute of every day I spent with that man.

He allowed me to live.



"I will praise you in this storm."



Las Vegas


I need to go back to Las Vegas.

It's been nearly ten years.  I always think of that trip to Las Vegas that I took with my family to see my nephews' basketball tournament as the last time I was the Original Me ~ before my life changed completely ~ if only I had known that my future had been foreshadowed by women before me ~ who had already experienced the kind of abuse I was about to encounter.

We had our first "date" the night before my trip ~ I stayed out late ~ and caught a plane the next morning with my sister and her boys.  Those 3 1/2 days were so unexpectedly fun ~ I loved the basketball and all the down time in between.  Dad gave us each $150 to gamble with during our stay ~ from his lucky winnings already no doubt ~ and since I was not really into gambling, I went to Caesars Palace and pretended to be rich ~ dropping all the cold cash down at Versace on a pair of Cobalt Blue designer jeans that fit perfectly.  I could not stop laughing that I did such a thing and wrapped up the afternoon by buying Lady Godiva chocolate for the plane ride home.

The plane ride home.

The plane might have just crashed to have spared me from what would happen within nine days of my return.

The foreshadow did come to me on the plane ride home.  My sister's partner told me that this guy I had just dated would be calling me the minute I got home.  "Just you wait," he warned in a joking way, "He's going to be calling you since you've been gone for four days! Just you wait!"

I was so adventurous back then ~ having drove Mom's Old Mustang to airport myself ~ now driving back before Midnight from San Jose to Ben Lomond.

And within fifteen minutes, the phone rang.  And yes, it was him.  Looking back, I now wonder if he was actually sitting in the church parking lot across the street waiting for a glimpse of the White Mustang returning.  But no, he said, he had been trying to reach me every fifteen minutes ~ just hitting redial ~ not knowing exactly when my flight came in that night.

Poor Lil' Red ~ I had not even seen him in 3 1/2 days, and here I was foolishly agreeing to go out at midnight.  I wish I had just stayed home.

Of course, this second date was just as fabulous as the first ~ with warm gingerbread and homemade whipped cream at the Saturn Cafe ~ and late night Karaoke at some bar that is now torn down.

I was swept away by all of the attention I had so craved in my twenties and early thirties ~ Miss Late Bloomer ~ Miss 36-and-1/2-year-old spinster of sorts ~ now being lavished with love and affection from someone who would hurt me like no other sooner than later.

That "sooner" started within five days on the first night I did not call him after work or have dinner with him.  A young friend at UCSC wanted to go to Zoccoli's after work, and since I had not seen anyone or spent enough time with Lil' Red that first week, I thought it would be okay to do "my own thing."

Later he called around 9:30 p.m. ~ seemingly frustrated about not hearing from me earlier ~ wondering where I was ~ and told me he still wanted to see me that evening.

So I got ready to go out again and found myself riding with him in his Black Mustang down a windy Graham Hill Road back to Santa Cruz with him saying:

"If I do not see a lot of you, then I am going to have to see a lot of other women."

Baffled by this comment, I did not run away at that moment.  I just thought, we'll I guess that means he wants to be exclusive ~ maybe this is his strange way of letting me know ~ but the statement still haunted me ~ because of it's controlling ultimatum style ~ almost like a threat to cheat if I was not available to spend time with him 24-7.  So naive was I even at 36 ~ having very little life experience with men ~ only having one borderline abusive relationship with a jealous boyfriend back in high school.  I should have known he was sounding just like Lupe who eventually stopped me from hanging out with my girlfriends by the end of our year together.  I should have known.  But I did not know.  I did not know.

I did not know that four days later, it was over.  I had lost myself already.  I lost my backbone.  The backbone was filled up with fear.   Fear of leaving even after only nine days.  The mind games had started.  The crazy making had started.  He was already starting to swear.  I even went to a domestic violence support group in the hopes of ending it right then and there.  I already knew where the resources were located ~ having helped my sister with volunteer activities  ~ as she had become an advocate herself ~ after 15 years of survival herself.

But I didn't.  I did not leave.  I tried for four years.  It was so hard back then to leave.  So hard.

I need to go back to Las Vegas.  I need to get on a plane and buy another pair of Versace jeans ~ this time two sizes bigger ~ since I am no longer being starved by him ~ I want some more Lady Godiva chocolate for the plane ride home ~ and this time coming back to a world that is good and loving and clean and kind ~ a world where people love and care about me ~ who do not try to change me ~ a world where compliments are spoken instead of daily criticisms ~ the world which I have already created for myself today.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

For The Love of Jack

One week after he bashed my head into a wall, he took me up to his sponser's house in Bonny Doon and bought a wiener dog that he tucked in his motorcycle jacket for the ride down the long and windy Felton Empire Grade Road.

I did not see Jack 24-7 during the first four months he joined us as I was technically living at Lazy Woods just down the alley to honor the restraining order the police had put on him the night of the arrest.  But once I was "forced" to move back in the new year, Jack became the love of my life ~ and my protector for at least the next year.

When he would yell at me, Jack would run and jump up by my side on the couch ready to protect me from anything he possibly could.  He spooned right next to me ~feeling my pain ~ as vulgar words were spoken ~ and threats were made ~ he offered silent support and all the unconditional love and devotion that dogs instinctively know how to give.

Jack was my world ~ my saving grace ~ along with my own Lil' Red ~ who followed my saga of life in the Santa Cruz Mountains ~ so isolated from family and friends.

A year later, Jack was joined by two new friends ~ his lady love Jill, another wiener dog puppy, and Lil' Dickens, a buff kitten, from the home of his sponsor.

Unfortunately, the abuse had gone beyond the verbal ~ the mental ~ the emotional ~ and Jack would see me get hit at the second home up north.  This time, Jack was too afraid to stay by my side and instead ran to hide under the covers in his master's bedroom ~ to block out the sight and the sound of his master hurting the lady he once tried to protect.

I told myself I had to leave ~ that if I could not figure out a way to leave for myself ~ that I had to leave for the animals' sake ~ that there was no way they could continue to watch this kind of abuse ~ that I had to leave to protect them ~but knowing in my heart that this man was capable of doing the same thing to another woman.

Jack loved his master ~ and really the only tenderness I saw in this man was the love he showed for his dogs ~ he adored them and took them everywhere ~

Years later, I still think of my Precious Jack ~ and His Love Match Jill ~ and remember two precious souls who filled my heart with such joy during the darkest days of my life ~ and ultimately led me to rescuing Ceci, a senior wiener dog, two years after my contact with them ended.

Jack taught me that an animal can feel your pain ~ and can want so desperately to try to help ~ but even their little souls can get so scared that the flight response will eventually kick in ~ so that they can protect themselves from a fear even beyond what I may have been feeling at the time.

But I am grateful to him for all the years of devotion he gave to me ~ and the happiness he sprinked throughout my crumbled up world ~

And I thank God ~

Each Day ~

All For The Love of Jack ~

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Birth/Day

He came all the way back to ruin my birthday.


Drove three hours.  Just for the occasion.


Of completing ignoring me.


He had been living up north for four months now in his second home in the country.


But he still kept me in his Felton house with a revolving door of housemates ~ just to not end things completely ~ to keep me financially tied to him ~ as I continued to make those monthly payments for the lawyer and bail money.


He never spoke to me all day.


I kept waiting, and he never spoke.


I made plans to see a movie with a young friend from UCSC.


But I turned down offers to see my family at night ~ thinking he would come around ~ take me out to dinner ~ speak to me.


The housemate bought chocolate frosted brownies and decorated them with those pink candied letters and flowers just like we use to have on our cakes as kids.  She called us into the kitchen to sing "Happy Birthday" to me.  And he just stood there in silence.


I called the hotline that day and cried.


And I later I checked my "secret voicemail" ~ the one I have to this day ~ and listened to all the domestic violence advocates leaving me loving messages of support and hope.


The Directer, Dee, said in only a way that a woman old enough to be your mother could say, "Honey, you're 40 now.  Pretty soon, you will be done taking this shit from him."


I went to "my room" ~ the room that Lil' Red slept in overlooking the trees that dotted the alley behind us ~ and where I retreated to after times of abuse ~ took out the tape recorder ~ looked at the clock ~ 10:17 p.m. ~ and sang "Happy Birthday to Me" as this was the exact minute I was born.  I kissed my mother's picture and held my head high ~ as I then began to take a series of self-portraits to commemorate this birthday ~ the one he could not destroy completely ~ even if he kept trying to destroy me ever other day of the year.


I vowed then that no one would ever be able to ruin my birthday ~ ever again ~ that I would now spend most of my birthdays alone ~ celebrating me ~ and my love for myself.


And even though it took another six months to finally leave permanently, something shifted that day.


I finally realized that he had zero ounce of love for me ~ to completely ignore me on my 40th birthday ~ to eventually just drive off that night and not come back until very late.


I tasted my future that day.  I knew if I could still smile and sing "Happy Birthday to Me" ~ that it did not matter how much he hated me.  I was still here.  I had been born.  My birthday still arrived even though he tried so hard to stomp it out.


I felt a glimmer of hope that day.  That Dee was right.  That being 40 ~ just in itself ~ had made me stronger ~ and that a new life was within my reach.

Monday, January 17, 2011

The Battlefield




The end had finally come. The war was over.  And in the aftermath, all I could see was the color gray.  All I could envision was me crawling out of a war zone ~ climbing over large gray rocks ~ digging out of the rubble ~ trying to get to the other side ~ where life was normal ~ and somewhat carefree ~ where beatings did not occur ~ where vulgar words were not spoken ~ to a place of peace and tranquility ~ if only for a moment ~ before life's regular stresses naturally occurred.

This is what I described to my domestic violence support group when I showed up for our noon session and told them it was finally over.  For weeks, these images filled my head.  I could not connect any human emotion to my thoughts ~ only images of war and survival ~ like a World War II soldier crawling out of the war zone on the day the war finally ended.

Gray and rocks and rubble ~ and all the abuse a blur for the moment ~ just tired and weak and exhausted and weary and fragile and in complete shock that my old life was over and a new life had suddenly begun.

I knew the end was near when he banged my head with a light bulb multiple times in mid-June.  I knew I had to finally make long-term preparations to get away.  I had that familiar mental nausea feeling come over me upon the new realization that yet another woman was involved when he was completely unreachable one night when I had expected a call from him.  I naively called and emailed a friend of his asking him to check on him when I could not reach him in over 24 hours.  But I knew he was just out doing what he always liked to do ~ carrying on with multiple women behind my back ~ and he really was not lying in some ditch from a motorcycle accident somewhere in the foothills.

And so I drove down Scotts Valley Drive shortly after the last abusive incident and spotted a "For Rent" sign for a duplex. I did not write the number down, but I bought a Sentinel later and looked up the ad.  Made the call.  Sold myself with my university references.  Got my friend Delia to pose as my landlord.  And rented a place at the end of the month.  I did not tell him that I now had two rentals and had not even taken any items even over to the new place ~ but it was there ~ waiting for me ~ and my safety plan started to take motion.

The previous attempts at breaking up either ended with more violence or 24-7 stalking, and I always returned to the scene of the crime.  But I knew this time would be different.  That it was really going to happen this time.  Because I knew I was going to die if I did not get away.  He always wanted to hit me in the head, and how many times could I get hit in the head before the final blow would be fatal?

I thought about the light bulb and how the bulb itself did not hurt as much as his fist.  But I pictured how easily the bulb could have sliced my scalp if it had broken.  And I wondered why he could not stop hitting me in the head.  Why he hated me so much.  Why he still wanted to keep me around.

Two weeks later it was over.  By his own choice.  Finally looked me in the eye and told me about the other woman in the other town.  He always had to lead a double life.  And so he was finally done with me.

The war was over.  God threw in the white towel.

And I was free. 

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Uncensored

For the first time in my life, I feel uncensored.  It may have taken me 5 1/2 years to get to the point of self-expression, but it was worth the wait. I am now sharing stories I wrote in the past and more stories about my past experience with domestic violence.  Some of them may be too hard for you to read.  But I need to write in order to heal.  And I feel the silence has followed me even after 5 1/2 years of survival.  I still only talk about this experience with only a few people in my life.  I can literally count on one hand the number of family or friends I have discussed my past with in the last 10 years since I first met him.  I hope the blog will encourage my readers who know me to feel comfortable reaching out to me to talk about my life.  And to talk about how you may actually know another woman in the same situation.

End the Silence on Domestic Violence!




Uncensored

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Death Row (You ask me why I never left)


On 11/9/10, I posted the opening paragraph to the following story I wrote on July 18, 2005 after my ex's new girlfriend asked me "why I never left." I now have the courage to share the rest of my story.





Death Row

You ask me why I never left.  I recently told my domestic violence advocate that it was safer to remain on death row.  Despite the abuse, I could at least see my family.  I could still take care of my diabetic cat.  I chose to remain on death row until he finally broke up with me.  He needs to feel in control, and every time I spoke of leaving or began to make plans to rent a new place, he got angrier and angrier.  His anger scared me.  His death threats scared me.  Death row prolonged the abuse, but it also prolonged the possibility of death.  At any moment, my number could be called.  My time could be up.  His anger could escalate, and the final blow to my head would be fatal.  There were days when I would think, “I wonder if this will be the day I will die.” 

August 22, 2003:  He bashed my head into the wall causing a closed head injury.  I called 911, and he only spent 4 hours in jail.  He then made me pay him back $5000 for the lawyer and bail money over the next year.  I even wrote a check directly to his lawyer.  I chose not to go to the hospital but recovered at a motel in Watsonville.  I could not turn my head for over three days.  

Since then, he has grabbed my ponytail, dragged me down the hall, and banged my head on the wall.

He has spit on me, thrown water on me, and spent hours chasing me through the house pouring lotion all over my hair and clothes.

He has choked me, causing me to fall back on the dryer and bang my head on the pantry shelf.

He has punched his closed fist onto my head multiple times.

He has socked me in the arm several times while driving.

He has socked me several times on my left shoulder blade while giving me a massage.

He has banged my head with a light bulb multiple times.

He threatened to bash my head in with a rock and throw me over a cliff, making it look like a suicide.  He later denied making the actual threat; instead, he explained that he made the statement since he thought I was suicidal, and he wanted to help me commit suicide.

He later asked, “What am I going to do with you—put you in a hole?”  He later told me to choose what I wanted to have written on my headstone.

He has broken my cell phone (to keep me from calling 911 again), the coffee table, my flashlight, and many other items.  He took a knife to an Easter bunny and tore all of the stuffing out.  He has threatened to hurt my cat.

He has now confessed to being involved with many of his women friends behind my back.  He says that his promiscuity is perfectly O.K. because he was "done" with me two years ago.

He claims he has chosen you over me because you do not provoke him to anger.  But I have been abused for moving the car seat forward, moving a kitchen magnet to a different spot on the refrigerator, removing a price tag from a dog toy, removing a fan from a shelf, gaining 20 lbs on the anti-anxiety drug Paxil, for asking any kind of question, for speaking or for not speaking, and for bringing home Kentucky Fried Chicken (even when I was verbally abused the previous month for not bringing home chicken).

He hated me and everything about me.  




Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Remember How This Day Will End

One of the people I was able to confide in at times was my older sister ~ although the isolation I experienced during those four years kept me from telling her everything.

Her best advice to me during those difficult years was "Remember How This Day Will End."  She told me that no matter what plans I had with him for any special occasion, I should always think ahead and remember how this day will end.

Because anything special always ended badly.

He liked to ruin those days that were meant to be special.

There were Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays full of isolation and tension.  Never being able to see my own family at times.  And never being able to bring him, of course.  I never really told my father that we had even gotten back together after I left the Santa Cruz Mountains to get away from him long before we ever moved in together.

I remember one New Year's Eve spent up north at his second home.  He had sent me home on Christmas Day and refused to let me come back up during my vacation week.  I begged to be able to come up for New Years, mostly because I wanted to see the animals.

He was in A.A., and there was a big celebration at the Fellowship.  We went there for the speaker and stayed a little for the music, but he did not want to buy food from the grill that they had right in the center, so we drove back late in the evening to his house where he cooked a lavish meal of steak and vegetables that he charged me $20 to eat.  On our drive back to eat this 10:30 p.m. dinner, we got into an argument about his son who we had seen pulled over on the side of the road by the highway patrol on our route home.  He stopped and talked to the officer and got his son out of whatever was being questioned.  And as we drove off, we fought about a topic unrelated to his son being pulled over, and all of a sudden, he started pounding me in my left arm as he drove recklessly through the foothills.

So there I was ~ being beaten as he drove me home ~ and then being fed a $20 dinner that he cooked himself.  By now it was after 11 p.m., and he said we would go back to the New Year's Eve celebration and ring in the New Year at his fellowship.  Hurt, weary, and confused, I accompanied him back to a place of warmth and welcoming and wondered how I ever got myself into this situation 3 1/2 years earlier and how would I ever get out.  How would I ever get free?  Would the New Year bring freedom with it?

And somehow, it did.  Because he finally left me six months later after revealing to me that he had been having another relationship with another woman in this other town and that he "was done with me."

Sometimes, The New Year really does bring new beginnings.  And I thank God daily that 2005 was a new beginning for me.


Tuesday, January 4, 2011

The Extortionist

He said I had to pay him back.

The lawyer and the bail money.

Because I called 911.

It was my fault he had to pay $2500 to get released in less than 4 hours.

It was my fault it took $2500 to get the case dropped.

He said I had to move back to pay him back.

Unless I could pay him in full.

Oh, how I tried to get all the money at once.

I tried, and I failed.

I could not ask my father.   I do not think I had even told him that my head was bashed into the wall three months earlier.

I only asked one person for only 1/3 of the amount ~ but once she was tipped off by another person that the money was for "a man," she refused the loan and never spoke to me again.

And so I was led back to my own concentration camp ~ my very own prison ~ suffering two more years of even worse physical abuse ~ each month ~ as I logged each check I wrote him ~ payable to The Extortionist.