Buried Beneath The Scars

I thought about my blog ~ my survival story ~ and wondered if I actually had anything left to say.  So many stories ~ so many flashbacks ~ has the subject of domestic violence run its course?

Have I said all that I need to say?  All that I need to share with the world?

And then I realized that the rest is really too painful ~ too humiliating ~ to even begin to describe.

The horrific memories ~ even worse than my most graphic stories here ~ that no one but my abuser and I know.  No one else knows.  Can I ever tell them?

My family rarely reads my blog.  The stories of Mom's cancer year were too painful for Dad to read.  I really wanted him to read the stories of domestic violence because he was the main person I tried so hard to hide my terrible truth from for four years.  I know he knew somewhat was going on during that time, but I also know he would be shocked and sickened about how bad my life really was during the time I remained so isolated from my family.

I think about those painful memories and cringe.

It took me several years to share my first story "Death Row" ~ a graphic list of abuses I had endured ~ which was written mere days after my relationship ended.  It took me even more years to write "August 22, 2003" which chronicled the one night I finally called 911 on him.

The hidden memories ~ left unshared ~ are not necessarily the worst cases of domestic violence I once endured.  But they reflect a deeper pain ~ and even more shame ~ that what I have been able to write so far.

Maybe I will share them one day.

But not today.

Today, they remain secrets.

Painful, sad secrets.

Buried beneath the scars.

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Amends

I question whether amends can be sincere from a man who abused me so viciously so long ago.

I put his email in the "XYZ" folder I created to stuff any email I have received since our days together ended.  I told my brother about the email, and he suggested that maybe my batterer was finally trying to make amends since he has re-entered a 12 step program.

The email did not really mention the physical abuse ~ only hinting at cheating and being too hard on me at times.

I always thought I would like him to make amends but thought that would mean meeting face-to-face.  Mostly I wanted him to give me back the $5000 he made me pay him back for the lawyer and the bail money ~ after I finally called 911 on him.  A sort of financial amends to me for extorting money from me for two long years filled with even more abuse.

No amount of "I'm so sorry" will ever erase the flashbacks that still come at me in dreams, in drifting thoughts, or sudden winces of painful memories.  The flashbacks have lessened through the years, but they do pop up quite unexpectedly at times.

Mostly, my time with him seems like a blur in general ~ on a day-to-day basis ~ and then I remember I am stuffing the pain away so tightly that I may forget all that I went through just to get through my life.

The blog helped me process the flashbacks one by one, and I felt an emotional healing begin almost immediately.  Then I felt the incredible victory in being able to help current victims and survivors with what I consider stories of hope.  

I wonder if he can actually remember our time together in the same way I do.

I wonder if he remembers bashing my head into the wall three times nearly 9 years ago.

I wonder if he remembers asking me, "What am I going to do with you—put you in a hole?"

I wonder if he remembers asking me to choose what I wanted to have written on my headstone.

He feels sorry and wishes he could talk with me now.

Wants to meet up for Chinese food.

But there will be no more conversations, no more Chinese food, despite any type of amends.

I only put a check in the box next the new email in my In Box and move it to the folder titled "XYZ."

And then thank God that I have survived.

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Domestic Violence ~ Not A Popular Media Topic

I had dreams that my blog would generate more hits by being featured in our local newspaper.

I had hopes for being featured as the "Post of the day."

But I have found that domestic violence does not make good press copy.

Maybe I need to be writing daily to be noticed for what I need to say ~ the truth I need to share ~ but with life's struggles of having dealt with a layoff and return to work this past nine months, I can not seem to write as regularly as I would like.

Some of my best posts are in my archives from the early days of my blog when I wrote down each flashback in a frenzy.

But archives are old ~ not current ~ not fresh.  The topic is uncomfortable, ugly, frightening, and perhaps forbidden.

I have found my best following for my blog to be on Facebook where I share my blog links ~ both current and archived ~ with Domestic Violence groups and pages.  Women who have shared my experience are not afraid to read my words.  They have lived my words with their own harrowing experience of being abused.

So I will focus on these women instead and not the general public who read online newspapers.  I will continue to share my truth with those women who need it the most. 

The elusive "Post of the day" will remain just that ~ out of reach ~ and I am okay with that now.

I will stop checking each day to see if my blog is featured as if I am trying to win some odd type of popularity contest.

Domestic Violence is not a popularity contest.

Domestic Violence is gruesome.

Domestic Violence is evil.

Domestic Violence is horrific.

Domestic Violence is brutal.

Domestic Violence is life-threatening.

Domestic Violence is silenced.

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I Am The New Charlie

I am The New Charlie.

I have been introducing myself as The New Charlie for the past three weeks.

The universe has brought me new adventure.  New hope.  New dreams.

I feel my mother's presence on the west side of campus.  I blow kisses to her out to the sea on my breaks. 

Life is peaceful here.  Even tranquil despite the hectic work day.  Yes, I know my mother played a hand in finally being offered a preferential rehire job.

The whole process finally became seamless this last time.  The fit was perfect.  My past three jobs here at the university gave me everything I would need to succeed in this new endeavor.  I even made them laugh.

They took me under their wing and gave me new hope for my future.  A future not being spent in limbo wondering if I would ever find a job during these difficult economic times.  The job came shortly after I finally made complete peace with the layoff from last spring.  Finally forgot about the old office.  Finally gave up that they would never call me back to my old job.

The universe shifted that day.  

All along Charlie was planning to retire.

But I wonder if he knew that in the end of his career, his final gift would be helping me.

I have big shoes to fill.  Charlie's shoes spent 18 years behind my new desk.  Dozens of staff and hundreds of students who know his name.  They stop by the counter to chat like they used to with Charlie.  

The counter is like a corner store with the jovial maintenance crew who pop their heads in from the rain for a joke or two.  I will work hard to keep up the friendly banter he had with everyone here.  He made everyone feel welcome, and I have perfected the same talent in the last eleven years.  

I look forward to being The New Charlie.  I may even put out a candy bowl to encourage others to step up to the counter to say hello even if they do not have a question for me.  

I thank Charlie each day I arrive for work.  He embarked on his retirement adventure after so many years of service leaving the pathway for me to embark on mine.

The sun shines bright this winter as I start my new life.

Because I am The New Charlie!

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.

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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.

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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.



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