I am a survivor of domestic violence.
There is is. Out there. Real. No denying it. I was verbally, emotionally and (yes) physically abused by a partner and I lived to tell about it.
I am a survivor of domestic violence.
I knew him my entire life. Well, I'd hardly say now that I "knew" him... just that we went to the same school and that I saw him around. He was popular, class president, a sports hero... ever the "happy-go-lucky," fun loving, friendly guy everyone loved. He graduated three years before me and went to college in another state. I never thought much about him because one wouldn't necessarily say we were ever friends or even friendly to one another.
Fast-forward to about five years after I graduated high school (which would be almost eight years after he graduated and left town): I was working in a restaurant on the lake back home. His brother came in for drinks with friends and I asked him, "Hey! Aren't you [his] brother?" Five boys in his family and they all looked alike. Of course I knew this was his brother. I was making conversation. "Yes," he replied, "In fact, he's home right now! I'll send him up to see you!" The next night, he appeared, as promised. We talked, we flirted, he was incredibly charming. He told me he would like to take me on a date in such a way that it was difficult for me to say no. This was the first of myriad such instances.
We went out on a date or two. I was already seeing someone, but he charmed me into breaking that relationship off. "I'll take care of you," he crooned, "You don't need anyone else but me." I was 20-something, hadn't really gone "away" to college, and was still living with my parents. He was making what seemed like fabulous money at a local car dealership, he doted over me (when he wasn't golfing or going to the off-track betting site) and he treated me to dinners, drinking, and the occasional token of his affection. Mostly, it was dinner, then drinking... profusely. He drank to excess almost every night and, while I wasn't concerned about it at first ("He's young! He's just having fun!" I told myself.), it became clear that this was a precursor to his becoming belligerent with me... but not with anyone else, as far as I could tell. I was more concerned with the fact that he gambled. Thousands of dollars at a time thrown away on the latest "lock." I didn't understand it, but it was "his money," so how could I possibly object?
I remember specifically when the abuse started. Late one night, while driving back to his house after a night of (what else?) drinking, he blew up at me for no apparent reason whatsoever, as would so often be the case. He screamed at me in a loud, high-pitched voice I barely recognized as his, but one that scared me to death. Just thinking about it now, almost 15 years later, gives me a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach. He bellowed that he would drop me off at my mother's house right then and there if that was what I wanted. He wasn't watching the road. He had both hands on the wheel, yet he was turned toward me, blasting my ears out, telling me how good he had been to me when I didn't even deserve it. I didn't even know why he was screaming. What set him off? I didn't do anything, and yet it must have been something I did. I was terrified. Being dropped at my mother's was not what I wanted, I insisted. This wasn't because I didn't want my mother in that particular moment. Oh, no! Yet, if I showed up at my mother's just shy of the 3:00 hour, a little tipsy and in hysterics, my present (little did I realize) and future abuser having dropped me there, I would have had a lot of explaining to do. Besides (Here comes the rationalizing!), this guy was a catch! I didn't want my mother having any reason to doubt that my relationship with the former class president was anything less than perfect and that I was, at last, well on my way to having a long-tern relationship with someone... anyone. The screaming stopped, we went home, the "switch" flipped and he was loving and kind again. It was just a misunderstanding, I thought. We had sex. That fixed everything. I didn't sleep a wink.
Another blow-up came shortly after that. A girlfriend of mine had been killed after being hit head-on by a drunk driver. Her best friend was also my best friend who was going to law school in Detroit. My sweet, loving, sympathetic boyfriend put me on a train to Detroit the next morning so I could drive back with the friend my now dead girlfriend and I had in common. I had been involved with him a short time, but I already knew I had to make a point of asking. I pleaded, "Please be home when I get home. Please don't be drunk. I'm going to need you." He assured me he would be there for me... he would "take care of me." A recurring theme. The train ride took forever. I arrived in Detroit and my friend and I turned around three hours later and drove the 9-hour drive back to Upstate New York. My friend tried to drop me at his house. It was completely dark. No one was there. We went immediately to the restaurant (okay... the BAR) I worked at and, lo and behold, his car was in the lot. He was inside, hammered to the gills, playing cards with about eight other people, all of whom I knew. I tried to be calm, but it was pretty clear I was losing my shit. "I asked you... I begged you to be home and not to be drunk when I got here and this is how I find you?" He calmly rose from the table and asked me to step outside. All I remember after that was screaming. Him. Screaming. I was worthless. I was a loser. I had embarrassed him in front of his friends. All he was doing was having a good time. Did I want him to just leave? Did I want to be by myself again? Did I want to have nothing? No one? We went home. We had sex. He fell asleep. I stayed awake for hours. By the next day, I'd found it in myself forgive. After all, he was under as much stress as I was, working full time and seeing me go through the loss of a friend. He'd experienced a significant loss during his childhood... the thought of entering a funeral home was enough to send him into a tailspin. I just needed to relax and take care of him... be there for him. He was fragile.
In the fall, he came home from work one day and asked, "How much stuff do you have at your Mom's?"
"Not much. Why?" I asked.
"I thought we'd move."
"Where and when?"
"Knoxville. This weekend."
No alarm bells went off. Nothing out-of-place. Erratic behavior was the norm. So, he wanted to move back to Knoxville where his Mom lived. What was so weird about that? My parents were worried. My friends were worried. My professors were worried. I was just glad he didn't want to leave me behind. After all, I had no life before I had him. Right? I had one musical commitment I had to make before we left. We packed, drove to my gig, I played, and we drove all night to a little town called Alcoa, just outside Knoxville, TN. On the way there, he opened up and explained to me that he hadn't been completely honest before we left. (Really? No!) He didn't just want to move to Tennessee to be closer to his Mom and the mountains he so very much missed. No. He was into a bookie for a fairly large sum of money and he "thought it best to leave and get a fresh start." (Incidentally, he'd given the bookie his brother's number, since he was staying at his brother's house. His brother would continue to receive threatening calls from this bookie for the next several years.) That was in fall of 1996. The Knoxville area would be my home for the next eight years, just over three of them spent with my abuser.
TO BE CONTINUED...
