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



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



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

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

Wreckage

Stomped on a fancy flashlight my dad gave me for Christmas.

Shredded my lovely jersey knit sheets with a palm tree print.

Cut up an little yarn doll a student gave me at work.

Took a knife to my brand new, purple Snoopy Easter Bunny decoration and tore all the stuffing out.

Slammed the coffee table around, breaking it in half.

Tossed and ripped apart my cell phone to keep me from calling 911 again.


This is my short list.


I remember slowly packing up all my mementos after each one of these incidents, fearing a framed picture of my deceased mother would be next.  I used to have my cookie jar collection proudly displayed in the kitchen trying to make my own chaotic world at least look a little homey.  But I knew any item of mine would be subject to being torn apart during the times he was not slamming his fist into my head.

He felt bad about the flashlight the most, I think.  It was a huge, black rubber flashlight, very durable, probably meant to last forever ~ except the Rubbermaid company had not anticipated the viciousness inside my abuser when they designed that model.  He stomped on the flashlight like he was trying to flatten a Coke can.

I remember getting flashlights from him every year for Christmas after that.

He liked to acquire my things when he was not breaking them.

I remember him helping me clear out my things out of my dad's garage and offering to take my boxspring and mattress "off my hands" ~ just temporarily ~ when I had no room for it in my tiny studio.  He made me sign over one of my cars to him as a form of "security deposit" when he finally convinced me to move in with him.  I kept thinking the car would still be part of my life ~ as it had been my mother's ~ and had been passed down through three family members before it finally became mine.  But, no, he sold it a week later and kept all the money for himself. 

He "borrowed" my family's rocking chair, Dad's old area rug from the old house in Aptos, and my grandfather Buddy's dark green leather, vintage desk pad from the 1930s that I acquired after they sold Nan's ranch house.  I would cringe seeing him slosh his coffee around on that desk pad, knowing it would never be the same if I ever got it back.

Once he moved up north, he wanted to take some of my collectible kitchen items.  He liked my mother's flour sifter that had once been a part of Nanny's original ranch house on the old Chicken Ranch, and he thought it would look great in his country kitchen.  So he just took it. 

I remembered all of these things once he finally left me.

I had a few short weeks to leave his house in Felton, and I used the time alone to reclaim my personal things.  I stuffed the rocking chair ~ now in need of mend ~ in my storage unit, grabbed Buddy's old desk pad, and scoured the property for what else he had taken.

And then I remembered the flour sifter.

I got in my car and drove straight to the Sierra Foothills.  I drove straight through.  He saw me pull up on that country road and came out to greet me with surprise.  I told him I was here for my things.  His new girlfriend stood on the side patio where just a mere two weeks ago, he had barbecued me a BLT on the 4th of July.  I said nothing to her but kept walking to the back of the house.  And there it was.  Perched high on a shelf.  The old flour sifter.  Shiny metal with red trim.  A relic from my past.  A family tie to my family history. 

He had destroyed so much of me ~ my spirit ~ my body ~ my safety ~ my world ~ that he was not going to have the one last physical thing that still connected me to where I came from ~ my family ~ who I had pretty much been keeping this deep, dark secret from for four years.

I remembered my mother and my grandmother in that moment.  I remember the flour sifter that had been used to bake dozens of cookies, dozen of pies, dozens of cakes.  I remembered the women who I had looked up to in my youth, the strong women who came before me ~ who helped build the character I still had in me.

The little flour sifter gave me newfound strength that day.  I placed it on the passenger seat beside me and drove back home.  Straight through.  Not stopping once.

I Can Still Hear Her Laughing

He said I was to blame.

If only I had opened the door and let her in, he would say, then maybe she would still be alive today.

Yes, it was my fault she died, he said.

Her knock on the door and my refusal to let her in was what set him off that night.  My head was bashed into the wall three times because I would not let her in.

My legs buckled beneath me when he told me the news that she had died.  A mere nine months after he bashed my head into the wall.

She escaped from the Sunflower House the night she came knocking on our door.  I knew she was a fugitive, having violated her probation once again to go to drug and alcohol treatment.  I knew she would come knocking on our door.  But this time I would not let her in.

He said that maybe she would have found the strength to get clean and sober if I had just taken her in that night.  If I had just been her friend.  But I knew she had given up once again to get clean and sober simply by walking out that door that warm day in August.

I could not believe that she was really gone.  That the drugs had finally killed her.  They found her on someone's couch, all the life finally sucked out of her.  I could not stop shaking knowing it had finally happened.  A black cloud had followed her from Arkansas to the Santa Cruz Mountains, and no matter how many times she tried to get clean and sober, she always went back to the drugs and alcohol that ended up killing her.

So I was not to blame.

And I had been her friend.

I was a friend of A.A. and N.A., having never touched drugs and alcohol in my life, but I still had compassion for her and for all the struggles in her life.  I was part of her clean and sober world, a world that held such hope for a better day.

I used to visit her at her job in Los Gatos.  Drove over Highway 17 just to keep her company one night.  She got to bring her baby to work, and so I hung out with her and her young daughter and brought them dinner.

I remember helping her move all her household belongings out of her storage unit before they auctioned them off for default in payment.  We had a garage sale together that weekend.  And I remember giving her a lovely pink swan to have something pretty in her room that she rented from the man who claimed to be my boyfriend.  I wondered later what became of that pink swan.

I sat beside her at meetings each time she came back to the program.  I watched her as she went in and out of the program and recognized how frustrated her sponsor had become.  We worried each time she "went out."

And now she was gone. 

She had finally escaped once and for all.

The black cloud had finally lifted.

My head has long since healed from the night I did not let her in the knotty pine door that separated our two completely different worlds.

The memories remain.  But I try not to dwell on the night of August 22, 2003.

Because in my heart, I can still hear her laughing.  She had such a contagious laugh. 

I can still see the two of us driving on Highway 9.  Dinners at Don Quixote's. 

She was so full of life. 



.

Reinvention

The familiar feeling came over me again.

For a few days, I entertained the idea that maybe my old office would recall my old job back.  They seem to have more money now.  New jobs are created.  People are being promoted.  Maybe, just maybe, there is $34,000 left in the budget to bring me back.

I offered to be demoted.  I offered to work part-time.  I offered to take a two-month furlough.  But last spring, none of my offers were considered.  The decision was absolute that they needed to save that $34,000, and even I, with far more seniority than some other staff, would be the only one cut because of some odd layoff unit structure that did not make sense at all. 

And so I left last July.

It dawned on me yesterday that soon it will be six months since I was laid off.  Surely does not seem that long, and then on some level, maybe it really does seem that long.  The limited appointment in another department broke up the long stretch of months, but even with those two months of full-time employment, it still really has been nearly six months since my whole world was disrupted.

I kept thinking maybe they will really bring me back.  I actually had one last shred of hope. 

And then, suddenly, I thought, "Would I really want to go back?"

And I realized that, no, I would never want to go back.

My father always told me, "Never return to the scene of a crime."

He was laid off in a different kind of way back in 1993 from a company he had devoted his whole work life to for 33 years.  Told to take full retirement with no penalty or to take severance pay.  But there was no way that managers over 50 with over 30 years in the company were allowed to stay.  And so he left.

He told me the feeling of being laid off never really goes away.  That I might even replay the layoff in my dreams even years after I have moved on from this obstacle in my life right now.

I can relate to my father on a whole new level now that I have experienced at age 46 what he experienced at age 53.  I can relate to the sadness and anger of being simply discarded by an organization we both were committed to for so many years.  We have had many deep conversations on these personal matters that we never could have had when I was a naive 28-year-old during the year he lost his job.

I think about my old job, my old desk, my old routine and can no longer imagine myself even there.  I have stopped wondering how they are coping without me, knowing they have long moved on with their new team, their new hires, their completely new goals.

I am no longer sad.  No longer angry.

I almost want to thank the lady who I think made the final decision to lay me off instead of even considering reduced hours or furloughs.  But I heard she got laid off just a couple of weeks after me.  And just yesterday, I wondered how she felt nearly five months after being laid off.

I want to thank that lady. 

"Thank you for laying me off!!!" I would shout out if I ever saw her walking down the street.

She gave me the best gift anyone has ever given me.

The power to reinvent myself at a time of my life that I never thought to reinvent myself.

To grab a hold of my dreams again.

To realize I am destined for a better life.  Just by being myself.  And reaching for those dreams all over again.

To not being afraid to have my writing be read by a wider audience.  To have my real name attached to those words.  To get recognition for those words.

"Thank you for laying me off!!!" I shout to myself ~ in my deepest thoughts ~ as I get excited all over again about what life holds for me.

Looking forward ~ not back ~ being grateful.

And understanding this rocky journey was all meant to be ~ as I smile ~ hit the publish button ~ with all my dreams intact.