Angela Giles Klocke
On Friday, I told him I no longer loved him.
By Sunday, he was dead.
When I lifted my head from the table and looked around the quiet room, feeling the hard chair beneath me, I convinced myself once again this was not a dream. I was really sitting in a conference room, waiting my turn for questioning. I wiped my eyes and looked over at my friend; she was just a mirror of myself – tired, upset, dazed.
A single thought went through my head again: This is how it ends.
The moment I had heard the shot, that was my initial thought. I didn’t directly see it happen, but I just knew inside. He was dead, and I was free.
Going to the front door, I had stood there, clutching my squirming baby girl in my arms, and just looked down the stairs. His body was turned away, no movement, no moaning, no breathing. I didn’t cry. I just looked, and then walked away.
This is how it ends.
The police arriving, asking questions, sending the children away to someone else… all of it was a blur. But it led to this room. In this room, the panic finally set in. The shock lifted, and the tears and fear came heavily, resting within me, crushing the steel that had been guarding my emotions.
My turn came and I feared what would happen. Someone was dead, and although it wasn’t my fault outright, I still felt it was… and I just knew if the detectives didn’t believe me, I’d be blamed.
The questioning was gentle, yet I wasn’t sure how to tell the story. How far back do you go? Does it matter that he was abusive? Am I reacting the right way? Will they think my steely gaze is cold, or that my tears are fake?
“Sounds to me like a classic case of ‘If I can’t have you, no one ever will,’” said one of the detectives.
“You’re really lucky to be alive,” said the other.
That was the very moment I detached myself from the worst of the emotions surrounding this event. I was alive, and he wasn’t — and it was his fault. He was going to kill me, had the gun in hand to do so… died with the gun still in his hand… and yet, he was the one who ended up dead.
I didn’t go crazy or cry or anything like that. I just turned it off.
Days later, I sat beside the coffin and rested my hand on his cold chest, my head heavy from emotion and lack of sleep, my shoulders weighed down with guilt and blame. And he sat up and looked at me. My heart skipped at least three beats, it seemed. He’s still going to get me.
This is how it ends.
Of course, he really did no such thing. My mind, full of grief for a man whom I had once loved, with whom I had had three children, was playing tricks on me. It was the first time I saw him return from the dead, but it was never the last. I often expected any day to wake up and find nothing had changed.
I sat on the front row for his funeral and listened to the man giving the final words for him talk about his love of gardening and then his love of his family. I cried, because gardening beat us, and because it was a eulogy full of lies. He didn’t love us. How could he? How could he love us if he was so willing to kill me? How could he love the children if he wanted to kill their mother? Who wants that kind of love?
Behind me, the rest of his family stared at the back of my head. I could feel their hatred and blame; I might as well have pulled the trigger myself. Through my pain, I felt lost, alone, and crazy. I didn’t understand how it came to this. I wanted to stand up and scream at everyone that I didn’t do this, that it wasn’t my fault, to stop blaming me, stop calling me fake, stop calling me a murderer. Instead, I pretended it wasn’t real. I acted like I could understand their need to blame. I allowed their bitterness and sadness to take up residence inside me, feeling as if it should.
I let it all hold me back for so many years after his death, always thinking I didn’t have to feel my pain… I’d just feel theirs and understand that maybe it was my fault.
But today, I am letting go of the guilt and blame and insanity of my past, and I am embracing the full happiness I know I deserve.
THIS is how it ends.
***
Angela is the author of “when i was 13,” her memoir on life as a teen mom and wife, and she blogs at AGK’s Beautiful Life.
Naimhe
I hid behind the stove trying to be invisible but it didn’t help. Luckily, we went home so it didn’t happen again. He was twisted and mean. He taught me never to say “making love” because he said that as he touched me. For years, I became physically ill hearing the words. I’ve hated him ever since, even though he’s dead. I was seven.
I lied because no answer was right. Making tea in the kettle was a violation that deserved violence. No answer would prevent being hit, “spanking” they called it. My sister suffered for the lies. She was always hit first; she was older. She was angry. She hated me for years. I cried a lot. I was “high strung,” always nervous. I still am. I still cry. I’m still guilty. My sister invited a boy to visit on the porch. She wasn’t supposed to. I got kicked because I was in the back yard catching lightning bugs. I must have known what was happening in front. I must have been involved. I cried; I became more nervous. I was nine.
I was always wrong. I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t smart enough, definitely wasn’t attractive enough. I cried a lot; I was melodramatic. I was nervous and easily intimidated; I overreacted. I was “just regular,” undeserving of attention; “no one cared” what I wore, looked like, who I was. This was the mantra I heard. This was what I learned to believe. I was unimportant, unworthy. I knew it deep inside and others must too so I decided to escape. I planned my death but was unsuccessful, which only made things worse. I was eleven.
I hid in the bathroom hoping the yelling would stop and no one would die. I turned on the bath fan, covered my ears, hummed to myself to avoid hearing it. That didn’t help either but it kept me out of the line of fire – usually. There was something wrong with me, they said, because I hid, because I didn’t fight, because I was afraid. I dropped to my knees with my arms crossed over my face, “Please don’t hurt me,” was the plea. He wouldn’t speak to me for weeks afterward. I cried; it didn’t matter. No one cared. I was wrong again.
I learned not to fight, not to argue, because when my sister fought, it got worse. When she fought back, she got hit more often and harder. I learned to be quiet, to be invisible, to avoid conflict. To never defend myself. I learned to stand still expressionless while he screamed in my face. I learned that to attempt to walk away would get me hit, punished. Because I was wrong, as always.
I said, “No.” He didn’t listen. I cried; he still didn’t listen. Love must mean people do as they wish and hurt you if they choose. That’s what love meant, means. No one understood because he was my boyfriend. I learned to give in whether I wanted to or not. I learned it well; I abided by that rule for years. I learned that saying no was pointless because it only hurt me more. I wanted and tried to die again. I was seventeen.
I got pregnant, unplanned. It was my fault. I was bad and I would have to figure out what to do. Why should anyone help when I got myself into such a state. I was alone. I did what I had to do. I learned not to rely on anyone. I learned not to ask for help. I was nineteen.
I met someone who didn’t hurt me. Who didn’t want to hurt me. Who followed my lead, in all things. Who never pushed. I almost trusted him. I began to like myself, to feel I had worth, to heal. He was distant. He didn’t ask about my feelings and I didn’t risk sharing. He was safe, he was stable, he was a good man. It didn’t work between us so I left. I was lonely and sad. I was 27.
“Ouch,” “No,” “I don’t want to do that,” meant nothing. It only meant he’d like it all the more. I relearned, fell back on the old lessons, that resisting just made things worse. Humiliation, pain, self-disgust and hatred were the price of marriage. Love meant being hurt. I cried at night when no one was listening. I cried quietly so the kids wouldn’t hear and be afraid and I planned my escape, my death.
I’m your neighbor, your coworker, the person who returns your smile in the grocery store. I grew up in a “normal” home, with a “normal” family, in a “normal” town. I wasn’t normal. I cried too much. I trusted no one. I had very few friends. I still trust no one. I still have few friends because friends turn on you. I learned that people attack unprovoked so I must be ever vigilant and I must avoid close relationships. Close relationships provide the fuel to cause more pain. Intimacy makes you vulnerable. Trusting someone gives them an edge to smash a finally stable, hard won, but terminally fragile emotional state. Self-protection is the only way to get through a life where danger lurks everywhere. I still cry. I’m still nervous. I’m still distrustful but I’ve finally learned that I can walk away without being punished. I can stand up for myself and I don’t get hurt. I don’t get hit. I don’t get humiliated and degraded. I can almost trust another person with my thoughts and fears and wishes. I’m almost not afraid.
I am 42.
***
Naimhe blogs at I Don’t Get Out Much.
anonymous blogger
In first grade I was wearing a cute little sun dress and I flashed my panties at a boy in class. During recess a group of boys chased me into a corner, held me down, and touched me. I believe that was the
beginning of my struggle with sexuality and that my shame and guilt from that incident set me up to be victimized.
The boy forced me have sex with him even though I didn’t want to — without contraception. Even though it hurt terribly. After we did it once, he told me that unless I kept doing it with him, he’d tell everyone in school about it and I’d look like a slut. All the while, he “went out” with my best friends. When I would resist his attempts, he would first pull my hair, then pinch me, then hit me (only where no
one could see the marks, of course) until I either ran away or did what he wanted. So I usually just did what he wanted.
And it just escalated. He coerced me into having sex with one of his friends with the threat that if I didn’t he’d tell my friends (the ones he’d dated) about how we’d been having sex all along. After I did
it, he then told the guy’s ex-girlfriend about it in order to humiliate us both. He became sadistic, pinching and biting me when we had sex. It hurt so bad I would start crying before we even started.
This went on for over two years until the family moved away. I honestly don’t know how (or if) I would have had the strength to end it until much later — I was just so young! I’m lucky, really, that I had an easy escape. I’m also lucky that I didn’t end up pregnant by that monster before I even got into high school.
This boy had a father who beat his mother. His parents were divorced. He was my age so he was very young, too. All excuses — but not nearly good enough. I can only hope he changed, but how likely is that?
To learn this I went through years of promiscuity (I’ve learned that’s normal for victims of sex abuse) and some bad relationships, and I still suffer from clinical depression. I haven’t found the right man
yet but I am open to the possibility.
I know I can survive ANYTHING.
And I am O.K.!
Indigo Ravenwood
Every step I took up the stairs to work, I wanted to scream from the pain in my back, in my sides. I bit my lip hard enough to hold the scream in, but savage enough to start it bleeding. I was hoping to beat my boss in the door this morning, give myself a chance to look in the mirror and assess the damage to my face and body. My luck ran out — apparently the night before, he was on the other side of the door when I put my key in the lock. He had seen me coming up the stairs from the window.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asked.
“It’s a long story,” I said. “I’m early, let me get cleaned up and I’ll be ready for work in fifteen minutes.”
“You need to call the cops,” he replied. “It’s gone too far this time.”
I ignored him. I was in too much pain to hear the rest of his words. I looked in the mirror in the bathroom; at least now I understood the look on his face.
I wasn’t sure if the gash across my head would need stitches or not. I was pretty sure my ribs were broken yet again. A single tear slipped down my face. He was right, it was enough. I had a piece of paper in my hand that a friend had slipped me the night before, when he’d begged me to call the number, begged me not to go home. I went out to the office and asked my boss to please call the number for me. (I am now deaf, but back then I could still somewhat hear people talking close up, I just didn’t have enough hearing for phone calls.) The S.O.S shelter listened to my boss describe how I looked over the phone. They wanted to send a cop to pick me up that very minute. Stubborn me said no, it’s Friday, pick me up after work, amongst protest from my boss. (It wasn’t the first time I had worked through extreme pain.)
I can’t describe the feeling of being put in a cop car when you’re the victim. It’s embarrassing, humiliating. Needless to say, it was a necessary evil. You weren’t allowed to come straight to the shelter. It was for your protection as well as all the other women who where already there. They couldn’t take a chance someone would follow me there. Inside the shelter I was asked numerous questions, and a nurse was brought in to examine me. Later, I would see a doctor. I learned a long time ago, the expression on someone else’s face says it all. I was only 100 lbs, 5’1, petite. While I was questioned they noticed traces of bruises peeking out along my collar bone. The nurse asked if I would please take off my sweater. I heard the gasp before I saw her face. It was bad. I was literally black and blue from my collar bone down my chest, the entire length of my arms. There were bruises inside my legs, my knees were bloody and cut up along with my elbows. I think women who are abused get so used to seeing their bodies in that beaten down look, they begin to not notice the bruises, even the pain.
I already knew inside I wasn’t going to stay there. There was that lone wolf, cornered aspect of me that wouldn’t let me stay there for any kind of help for long. I stayed holed up in my room in the shelter for that entire weekend. They didn’t want to push me and tried to give me my own space. I went back to work Monday and on my break I called the guilty party at work. I made it clear that just based on the photos they took of me at the shelter they could put him away for a long time. I told him you have one week to get the hell out of the apartment. If you’re gone I won’t press charges. (Years later, I should’ve, would’ve, could’ve… but at that moment I just wanted home again.)
I avoided the counselors at the shelter. I worked long hours, came in just before the curfew, went to bed. Mid-week I told them of my intentions, that I was leaving that Saturday. They were not happy but I wasn’t a prisoner. One of the night counselors caught up with me the night before I left. She asked if I would give her a few hours. After all, they had given me shelter when I needed it. I didn’t say anything. I let her talk. Inside I think I was dying hearing the words she spoke, knowing the truth but not wanting to admit it for all the pride I had. One of the things she said was, “Maybe not right now, but sooner or later you’re going to end up back with him.” I laughed. Yeah, right, after this I doubt it.
I returned home to find Hell waited for me. Everything I owned was tossed or broken in the middle of the floor. All the electrical cords were removed from the back of my stereo, TV, you name it the cord was missing. Every sharp object was taken (I guess he feared I would miss him so much, I would commit suicide.) The kitchen was turned upside down. He even went so far as to steal the shower head. I walked into my bedroom. All my clothes were torn and piled in the middle of the floor, the mattress was pulled off the frame and tossed against the wall. There wasn’t a curtain left hanging or anywhere around in the entire apartment. I put towels over my bedroom window, pushed the mattress into the middle of the room, curled up in a ball and cried myself to sleep.
For me, materialistic things were easily replaced. It took me an entire week to bring some sense of order to my home. A week later, I just managed to put up my Christmas tree and fill it underneath with presents for my daughter. When she came to see me, she had no idea what had gone down. I knew the routine, I had followed through so often in my life. I didn’t bat an eyelash while I enjoyed the holiday with her, my bruises hidden. A month later he was back.
Some part of me knew something was wrong with this picture. All along the counselor’s words echoed in my mind. The second chance almost cost me my life… that’s a story for another day.
*
Today you were introduced to a world that far more woman live than you realize. No, they don’t ask for that world. Sometimes they just don’t know how to escape and when they do, they find themselves lost not knowing how to cope in a world of sane normals. We each have different reasons that can’t be explained unless you have lived that life. I was one of the fortunate ones, I escaped eventually. Far more lose their lives without knowing a day without a beating. Today, I’m an outspoken advocate against domestic violence. If my voice joins another and so on, sooner or later there will be enough help that more women escape this life. Sometimes all it takes is one woman’s story to open the eyes of another to the danger she may be living.
If you hear your neighbors screaming and punches being thrown, windows breaking, doors slamming… Please for the sake of these women and their children make the call to the police they don’t know how to make. If you see a woman with a bruised face, don’t be afraid to approach her and say it doesn’t have to be this way. I carry my local S.O.S phone number on me to pass on as it was once passed on to me. Do I think I’m better than these women because I escaped? Not at all, I’m one of the few lucky ones; I don’t want to open the paper or turn on the news one more day to hear about one more unlucky life being wasted away for a beating. It’s real, it happens! Every minute that passes by another woman or child will have been beaten. Today, I’m a survivor… one more story told, one more demon put to rest.
Addendum: This story was printed on an early journal I used to keep. As I re-read over these words to double check for errors, I felt sucker punched — I couldn’t breath. I still wonder how the hell I survived the horrors I did, it still takes my breath away; I still feel each bruise and wound inflicted on me all these years later. My only salvation is knowing my story just might save someone else. It’s the only thing that makes the telling possible. From my spirit to yours, stay safe and loved!
***
Indigo Ravenwood blogs at Scream Quietly.
