A SURVIVING VICTIM’S STORY - Name
I was four years old when upon hearing my parents’ raised voices, I peered around our living room corner, a silent spectator to my dad’s hand connecting with my mom’s face, propelling her into the air and onto our Danish Modern coffee table. Upon impact, the table and my petite mother broke into pieces. That night, my fix-it father repaired the table. I didn’t know it then, but my mother was forever broken. Although my older brother didn’t witness this one-sided match-up, he certainly heard them arguing, followed by the hit, my mom’s screams and the crash. My dad left her atop the tabletop bits, crying, as black mascara streamed down her face. Not knowing what to do and afraid to say a word, I ran to my room. Minutes later, she appeared in my doorway, her watery, reddened eyes framed by expertly reapplied Maybelline lashes and her mouth gleamed in my dad’s favorite color, the deep red of Fire and Ice lipstick. As I reached for my teddy bear for comfort, she said, “Your dad’s a good man and he loves you very much. I’ll go make supper now.” That night, as always, the four of us ate at our kitchen table, the usual banter going around our Formica table as if nothing had happened which left me further confused about my mom and especially, my dad. Although I never saw my dad hit her again, when I noticed bruises dotting her pale arms, I felt compelled to ask, “What’s that?” “Nothing,” she’d say while pulling her sleeves down to cover the black and blue marks, “Your father is a good man and he loves you very much.”
My dad ruled our roost, a charcoal gray, Cape Cod style suburban house while my mom stayed home, cooking, cleaning and raising us while he worked fulltime. At the reins of our home and finances, my dad had everything he forbid my mom to have- a job, credit cards, a car, access to bank accounts and friends. The world was his and his was ours. He brought home the groceries, my mom cooked whatever he chose and we ate it.
Having graduated from high school, I left home to attend college, happy to leave behind what I’d once witnessed that Sunday afternoon and my high school classmates bullying taunts of “Ugly Dog!” Despite starting my life anew, my insecurities about my looks followed me halfway across the country. As one of 25,000 students, I embraced my classes, and the firsts of a part-time job and bank account as well as a tall, blonde, muscular, blue-eyed student I’d met in my freshman year. Although he said I was pretty, I didn’t believe him since I’d discovered my high school classmates’ derogatory taunts about my looks had accompanied me to university, echoing in my head. We began dating and I felt fortunately honored that someone so handsome would deign to be with someone unattractive but apparently, opposites do attract. And there was a bonus- this brawny farm boy was the physical light to the dark features of my dad and, my dad liked him.
Our dates were filled with flirting, making out and his physicality which I first felt in a campus town bar. During happy hour, accompanied by my brother and my roommate who sat across from us, we listened to music, laughed and chatted about nothing in particular. Suddenly, I felt his outstretched hand on my face. The intensity of his powerful palm sent me off my barstool and onto the sticky, beer-soaked floor. Pulling myself by the bar edge, I wobbled to the ladies’ room and wiped away my tear-soaked, dripping makeup before returning to him and our silent witnesses, an undaunted trio deep in collegiate chitchat.
Although I continue feeling the force of his hand on my face long after graduation, I had long since begun to believe that my golden-haired boy loved me, just as he said. I’d been in love with him since first sight so I accepted his marriage proposal. My dad, still his biggest fan, was our happiest wedding guest who, despite his frugality had footed the bill for it all, including the white taffeta, crinoline princess wedding dress I’d always dreamed of. Returning home from our City honeymoon, his unpredictable physical outbursts continued. In time, he added something new, sexual assault, ignoring my begging and screaming to stop. Although his physical actions always occurred randomly, he began giving me a warning- the cracking of his knuckles. I was unprepared the first time but I was ready for the next time when I heard the snap. Although I braced myself for the hit, he caught me off guard by wrapping his hands around my neck, choking me before lifting me up with ease, slamming my head into the wall or whatever structure was nearest before releasing his grip, my body sliding down until I landed on the floor. As with his slaps to my face, his hands around my throat left no visible bruises and so, I kept quiet, returning to the reliable comforts of cooking dinner, watching television, playing board games, dog walking and sex. Each Sunday afternoon, I placed a call to my parents. My dad always answered the phone first, ready to update me with the latest goings on before the hand-off to my mom. Our chats were brief, mostly about a buffet they went to or how my job was going yet each one included an unprompted passage from her well-worn script, with one tweak, “Your husband’s a good man and he loves you very much.”
On a weekday off from work, I was cleaning our apartment as a daytime tv talk show played in the background. When I heard domestic violence survivors detailing their experiences which echoed mine, I put my dust rag down and approached the screen. Tears rolled down their faces as these victims of abuse admitted fearing for their lives and those of their children. For the first time, I saw before me, myself and my mom. When the show’s end credits froze on a DV hotline number, I grabbed a pencil, scribbled the number on a notepad, tore out that page and stuffed it down deep into my datebook. While I’d felt compelled to write it down, I also wanted to keep it out of my own view, which I did. But, I could not unsee the images of those frightened women, one of whom was my mom’s doppelgänger. Transported back to that memorable Sunday afternoon of my childhood, I heard my mom’s screams, followed by the table breaking apart.
Many months after that show aired, during a quiet evening at home, I heard the cracking of knuckles, followed by my husband’s hands around my throat. But this time, he held it tighter than ever before. When he finally let go, I fell to the floor, choking and sputtering as I grasped for air. He stood over me shouting, “Go ahead, call the police, they won’t do anything to me! They’ll know as I do that, you’re crazy and haul your lying ass out of here! Go ahead, do it!” He threw the phone at me; it bounced off my shoulder and onto the floor where it and I remained until he turned and headed to bed. At work the next day, I reached into my handbag, pulled out my datebook, unfolded the scrap of paper. Squinting to read the now faded and barely legible phone number, I dialed.
I didn’t know it then but those ten digits would save my life. The hotline referred me to a local battered women’s shelter where I could obtain help. As soon as I sat down in the counselor’s office, the floodgates opened. I detailed my husband’s hobby while simultaneously defending his actions since unlike my dad’s maneuvers, my husband’s handiwork left no telltale signs, save for two occasions, one when he hit me in the face with a wooden hanger and another when he pushed me down onto the floor and my face connected with the rug, leaving burn marks. “And,” I proudly added, “He’s definitely not like my dad. My husband is not controlling, jealous or possessive and, I’m nothing like my mom. I’m independent, I have my own car, college degree, career and, I come and go as I please. Plus, I handle all of our finances.”
Upon hearing my words, I heard my truth. Within a few sessions, I understood that abuse is never permissible. Whether it leaves visible bruises, broken bones, or furniture, it’s abuse. Similarly, even if you’re married, sexual assault is a violent, abusive act. I also learned that domestic violence does not always follow a formula. It doesn’t have to be preceded by a tension building phase nor followed by an apology be it flowers, candy or my husband’s blame-filled, singular expression of regret after viciously pulling hair from my head, “I’m sorry you made me do that.”
With each counseling session, as I grew confident, I also became guilt-ridden as I was better off than the shelter residents with children who didn’t have the resources afforded me. My husband wasn’t jealous or controlling so I had freedom, finances and more. I felt I was stealing help that others needed much more than I. It was then my therapist reminded me of the many abuses I’d endured, the very ones which led to me calling the hotline. She explained that not all abusers look and act alike, nor do their victims. In domestic violence and sexual assault, one size does not fit all. The only thing it has in common is that it’s wrong.
With my counselor’s encouragement, I confided my truth to a kind coworker who responded with acceptance, a comforting hug and the words I’d longed for, “I’m here for you.” As I thanked him between sobs, he added, “You need to leave him. What are you waiting for?” With a slight smile, I replied, “I’m waiting for the flowers and candy.” At work the next day, he handed me a chocolate rose. “Here’s your goddamn flowers and candy. Now leave the bastard! Go far away from him, from here. You’ll start over, you’ll be fine, you’ll be so much better.”
With his support, I heeded his advice and applied for jobs 1,000 miles away. After scheduling and attending interviews, I accepted an offer for a fabulous opportunity in the state of my childhood, which I half-jokingly referred to as ‘the scene of the original crime.’ Although my husband expressed his unhappiness with my decision to leave, during a fleeting moment of truth, he said that while I was trying out my wings, he would attend counseling so that we could start anew, peacefully. He was so accommodating, even offering to split the long drive with me and not yet one-hundred percent confident I could go it alone, I accepted. Our trip was surprisingly calm until he set down the first box in my attic apartment and gave me a verbal housewarming gift, “I can’t believe you’re leaving me for this dump.” That night, I breathed a sigh of relief when I dropped him at the airport. Starting over in a house of strangers was difficult so, I returned, partially, to the familiar, speaking with my husband each night. In almost every call, he slammed me, “You might as well come back now, we all know you will and you know I love you.” The more he said that, the more he reinforced that I’d made the right decision.
With my job going well, I decided to celebrate my thirtieth birthday in Country with a college friend. Upon my return, a gift awaited me, divorce papers, sans gift receipt, wrapping paper, ribbon or sufficient postage. Accepting my fate, I paid forty-one cents for the package. The return on my investment was indeed enriching as I reveled in knowing that I would be forever free from his abuse.
With the finalization of our divorce, I returned to school, landed a position as a designer, purchased a condo and volunteered at a local battered women’s shelter. I was safe and happy but something was missing. To find that puzzle piece, I signed up for online dating which led me to a charming, talented man who, like me, was creative, wore his heart on his sleeve and had witnessed violence in his childhood home. He too was divorced and tearfully told of his marriage ending in infidelity, a vow-breaking act we agreed we’d never engage in. The cherry on top was his empathetic response to my past for prior to our meeting, he’d served on the board of directors for his local battered women’s shelter. For the first time, I had a mutually supportive, loving relationship.
On a long City 2weekend, he proposed and joyfully, I said yes! Returning to City 3, we renovated a condo and began planning our wedding. Combining our two households, we didn’t need wedding gifts so, instead, we included donation slips to the National Domestic Violence Hotline with each invite. With only four months until our New Year’s Eve wedding and knee-deep in preparations, I noticed my vision decreasing. I booked an appointment with my ophthalmologist who did some tests, followed by a few whispers to his assistant who then handed me orders for tests. Two days later, with my fiancé by my side, I was diagnosed with a massive, facially disfiguring brain tumor which had already robbed me of the vision in one eye. So busy with renovations and planning our future, we hadn’t noticed the tumor pushing my eye forward.
I underwent eleven hours of life-saving, emergency brain and reconstructive facial surgery. My fiancé stayed with me throughout my ten-day hospital stay and accompanied me to all post-op appointments and tests. Since the tumor had compromised my sight, I was had severe balance impairment but, I had my future husband’s physical support, helping me each step of the way as, for the first time, I was reliant upon a cane. We had survived a tumor and its surgery which could’ve left me totally blind, paralyzed or dead. Gratefully optimistic, we continued with our wedding plans.
The light at the end of our tunnel darkened again when a routine medical appointment for his type 1 diabetes resulted in a leukemia diagnosis. Fortunately, he didn’t yet require treatment so once more, we maintained our scheduled plans. Our wedding was a joyous celebration of love and survival. As I was still recovering from surgery, we chose a quiet, beach honeymoon in Country 2after which we returned to our newly renovated City 4 loft. We enjoyed our creative, professional endeavors, free time together roaming the city, surprising each other with gifts of trips and jewelry while still making time for visiting friends and families. Additionally, we continued volunteering, with him serving on the board of directors for a children’s charity while I had the honor of speaking on behalf of the NDVH. Soon after, I underwent extensive training and earned my advocacy certificate which enabled me to volunteer in twoState hospital ED’s, providing support and resources to female victims of domestic violence and sexual assault.
Ours was a mutually gratifying and rewarding marriage, one which our friends routinely admitted envying. We had everything anyone could wish for as well as something no one wanted. A routine MRI revealed residual brain tumor growth. After weeks of radiation, I suffered from relentless side effects of memory loss, fatigue and insomnia, all of which negatively affected my ability to work and volunteer. Instinctively, my husband knew that as a self-supporting individual, my new reality was difficult to accept but he also knew what needed to be said. “You work two days and you’re dead for five. It’s not healthy. You need to quit.” Cushioning the blow, he added, “We’ll be fine, you’ll be better, healthier and, we have more than enough money. As I always say, ‘worry is waste,’ so please, no worries. Most importantly, we have each other.” Reluctantly, I admitted that he was right and together we admitted that I was, unfortunately, permanently disabled. After leaving my job, I stayed home, writing personal essays and working out when able. I detested admitting that I was disabled but I did suggest I file for benefits. He responded by hugging me and saying once more, “No need, we have more than enough money.”
The next day, on his way to work, he phoned. “Jot this realtor’s number down. It’s a gorgeous house in East Hampton!” That weekend, we drove to City 5 and began house-hunting. Within six months, we purchased a gleaming glass ranch with pool and tennis. We alternated our time between City 4 and City 5. With that property purchase and my not having lived in my condo for more than two years, we sold it and used the profits for the downpayment on, as he suggested we buy a home for my parents, as he’d done for his former mother-in-law during his first marriage. My mom and dad adored their new, State 2 townhouse.
While planning a romantic anniversary trip, my personal essay chronicling my journey from brain tumor diagnosis to idyllic wedding was published. We flew to the Island as planned, where we lazed in the sun and splashed in the sea. But our return home was not what we’d planned as he began experiencing rapid onset fatigue. While he’d already scheduled a party to celebrate my writing achievement, given his declining health, I requested he cancel the event but he refused. The celebration was wonderful and guests called the next day with thanks, followed by questions about his health. We had yet to tell anyone about his leukemia since we didn’t want family and friends to worry as they’d already done so during my surgery and radiation. And, perhaps we didn’t want to worry ourselves either. When a visit to his hematologist revealed our latest reality, we scheduled chemotherapy.
As we’d done with my tumor and its regrowth, we handled his treatments with mutual optimism, support and encouragement until, the unexpected occurred. Overnight, he morphed into someone I didn’t recognize. He began making rash, unilateral decisions which included selling our loft, recently purchased house and, him having placed an offer on a coop in City 4 toniest neighborhood. Despite his inconsistency, what remained the same were his morning love notes. However, his afternoon phone calls just to hear my voice became vitriol-filled rants about nothing in particular. Each night he’d return home from work, greeting me as he’d always done, with a kiss and a hug. But each time I brought up his ever-changing behavior, he refused to talk about it, claiming that everything was fine. Seeing me suffer emotionally, he booked a marriage counseling session.
Making progress in therapy, we returned to our walks in Park, movies, travel, board games and lovemaking. We marked the end of his treatments with a celebratory trip to City 6where he surprised me with a Tiffany necklace. Our nights were spent enjoying romantic dinners, playful flirting at clubs as we listened live music and making passionate love. We spent our days sightseeing, shopping and taking long beach walks. Although we were close, we were simultaneously miles apart, even when in the same hotel room. As we’d both agreed to follow our marriage counselor’s advice to address such situations immediately, I brought up that he seemed to be distancing himself from me but I was cut off with, “I promised to never do that again and I won’t.” The remainder of our getaway was hot and cold as he launched into angry outbursts followed by declarations of love for me. Confused and unsteady, physically and emotionally, I thought he was gaslighting me but the man who stood by me before, during and after my brain tumor diagnosis, disfigurement, surgery and radiation, who intimately knew the depths of my memory loss, who had long advocated for DV victims, would never engage in such cruelty. While packing for our return flight, I flashed back to my ex-husband’s singular apology. Maybe I was making ‘him’ do this.
Our flight home was pleasantly uneventful until his severe emotional turbulence resulted in a bumpy landing which continued long after we deplaned. He abruptly quit the job he loved, formed a new corporation and sent a scathing rage-filled, accusatory letter to his amicably divorced ex-wife, assassinating her character with worded weapons of war. He proudly requested I read the letter only to ignore my opinion about its contents and advising he not mail it.
At our next counseling session, I planned to discuss his most recent, hasty decisions but he took the lead, pointing at me while yelling, “You’re a fucking evil bitch!” His face was contorted with hate as he stood up and stormed out of the room. Before I could apologize to our therapist, he returned for an encore, reprising his offensive script and slamming the door on his way out. As I slunk down in my seat embarrassed, our therapist said, “Did you see my hand on the phone?” “No. I was so humiliated that I didn’t notice anything other than his stomps of shame out your door, although it’s doubtful he feels shame or anything anymore. I’m just so embarrassed.” She responded, “You did nothing wrong. He did. In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was going to call 911.”
I trembled throughout the taxi ride home, alone. He met me at the door, apologizing and begging for my forgiveness. Wanting to keep at least a semblance of peace, I forgave him. The next day, I awoke to a love note followed by his loving phone calls throughout the day. Later that afternoon, he emailed me my boarding pass for his upcoming business trip which we’d excitedly planned. Moments later, he messaged that I will not be accompanying him to City 6. He needed time alone and requested that we have no calls, texts or emails during his absence. I was crushed. Since our first date, we’d never gone a day without contact. Not wanting the remaining apples to spill out of what was left in our marital cart, I acquiesced.
The day after his departure, I phoned JetBlue to obtain the credit for my unused ticket and the agent was most accommodating. He told me that since my ticket had been reassigned to someone else, he couldn’t provide a credit. Next, he voluntarily provided the name of my husband’s seatmate, unwanted information which led to me reviewing our credit card statements and phone bills. Before me were pages upon pages of his activities- hotel charges, phone calls and texts, many of which occurred before, during and after our City 5 getaway. Facebook confirmed their friendship. She was married, with children.
Per his wishes, I didn’t contact him during his trip but I did phone when, long after his flight landed, he hadn’t returned home. “Where are you?” “I’m at the office, catching up on what I missed while away. I’ll stay here tonight and get it all done.” Desperate to talk with him and hopefully discuss my inadvertent discoveries in person, I pressed him to have dinner with me at a local restaurant. Eventually, he agreed. Over dessert, I casually said her name. He rapidly responded, “I have no idea who she is.” It was then that I pulled out my confidence-building handbag of truth and set the proof on the table. With a reddened face, he said, “I don’t know her; I’ve never spoken with her. It’s all a mistake. JetBlue, The Hudson Hotel, AmEx, AT&T and Facebook are wrong. I’ll call them all tomorrow and straighten it all out.”
I wished it was so but there was no denying what I knew to be true. The man who declared his unconditional love for me daily, my first-ever advocate I’d trusted with the life and death decisions of brain tumors, the man who in turn, trusted me with his cancer, both of us living in sickness and in health before marriage, and him, a longtime supporter of battered women and the NDVH, was lying. I was woozy on the short walk back home together. Once inside our apartment he shouted, “I’m not staying here with you. I’ll be in touch.” As he opened the door to leave, he saw my cane in the corner and said, “Sure, try to get sympathy with that thing. It won’t work.” After my tumor treatments, I worked hard at walking without assistance but sometimes, such as after coming home from an intense workout, he would see me wobble a bit and remind me to use my cane. When JetBlue derailed me with reality, I lost trust as well as my appetite and within days, I’d lost so much weight that I again relied on my cane for support. While I stood at the door sobbing, he again shouted his unfounded defense, “They’re all wrong! They’re wrong! I’ll fix it all! They’re wrong!” Thirty minutes after he slammed our door, I received an email, “I had a nice time at dinner.” Fifteen minutes later, another, “If I were going to fuck around 1) I’d be exceptionally discreet and 2) I wouldn’t. I am not permanently pissed, but this is a black mark for me, let’s see what we can do with it…” Then, another email in which he declared his forever love and deep regret.
Anxious to see him the next afternoon at counseling to discuss this recent development, at least recent to me, I arrived early for our appointment. In the waiting room, I stared at the door for his arrival which didn’t come. Our therapist called my name, I went into her office and sat down without a word. While staring at the floor, she said, “He called. He’s not returning to therapy.” With this abrupt decision and his unusual choice of messenger, as soon as I was home, I called him to request a medical release form so that I could meet with his hematologist and discuss that perhaps his transformation might have resulted from his cancer or chemotherapy. He immediately faxed the signed form to his doctor, called me with an appointment date and a promise that he’d meet me there. That same week, I sat in another waiting room, staring at the door. Again, he didn’t show up. I walked back to the doctor’s office and after polite hello’s, I explained what had been going on. “Whatever it is, it’s temporary. You’re the happiest couple I know. Deeply in love, so supportive of each other, always together. Don’t worry, it’ll all work out.” I was further conflicted and yet comforted.
I returned home to another email. “The money is safe. I am not taking it anywhere. Out of the country no. Hiding it away no. Please do not pressure me to do what will be done.” As I’d not mentioned money, I didn’t know what he was referring to. Logging into our joint bank account, I noted that for the first time since we were wed, he had not deposited his paycheck.
He was gone and yet, not as he continually requested that I meet him at area restaurants, with his mail. Our get-togethers were cold but ever optimistic, I continued seeing him. He followed each meeting with emails such as, “I love you baby, xoxo me,” and, “You looked beautiful last night, as always.” I’d longed for those words which had been commonplace but were now rare and typically, followed by insults. And yet, each message gave me hope that he was right and what I knew to be true was wrong.
After days of such ‘I love you’ emails, he began calling, wanting to discuss a formal separation agreement, informing me that we’re no longer married, that this is a business deal, that it took all his strength to walk out of our apartment and, he’d been unhappy since the day we met. His next email threatened that if I didn’t go along with what he termed, a mutual, determined separation agreement, it would negatively affect my future well-being and he’d file a summons for cruel and inhumane treatment.
My days and nights were filled with more of his appetite suppressant messages. Nearly emaciated, I was too weak to exercise and stopped attending the dance classes I’d loved, the ones that he often enjoyed with me. Unable to hide my protruding bones with clothing, I was at a routine physical, when my doctor said, “You’ve lost all of your muscle! You have to start working out again.” I returned to the dance classes I’d loved. Within minutes, I was surrounded by my teacher and students who were greeting me with hugs and smiles before informing me that my husband began attending class with a woman he’d introduced as his girlfriend. The, they began showing up several times a week at what had been my regularly scheduled classes. My decision to attend other classes led to his increased calls and threats, followed by his notifying me that he moved uptown to get away from me. He had and yet he hadn’t for although he was in a different neighborhood, he continued parking across the street from our condo. After two months of uncomfortably bumping into him outside our building, I retained counsel.
My husband, a board member for a battered women’s shelter long before we met, didn’t hide his detest for my ex having physically abused me. He also believed that my brain tumors resulted from my ex grabbing me by the throat, lifting me up and slamming my head into walls and his truck. And yet, he took a page from ex’s gift-giving registry although his package was delivered with no postage at all. I was running errands on my birthday when I heard a man calling my name. As I looked to see him, he glanced down at a stack of papers, the first of which I could see was a photo of me taken in happier times. Shoving bound papers at me, he said, “You’ve been served.” I wasn’t about to reach out and accept them so he dropped them on the ground. Laying before me on bustling Street sidewalk in the November wind lay twenty-three charges of cruel and inhumane treatment, lies which my husband later admitted to having invented.
As we were childless, there would be no custody battle so I knew ours would be a quick divorce. About to leave for the first court date, my lawyer called to say that court was rescheduled since my husband was out of town. He was lazing in the Island 2 sun again but unlike our honeymoon, he had an entourage- his girlfriend, her two children, their grandmother and our money. His delay tactics became as routine as his continual, vindictive violations of the judge’s temporary support orders.
Friends and colleagues who’d envied our marriage were shocked about the way he’d been treating me and his divorce filing since he’d always told them how much he loved me and how happy he was. And, reassuring me, his ex-wife said that what I’d witnessed for years was indeed true, he had dutifully paid her court ordered support without interruption or complaint so she knew he’d do the same with me when our divorce was finalized. Even his closest friends said as he had, he’d always take care of me.
Post-trial, while awaiting the judge’s decision, I attended medical appointments and underwent routine tests, the last of which revealed another brain tumor, this one threatening my remaining vision. After another emergency brain surgery, I awoke in Neuro ICU but this time, temporarily blind, disfigured and alone. Not only had he long since abandoned me, the friends and family who’d been present and supportive after my first brain surgery followed his lead when I needed them most.
I attempted to recover in peace but my valiant efforts were interrupted and delayed by realtors showing prospective buyers our apartment. This was the only court order he followed, the listing of our City 7 condo and City 5 house. The issue of our State 2 property was settled when I received my parents’ birthday package. Addressed in my dad’s controlled, cursive handwriting, I excitedly opened the box to find a unique gift, the garage door opener without card, wrap or ribbons. As with my friends who abandoned me when my husband had, my parents did the same while also abandoning the Florida townhouse. One phone call to the realtor who sold us the property revealed that they walked out the door, leaving it empty and me, hollow.
With my husband aware of my recent brain surgery, his get-well gift came in the form of violating temporary court orders for my medical expenses. Struggling to see, undergoing two more surgeries to correct disfigurement, and rife with emotional and physical pain, my doctors wrote critically necessary prescriptions for physical therapy, a host of medications and home healthcare aides. But without receiving his court ordered support, I couldn’t afford all of my requisite care which led to my incurring further physical damage.
Based on the voluminous medical evidence provided to the court, the judge accepted the fact of my disability. Immediately, I followed her order and applied for SSDI. Recognizing that I could not survive with SSDI benefits as my sole source of income, in her final judgment, my ex-husband was court ordered to pay spousal support, healthcare overage and maintain me as the sole beneficiary of his pension and life insurance policies.
I began anew again but my second beginning started and stopped simultaneously with his continued court order violations. Necessarily, I returned to court with a lawyer and a contempt motion. Back in our trial judge’s courtroom, this hearing took only thirty minutes during which time she reviewed my evidence of accrued spousal support arrears and his cancellation of my health insurance. Again, the judge instructed him to follow all court orders and again, he said he would and again, he didn’t.
Retaining another attorney, I filed a second contempt motion which was assigned to a different judge. At our first hearing, the judge informed him that continued violations could result in jail time. I didn’t want him locked up but as our original trial judge found, I couldn’t survive without him following all court orders. Rather than believe the judge’s not-so-veiled threat, his violations continued but with a new twist, of the pen. On the subject lines of his shorted and late support checks, he began writing emotionally abusive messages such as, ‘Blood Money,’ and his most-oft used favorite, ‘Fucking Evil Bitch.’ Then, he crumpled the checks into trash-like balls which he stuffed into envelopes. His heinous, illegal acts continued for four more years, enough time that the judge forgot the court order enforcement actions afforded her.
With my finances rapidly dwindling, I could no longer afford legal representation and so, I became a fool, representing myself. This would be a bad choice for anyone, but especially for someone whose only legal education to that point had been the prior years in divorce court. Adding in my permanent neurological impairments which had long ago rendered me unable to work and support myself. Among them, brain inflammation, memory loss and nerve pain, all of which intensified. While struggling to file motions, organize legal documents and attend court, I endured cataclysmic catastrophes resulting in damage as massive as his intentionally cruel court order violations and those of a judge who repeatedly admitted not reviewing the case before her. A massive flood resulted in the loss of my belongings and my apartment, I received multiple diagnoses including- a third brain tumor, glaucoma, a chronic retina bleed in my only usable eye, cataracts requiring immediate surgery, an ovarian cyst and prior surgical scar tissue resulting in intractable pain, all while I struggled to continue representing myself in court. Meanwhile, in order to pay for critical medical treatment, tests, medications, surgeries and the necessity of shelter, I accrued credit card debt for the first time in my life. Although my renter’s insurance policy paid flood reimbursement monies, they were quickly dissipated on survival necessities of food, shelter, transportation to and from court, health insurance and more. When I thought I’d reached rock bottom, I began receiving harassing and often profane messages from inventive email addresses, including one from Email Address informing me that the happy couple had wed and were raising her children in what had been our City 8home. That message was followed with my next birthday gift, a dead plant with a florist’s gift tag on which he wrote, “I love you.”
I consistently reported his damaging, harassing and abusive actions to the judge who responded while looking at him, “Stop doing that.” He responded to her affirmatively but instead, increased his vicious email attacks while also adding childish crank phone calls. Throughout our five years before this judge, she chose to ignore my factually, documented evidence of his non-stop court order violations which included a running total of his accumulated spousal support arrears just as she disregarded her long-ago promise of holding him accountable for his violations. Despite his courtroom confession with evidentiary backup that he violated the original court order by replacing me with his girlfriend as the beneficiary of his pension and life insurance policies, the judge turned a blind eye, tantamount to approving of this violation.
Finally, the judge rendered her decision, one which disregarded my years of factual evidence proving his years ten years of continually violating court orders and substantiating that he was, far from his baseless claims of being flat out broke but rather, flush with more than enough to pay the full amount of support arrears which surpassed one quarter of a million dollars. Explaining her rationale for ignoring the rule of law, she said, “Given the Plaintiff’s comorbidities, she has less time left than he, so she won’t be needing the accumulated spousal support monies or any other benefits stipulated in the previously entered judgment of divorce. I sat there shocked that a State State Supreme Court judge had based a legal decision on her non-medical prediction of my imminent death. I walked away from the legal system, further battered and bruised with scars as invisible as those caused by my first husband’s sexual, emotional, physical and verbal abuse. Those painful wounds remain as unseen as my irreparable vision loss, ongoing brain tumor growths, radiation treatments, the abandonment of friends and family and those left behind by my second husband- financial and psychological abuse which combined, equal physical abuse for they left me further impaired as I’ve been unable to obtain and maintain shelter, medical treatment, medications and other survival necessities.
Alone, in pain and in need, I embarrassingly became dependent upon the kindness of strangers, one who generously provided me with temporary shelter and food, keeping me alive when someone else died- my ex-husband. Apparently, our judge’s crystal ball was as cracked as the rule of law she chose to break. One year and five months after she rendered her decision and amended the original divorce judgment, he was gone. But I wasn’t.
My health has steadily declined since I made my Love Connection with my second husband, after which he treated me to The Dating Game followed by The Newlywed Game. I believed I’d won the prize of his undying love, affection and support. But when he began playing his favorite boardgame, Malevolent Monopoly, I lost and continued losing since he declared himself the banker and real estate mogul, owning all of the properties and utilities. Throughout his illegal, unending game, he never went to jail directly or indirectly and I never collected $200.00 for passing go or the $250,000.00+ in accumulated spousal support.
Left with not much more than questions as to the how and why this all happened, I played a game of my own- connect the dots. A single line connected each dot, forming a family tree with rotted roots and ancestrally infected branches.
As a child, my mother witnessed her mom be physically, financially and emotionally abused by her husband which led to her marrying my dad for the safety and security she’d always desired, only to relive what her mother had and likewise, my mom did her best to ignore and hide her husband’s abuse. My brother chose to ignore the truth of my mom’s screams on that long-ago Sunday afternoon. Similarly, he chose to ignore the physical abuse he saw me endure at that campus town bar and my increasing impairments and substantial losses resulting from my second husband’s financial and psychological abuse. My dad was a good man and also, not. He loved me, my brother and my mom very much but ultimately, he loved her to death.
As for my in-laws, after I paid forty-one cents to accept their son’s postage due divorce-papers, I learned that my first husband’s father had physically abused his mother, leading to her suffering two nervous breakdowns. When I told her how her son physically and emotionally abused me, she advised that I should’ve done as she had with husband and stop doing what bothered him. Upon meeting the man who would be my second husband, he volunteered his truth of being betrayed by his spouse during their marriage. A year later, he detailed the domestic violence perpetrated by his mother. During his childhood, his mom prepared his brother a sandwich with a unique condiment, broken glass. Additionally, she often engaged in psychologically abusing him and her husband with her favorite weapon, gaslighting, which only ended when she was institutionalized.
I am living proof that as with disability and destitution, domestic violence doesn’t have to be visible to exist yet few believe my truth of living those traumas. Rather than hear an empathetic word, most often I’m told, “You don’t look disabled, abused, or homeless.” Over time, I’ve learned that there exists a pervasive, preconceived image of what a disabled, impoverished victim turned survivor of domestic violence looks like and unfortunately, that image is typically wrong. Not all tragedies are visible. Not all living below poverty level live on the streets, not all disabled are nonsensical and mangled and, not all victims of domestic violence have broken bones, black eyes or bruises. Anyone can experience what I have as well as additional challenges, be they rich, middle class or poor. Domestic violence can happen anywhere, on a Midwest farm, a State 2 beach, a bustling city or the peaceful quiet of the City 8, just as it did with me. Likewise, abusers, victims and survivors of domestic violence come from everywhere and anywhere, as in my case, the East Coast, New England and the Midwest. Abusers look like everyone, in packages of various sizes and shapes, in gift bags or boxes, decorated in ribbons and bows or with no finery whatsoever.
Specifically, seen or unseen, happening to anyone, anywhere and at any time, domestic violence is always wrong and all too often, it’s dead wrong. However, what is right remains the same- victims of domestic violence and sexual assault need to be heard, supported and believed rather than silenced, ignored and doubted. Being believed provides life-saving healing, validation, encouragement, comfort and hope. Rather than continuing to prove who I am to those disbelieving my truth, I am content in knowing who I am and with that, I validate, encourage, support and comfort myself as well as others for judging a book by its cover leads only to tattered pages, broken bindings and torn, broken people. Fortunately, I have found permanent glue and hope but tragically, too many do not.
