Breaking the silence

Domestic violence: One woman's story

By AMY MENEREY-Frontiersman reporter

The following is a personal story of a woman who was in an abusive relationship for five years. It is the third in a three-part series about domestic abuse. The names have been changed to protect the rights and privacy of the individuals involved.

So often I hear people respond to a story of a woman being beaten with what seems to them like the obvious. "Why doesn't she just leave?" they ask incredulously. When I tell people that I lived with a man for five years while he abused me they seem astonished -- in part because I chose to stay in the situation for as long as I did, and also because people perceive me as a headstrong, don't-take-any-crap-from-anyone, gotta-have-my-way type of woman. "You are such a strong person," people always tell me emphatically and with seeming envy, as if that strength was some kind of gift.

What they don't see is the doubt, the low self-esteem and the constant questioning of my own actions that drive that outward appearance. They don't know how my heart races, my arms draw in to protect myself, how my stomach clenches and my bowels turbulently respond when someone raises their voice combined with a sudden movement toward me. The same automated response comes when I tell my story, when I hear or see a re-enactment of abuse on a television or movie screen, or when I witness it through the walls of an apartment building.

My outward appearance and my inner turmoil are the result of domestic violence. This "gift" is simply self-preservation borne in part of one of the most horrible experiences of my life. That experience, like every other thing in a person's life, shapes them, forms them, leads them in different directions -- action and reaction. Why do people stay in an abusive relationship? Action and reaction; conditioning, some would call it. Others relate it to brainwashing. Here is the story of how I received my "gift."

The youngest of four children I was the typical "walking contradiction," always swinging from totally independent and rebellious to shy, introverted and insecure. As a teen-ager I was both serious about my relationships with boys and a non-stop flirt. It didn't take me long after my 13th birthday to realize what guys wanted - and I had an innate ability to use my sexuality to get my way. Using this ability pumped up my self-esteem and left me empty and alone at the same time. By the time I was 16 I expected to be used and thrown away like yesterday's trash -- I was a "realist," I told myself, and I knew how the game was played so I "accepted" it and played along.

When I met Jeff I was still in high school, but living in my own place and working part time. That night I was out cruising, looking to get high and get laid. He was 21, quiet and didn't look through me as if I was already undressed. He wasn't interested in sex. Within a month I had moved in with him -- with resistance from my parents -- under the terms of "no strings attached." I was 17 years old.

It didn't take long for me to fall madly in love. Here was a man who was sensitive, giving and expected nothing in return -- not even sex! The rules of "the game" did not apply here. I did not have to "put out" for him to care about me. With sex not an issue my love for him felt deeper, more sincere, more intense. He shared with me the stories of his failed relationships with women and a bad childhood -- he was like a lost child, someone who needed me. I promised I would always be there for him -- I was going to be the great savior, I would not walk out on him when he needed me.

The first time he assaulted me took me totally by surprise. It started with something stupid -- which was the way, as it turned out, it always started. He had been out drinking with friends. Up to then my experience with drunks had been limited to watching my parents and their friends do the Bunny Hop in the basement when I was 5 or 6, and to high school parties where everyone was drunk, happy and getting away with something. I knew nothing about drunks who were mean and out of control, who were mentally in a different, disjointed world when -- drunks whose memories and childhood experiences were re-enacted with each episode and each person changing roles as abuser and victim. I knew nothing about domestic violence or drug abuse and it was years before I realized Jeff's explosive reactions were often fueled by more than alcohol.

It started when Jeff had asked me to take out the trash and I neglected to do it. One minute he was joking with his friends and the next he was ripping my shirt as he threw me down screaming at me and calling me a [explective] -- I was so shocked I didn't react at all. I passed it off as a fluke, an anomaly -- something that just didn't happen to me.

But it did happen to me, and as time went by it continued to happen, again and again. I never knew what would make him explode -- a word, a movement, a look, it could be anything; but of course I could never determine what or when. I was living on edge, ever cautious, 24 hours a day. At first, I would respond to the verbal and physical attacks with screaming and crying, and begging. But that only made things worse and after a while I responded as little as possible, always cleaning up the results of his explosions -- food thrown across the room or smeared in my face in a rage about what I had incorrectly prepared, broken dishes, ripped clothing … Whatever he did I took care of immediately.

Don't say anything, don't make any sudden movements, make sure everything is always perfect and never look him in the eyes -- never look anyone in the eyes -- that's what I learned. The relationship that began with "no strings" turned quickly into one of extreme jealousy, accusations and rage.

And between the rage? Initially it was tenderness, kindness, remorse and begging for forgiveness -- for help. "I love you, I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me. I need you. Help me," he would plead. Help him. "You're the only one who has stuck by me, the only one who hasn't left me…," he would say, his head in my lap between puking. The more I wanted to leave, the more I felt obligated to stay. And as time went on, as the rage increased and the abuse escalated to include not only myself but his friends, our pets, even people who worked for him, the more I was afraid -- deathly afraid. And trapped. I felt trapped in a world of no escape, in a place where I had no friends, no family, no connection to the world beyond our walls and the terror that took place within them. He isolated me from everyone -- he didn't like my friends and after a while I didn't object to not seeing my family. By then I was too embarrassed about the lies I had begun to tell them and feared that after the lying and stealing from them they would not want me around. I knew for certain they did not want him around and I could not see them without him. I could not go anywhere alone -- either he wouldn't let me, or it wasn't worth the possible repercussions.

In the beginning, always the logical person, I knew this was all wrong and that I should leave. I did leave a few times. But he wouldn't just let me go. I had to work, so he came there and waited for me, or called. I was always so nervous I had a hard time getting through the day because I knew, sooner or later, he'd come for me. At first it was the "I'm sorry, I need you" routine and he'd be the man I fell in love with. I had never given myself so completely to anyone and when he loved me -- and showed it -- it was heaven.

Later, though, when I tried to leave there were the threats, "I'll kill you," or "You'll be sorry," or "I'll get your mom and dad, I'll burn down their house and everything in it."

I had seen the things he had done. I had been thrown through a wall, my back breaking the drywall and stopping only when it hit the outer wall. I had stood frozen in fear as he drunkenly held a gun -- cocked and loaded -- to the head of a drinking buddy as he shook, wild-eyed and frenzied on the edge of sanity with his buddy kneeling on the floor begging for his life. I had watched in horror as he brought a pet to the brink of death, kicking and screaming at it while it squealed and screeched and finally lay lifeless, its mouth and nose bleeding, its bloodied intestines lying outside its rectum.

When he said he'd kill me there was no doubt in my mind. His capacity for physical abuse was the only thing I was certain of. After a few years I did not even think about leaving. I was certain if the thought emerged in my mind somehow my face or my body language would betray me and he would know and punish me. I buried the thought deep in my mind, along with my logic, my self-preservation and all of my emotions -- except fear.

So I quit caring. I knew, almost as a matter of fact, that some day he would kill me and that would just be the end of it. It would be over then. Each time he punched me in the face or choked me until I blacked out I would simply think, "OK, this is it," only to survive again.

It was stuffing my emotions and their eventual rebirth that paved the way for leaving him for good. By closing myself off the "I'm sorry, I need you" line no longer had any effect on me. The love was gone, or buried so deep inside I could not resurrect it. I trudged along day to day knowing that this was the way things were: I was stupid, ugly, fat and no one else would ever want me. The world beyond ours was unknown, solitary and impossible. I did not believe I could escape to a place where he would not find me or my family. I did not believe I could take care of myself. I did not believe I could have another relationship. I did not believe anyone would ever love me.

But all anyone wants in this world is love. It is, ultimately, what drives everyone to do what he or she does, no matter how twisted their methods or responses have become. And it was this powerful emotion that finally gave me the strength to leave for good. Not love for Jeff or even myself, because any respect or feeling I had for either of us was either deeply buried or long lost at that point, but love for my child.

It was a dark, winter night when Jeff arrived home, drunk, after months of sobriety. We had a son then; a boy who had begun to shed some light on the darkness of my days. Although Jeff had been sober things were not good. He had no job, we were living in ramshackle house owned by one of my family members and we were broke. He was not providing for his family and the stress had taken its toll. He had not hit me in months -- in part due to the sobriety -- although that did not curb the emotional abuse that had become such a part of the relationship I had quit taking note of it.

I sensed the impending danger even as Jeff walked from the car to the house and braced myself for what was to come. The smell of alcohol as he came in the door made me respond instinctively, withdrawing, dropping my head lower, looking around to make sure there was nothing nearby that could be used as a weapon against me. I did not say a word. It was the wrong response.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything, aren't you going to ask how my day was?" he said, his voice rising as he moved toward me. It was not a question.

I didn't know what to do -- to keep quiet would be wrong, but if I spoke the fear in my voice would evoke a response as well. I stood, waiting, for what I knew would come next.

"What's the matter with you," he yelled as he crossed the room, "don't you want to know how my day was?"

He grabbed the back of my head by the hair with his left hand, pulling my head up to look into his icy blue eyes, his pupils tiny black dots. "What's the matter with you, you [expletive]," he screamed into my face, "don't you care how my day was?" Jeff started to swing and I brought up my arm instinctively and jerked my head back to protect my face. His fist missed and he caught my hand, grabbing my fingers and bending them backward, forcing me to my knees as he continued to scream insults and questions I could not answer.

The next moments were a blur as he pushed me and threw me down, hitting, kicking and hurling insults and accusations. Our young son witnessing the event began crying and screaming. I tried to calm him, "It's Ok, it's Ok," I chanted while being assaulted. Jeff suddenly stopped. He grabbed the boy, picked him up by the shirt and screamed into his face, "Everything is NOT OK!" and tossed him back onto the couch. In an instant I became acutely aware of one fact: My child was in danger, I had to get him out of there. Several scenarios played before me: Jeff would kill me and would raise our son, abusing him; Jeff would continue abusing me and would also abuse the boy; the boy would get older and angrier, someday exacting revenge on his father; and, our son would learn to abuse.

I knew then I had to live. I had to live for my son and I had to leave. I had to stop the cycle of violence.

Epilogue: The woman in this story did escape a violent relationship, but she did not escape the cycle of abuse. In the years to come she found difficulty in all personal relationships, those between herself and other men and also between herself and her son. Through the aid of a women's shelter and subsequent counseling after leaving the relationship, she learned about the cycle of abuse and about how indicators -- isolation, guilt, fear and control -- affected her and continue to pose problems with her self-esteem and her desire to control everything in her life.

She also learned what it means to be codependent; how her actions -- cleaning up and hiding the results of Jeff's explosions -- helped keep him from facing the consequences of his actions, and helped continue the cycle. She learned more about how his guilt, fear and frustration played into the cycle and how leaving him forced him to deal with those issues.

Experts on domestic abuse say the reason women stay in the relationship are those expressed by the woman in this story: Low self worth coupled with fear. Ironically, it is the same reason men continue to abuse.

Jeff is now celebrating more than 15 years of sobriety. He continues to work on personal issues. Their grown son, although very young at the time his mother ended the relationship, also has anger-related issues.

Five years after leaving Jeff, after he celebrated his first year of sobriety, he apologized for his actions and she forgave him. They began a new relationship based on communication -- and began the healing process. She now considers him a friend.

Common characteristics of codependency

o My good feelings about who I am stem from being liked by you

o My good feelings about who I am stem from receiving approval

from you

o Your struggle affects my serenity. My mental attention focuses

on solving your problems/relieving your pain

o My mental attention is focused on you

o My mental attention is focused on protecting you

o My mental attention is focused on manipulating you

to do it my way

o Solving your problems bolsters my self-esteem

o Relieving your pain bolsters my self-esteem

o My own hobbies/interests are put to one side. My time

is spent sharing your hobbies/interests

o Your clothing and personal appearance are dictated by my

desires and I feel you are a reflection of me

o Your behavior is dictated by my desires and I feel you are

a reflection of me

o I am not aware of how I feel. I am aware of how you feel.

o I am not aware of what I want - I ask what you want. I am

not aware - I assume

o The dreams I have for my future are linked to you

o My fear of rejection determines what I say or do

o My fear of your anger determines what I say or do

o I use giving as a way of feeling safe in our relationship

o My social circle diminishes as I involve myself with you

o I put my values aside in order to connect with you

o I value your opinion and way of doing things more than my own

o The quality of my life is in relation to the quality of yours

Source: http://www.recoveryresources.org/codependency.html.