Friday, February 17, 2012

Highway 9

People may wonder why I keep writing about my past.

I started the blog as a way to process my lingering grief for my mother who died on Christmas Day 1994.

By my second story, I had already hinted about my experience with domestic violence and expressed my desire to share my story.  So much has already been written in the past 15 months.  So much has already been shared.  I have even made nearly a dozen of online friends from women who have read my stories, women who were helped by my words.

Mom is still a big theme on my blog, but I have found my true calling by writing about domestic violence now.  I am challenging myself to dig deeper into the layers of memories that may have been blocked out simply to deal with my difficult daily life back then.

I found my sister's van driving me all the way to the Santa Cruz Mountains the day after Valentine's Day.  I was only planning to drive as far as the Heavenly Cafe just past the outskirts of Scotts Valley.  But the van drove me past the cafe and down Mount Hermon Road.  I had tried to make the trip the week before, but I could not bear the memories that would surface just by driving along Highway 9.

I drove to Felton to see if it looked the same.  I do not think I have set foot in the Santa Cruz Mountains with the exception of visiting my sister at Family Camp in Mount Hermon in the past six years.  So I have pretty much avoided Highway 9.

I wanted to see the old house where it all happened.  I wanted to see if it was still painted green.  I drove past Lazy Woods and remembered Dear Bob taking me in for 3 1/2 months after my head was bashed into the wall on the night of August 22, 2003.  A few doors down was the little house.  A large, wooden front yard fence and gate (which had been built my last year there) still blocked any view of the actual grounds.  The fence looked larger and taller than I remember.  Like an actual fortress.  Blocking out any view from the public of what was really going on behind closed doors.  I could not see the color of the little house, so I continued driving on.

The van drove me to Ben Lomond.  I decided to get out and actually go into Spanky's Cafe.  I told myself I did not care if I saw anyone I knew.  Because I doubt they would remember me.

Nothing had changed.  The Our Gang kids still hung on the wall.  The same colorful characters still dotted every table.  Even the menu looked the same.  I felt like a tourist in these mountains which held so many memories for me.

Turning around, I was amazed at how I remembered every curve of Highway 9.  I remembered where everything would be around every curve. 

Here is the turnout where he first waved me over to talk with me about his girlfriend, seeking my advice.

Here is the street by the market where he dumped me out of his car a year later and made me find my own way home.

Here is the spot across from the market where I called the hotline the day after my birthday ~ the old phone booth no longer there.

Here is the old fellowship where I sat by his side at so many of his meetings, embracing the members of his program, bringing them cookies for their coffee and even pillows to add life to the drab couches we sat on each day.

And here is the house which held me prisoner for three years ~ now freshly painted white.

And in the house so many years ago was a woman being dragged down the hall by her ponytail, having lotion being poured all over her hair and clothes.

Here in the house she had her life threatened, her belongings broken, her spirit diminished, her hope vanished.

Here in the house, she sat isolated from family and friends, many who did not even know she lived there.

Here in the house, she looked out the window, making sure he did see her eat before she was "scheduled" to eat.

Here in the house, she looked out the window, making sure he did not see her calling the hotline.

Here in the house, she prayed for God to see her through to another day.

Here in the house, she prayed again with each slamming of her head into the wall.

Here in the house, she finally called 911 to keep herself from being killed.

Here in the house, her secrets stayed hidden for three long years.

Here in the house ~ the little green house ~ where her world reeked of shame.

Driving slowly past, I looked into the little house ~ my only view being white paint below the rooftop ~ and saw my life as if it had been lived by someone else.

But it was my life.

And it was me in that house.

Along the edge of Highway 9.





Uncensored


Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Straight in The Eye

I saw him again.

I see him around a lot.

I usually dodge him.

But this time I looked him straight in the eye.

I first did a double take, pausing for a moment to make the direct connection to a not so distant memory.

Of course, it was him.

He was standing right outside the building where it all happened.  Where he worked so hard taking all my money to get my abuser's case dropped.

I held my held high as I looked him straight in the eye.  I may have even given him a half smile.

He looked back at me twice.  And I wondered if he actually thought he knew me from somewhere.

I wonder if he does remember the domestic violence victims of the abusers he represents.

A criminal defense lawyer so slick to get so many cases dropped.  Yes, there he stood looking straight back at me.  A Valentine's Day encounter on the corner of Ocean and Water Streets.

I usually see him when he jaywalks across the street from his law office to the county courthouse.  I have had many flashbacks seeing him darting across traffic to help another abuser go free.

I mostly remember how he took my money so freely.  The money my abuser made me pay him to get the case dropped.  I remember how my abuser would have meetings with him at the Santa Cruz Diner instead of the lawyer's office, strategizing on what I could do to help them get the case dropped.

And so the case was dropped.  So many years ago erupting back up to the surface in that single fleeting moment of looking him straight in the eye.  My eyes telling him that I survived.




Uncensored


Friday, February 10, 2012

The File

I thought about my file at the Walnut Ave Women's Center today.

I wondered if they still have it, if it's been archived, if the contents still exist.

I remember that file as being some type of safe deposit box like Mom's old jewelry being held at the bank.

I remembered each item carefully entered into my file.

A restraining order from November 2001 all filled out and just waiting for me to have the courage to sign and date it.

Two polaroids of a bruised leg, abuse not caused by him but by his ex who showed up at the door on a night I was visiting him.

Love letters left at my door once I had finally left the Santa Cruz Mountains.

Safety plans unused but still written.

I would like to see my file. 

I would like to look at my past ~ physically in the face ~ and remember the events even more clearly than I do today ~ from an even deeper level of pain ~ seeing the contents of that file again.

I blocked out so much of the daily events of those four years, and just today, I realized how I had blocked out the bruises inflicted by his ex so long ago.

I remember the advocate who took my pictures.

I remember the old blue couch I sat on in the living room of the Walnut Ave Women's Center.

I am struggling to remember my first advocate's name.

I think it was Andrea.

Blond and beautiful with a strength of spirit that gave me hope in my early days that I could be like her.  That I could be free.

I met her within a couple of days of Halloween 2001, the night I drove myself to Dominican.

I had only been with him three months, and this was already my second attempt to break free.

Andrea would coach me on how to respond to his calls ~ if I even picked up the phone.

She would give me catch phrases to yell into the phone, like "No More Drama!" and then hang up.  I ended up changing my phone number two times.

I remember how hard we worked on that restraining order and how terrified I was to sign it.  I really feared the abuse would escalate from the moment he was served the papers.  I could never sign it.

During those early years, I would think of my file and the restraining order that laid within it.  A file with my name on it.  A file with my history of early abuse.

I would like to see my file.  I would like to read my restraining order.  I would like to imagine what my life may have been like if I had signed it right then and there.  On November 2, 2001.  Ending an abusive relationship before it escalated.  Before it escalated into something even more horrific than those early days in 2001.

But my history was detoured by not taking action.  I went through four more years of abuse.  Andrea had long left the center, and my new advocates became Karen and Lorene.

I continued on my journey to break free.

The women at the Walnut Ave Women's Center were with me every step of the way.

They gave me sanctuary from the abuse.  They gave me a place to hope for a better life.

They held my file in their hands.  They held my history in their hands.

They held me in their hands.

Until the day I was finally able to leave.  Both him and the Walnut Ave Women's Center.

Closing a chapter of my life.

Closing my file.

Chronicling my past.

The abuse now archived.





Uncensored

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Silence

There was so much silence, so many secrets during my four years with him.

Secrets from my father about the depth of my isolation and the escalating abuse.

Secrets from my brother and my extended family which included some local cousins and a great aunt.


Secrets from my colleagues who may have wondered what was wrong with me.

My life consisted of trying to maintain some type of normalcy on the rare occasions I did see my family and showing up for work every day despite the chaos in my private world.  I then secretly spent my lunch hour twice a week at the Walnut Ave Women's Center, working so hard every day of those four years to finally break free.

I could be real at the Walnut Ave Women's Center with the advocates who accepted me for "where I was at" in my situation and be real with the other women in my domestic violence support group.

I could not be real with my family or my work colleagues.


I could share a little more with my older sister who had first-hand knowledge of my situation, but my time with her was so limited when I was tucked so far away in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

It took the young students to figure out what was wrong with me.

I remember Diane who coined him "The Bad Man" ~ she worried about my well-being even though I shared very little with any of them at work.  She was the only person at work who validated my experience simply by giving him that nickname.

In the early days, the advocates would call the front desk at work to check on me ~ to literally make sure I was still alive ~ but once my boss found out, she made them stop calling.  I think about those early days back in 2001 and wondered if she had any comprehension that this call was my only outlet to any kind of safety plan ~ this welfare check made to a woman who was being abused and could not call the center from her own home.

So it really was the students who were there for me during the whole ordeal ~ being the only people who actually saw me nearly every day ~ offering silent support to a woman they knew could not really share what was going on in her life.  They were compassionate and caring ~ they had both sympathy and empathy ~ these educated young women who may have only had textbook knowledge of domestic violence but clearly knew a victim when they saw one. 


I made the call that early morning on August 22, 2003 to ask Diane to fill in for me.  I could not tell her exactly what happened.  But she knew.  She knew.  She knew this time I had been viciously hurt by The Bad Man.  She knew The Bad Man had finally did it.  Had finally tried to kill me.

And so she covered the front desk for me ~ no questions asked ~ while I recoved at a motel in Watsonville after having my head bashed into a wall three times a mere four hours earlier.

Silence in so many forms every minute, every hour, every day of those four years.

Silence looking out the window or at the wall every time he viciously berated me, focusing on another element in my world instead of his angry face.

Silence of never being able to truly speak, have an opinion, an idea, ask a question.

Silence in the form of secrets kept from my family after every episode of abuse.

Silence in the form of lies about where I was living, who I was living with ~ that I had actually moved back in with him a mere 3 1/2 months after having my head bashed into a wall.

Silence in the form of no longer asking for help from my father after going back to my abuser again and again.  Dad helped me leave the Santa Cruz Mountains once; I could never bear to tell him I returned only 9 months later.

Silence in the form of financial extortion as I never told anyone he made me pay him back the lawyer and the bail money after I called 911 on him.  The payments went on for two years in which he told me I had to live with him until my debt was paid.

Silence in the form of supreme isolation that I could not even leave once I had finally saved up enough money.

I have Ended My Silence on Domestic Violence.

There are no more secrets, no more lies, no more reasons to be ashamed.  Nothing to hide anymore.

A Life Uncensored. 




Uncensored