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Self & Society
Spousal Abuse – One Woman’s Story by Julie Fonda, introduction by Dwight Fuqua Our colleague, Julie writes a good story here about abuse: we should read and think about this a bit, don’t discard it as another story. We never know what the partner in life expects until everything breaks down, gets to that point of no return unfortunately; then we have all the information but no recovery plan. Women-Men these days; what do we want? Interesting story. Women have been liberated; Men have to face that: fact the traditional picture of the 1950-60s has changed. We all have to face the fact that Men come across as abusive, strong, expressive, and dominate. Often all at once, perhaps not intentionally. Men have not changed from the 1950-60s era. I for one admit this, in my own case. Brought up in the culture of that era, I look for the woman in my life to live within those boundaries, act accordingly. That is wrong, incorrect as we live in Year 2004 now. My mother was abused physically, beaten in fact. I remember the last few nights when I was "big" enough to stop it all: stand up to my father and say stop it or I will kick you all over the room here, do not touch that lady ever again, "that is my mom". In the end, I did it, tackled him in the backyard, put him on the ground, did not hurt him, BUT the physical abuse ended there for my Mom. Worse thing that happened over that was my mother’s opinion: she held me at fault, still does. I was the bad guy, stopped the abuse, but I had stomped on her man, embarrassed him in the world in front of guests, and all that. So it all goes; she was never beaten again, at least. I say that we get on with life, except a new reality, and get on with life dropping this 1950-60s era thought process. Articles such as Julie’s here encourage that process, we need to move in that direction and make it so. I am a big enough man to do it; One small guy in a big world. I hope the rest of us can follow in stride. Dwight Fuqua Rosamond, CA January 23, 2004 Spousal Abuse - One Woman’s Story Every morning when I awaken, and my eyes begin acclimating themselves to my new surroundings, I am unfailingly struck with the same initial thought: "I did it. I DID IT!" And the little voice, that resides within the far reaches of my brain, calls out to me softly, saying, "That’s right, Dorothy. You are no longer in Kansas. Not any more." After lying for awhile in my nothingness, I finally persuade myself to drag my sorry form out of bed. Once that’s been accomplished, I walk into the kitchen, pondering the familiar first thought du jour -trying to reabsorb the stark realization of its implications, as I pour myself a cup of strong, morning coffee. Like a robot, I shuffle in my fuzzy, one-size-fits-all, bedroom slippers over to the overstuffed couch in the family room and sit down on it as it enfolds me in its womb-like softness. I lean forward and pick up the ever- present pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights and sift through the papers and magazines littering the coffee table to find a cigarette lighter. I need to smoke because the ritual of lighting up that first cigarette of the day moves me forward to a state where I am available to connect with my mind as it begins to kick back into action. [As an aside, if any of you are worried that I am slowly killing myself by smoking, I have decided to quit once-and-for-all on the date that my divorce is final. That is my cut-off date.] It is simply not normal for a person to open their eyes, pop out of bed and immediately surge to the challenges of the new day. Consciousness is something that must be eased into, to be regained one molecule at a time in a solitary, undemanding, non-threatening setting. And after locating one of our always-elusive cigarette lighters, I fire up my first cancer stick of the day and inhale its smoke deeply, enjoying that first hit of Nicotine as it finds its way into my willing, waiting system. Cognizance, senses and feelings slowly begin their free-floating passage back into my languishing brain. The process of setting my wheels in motion has now been initiated. I haven’t been awake long enough, though, to provide a mental parking space for deep, rational thoughts of how I am slowly killing myself with carcinogens or to convince my newly emerging brain cells with the resolve to set a cut-off date for the cessation of my Nicotine habit. In that first hour of every morning, I have no interest whatsoever in self-improvement, as the drive for self- gratification is one of the last remnants of mental clutter to be overtaken and replaced with thoughts that are conducive to health and longevity. The "I did it" thought spins by again. And every time it does, I am still amazed by it. No one else is amazed though. My adult children are confused and disgusted. My old friends shun me. My pastor refers to me as "the Harlot." My husband’s co-workers are nonplussed that such a "perfect marriage" could self-destruct. Even my old neighbors refuse to talk to me. My mother is the only one who is delighted with the break-up of my marriage, because she never cared for my husband in the first place. Call it "Women’s Intuition" or whatever - for the 23 years that I was married to the man, she knew - always knew -- that I was faking happiness. I feel as though I should be entitled to receive an Academy Award for my 23 years of pretend happiness. And if I fooled hundreds of people (minus one - my mother), then I was a pretty darned good actress. Move over Julia Roberts and hand over that golden statue to me! Once a year, I would devise a way of escape -- starting with year one. But while my children were small, and I would devise each year’s "escape plan," guilt would heap itself on my head - like dirt emptying out of the back of a dump truck -- at the thought of denying my children of their father. "Next year," I’d tell myself. "Next year I’ll leave and make a new life for myself and my children." But I could never summon up the courage or the resources to carry out my plan. I only shared my true feelings with one friend, and after her callused response, I never again communicated my true feelings to anyone. "Why did you marry him, in the first place?" asked the callused (now also-divorced) friend. I pondered her question for awhile. And I could only come up with one answer: "I married him because he was a good kisser," I said. "Well!" My friend exclaimed. "There are a lot of good kissers out there, but you don’t have to MARRY them!" Profundity from the mouth of an idiot. Anyone who has survived the years of an unhappy marriage becomes a master at devising ways of escaping it mentally and detaching from the situation - even while in the midst of it. In my case,, I devoted myself to my children, to their activities, to my own education, to my job, to anything but my husband. Who wants to devote themselves to an angry man, whose anger colors and taints everything in his world and contaminates anyone who dares to tread into it? A man completely surrendered to self-pity and angst. A man who will not deal with it - even when he has reached the point of having recurring suicidal ideation on a daily basis. I would fantasize about my husband having an affair with one of our friends and then kicking his sorry ass out for committing adultery. A totally acceptable action, socially and religiously. But that never happened. And dysfunctional functionality continued to thrive in our perfect little home and became worse with each passing year. The verbal abuse had existed since the beginning of my marriage. And so had the mind games. And then the physical abuse began and became a regular occurrence that I carefully shielded from my children. No one but me knew. Even my husband - the "perpetrator" -- didn’t know - bbecause his mental illness had conveniently erased the hits and pushes and shakes from his twisted memory. And I always wore long sleeves to conceal the finger- print-shaped black-and-blue marks on my arms and the bruises left by my husband’s punches. My name is Luka I live on the second floor I live upstairs from you Yes I think you’ve seen me before If you hear something late at night Some kind of trouble, some kind of fight Just don’t ask me what it was Just don’t ask me what it was Just don’t ask me what it was I think it’s because I’m clumsy I try not to talk too loud Maybe it’s because I’m crazy I try not to act too proud They only hit until you cry And after that you don’t ask why You just don’t argue anymore You just don’t argue anymore You just don’t argue anymore Yes I think I’m okay I walked into the door again Well, if you ask that’s what I’ll say And it’s not your business anyway I guess I’d like to be alone With nothing broken, nothing thrown Just don’t ask me how I am Just don’t ask me how I am Just don’t ask me how I am [Luka by Suzanne Vega, Solitude Standing Album, circa 1978] This summer -- for the first time in 23 years -- I began wearing sleeveless tops because I was no longer being hit. I had escaped. And how I did it is all a blur. I committed one indiscretion and then another. I left clues everywhere, though in my own mind, I thought that I had carefully concealed the truth. I think that, subconsciously, I wanted to get caught because that would prompt me to finally escape. And when my husband found out, he beat me again and chased me out to my car. Thank God that I was holding my keys in my hand at the time, because I ran out to my car, started the engine and sped away. But he chased me in his truck, butting the bumper of my car with his truck’s bumper. I pulled into a Mini-Mart and ran inside, screaming, bleeding from my nose. The employees locked the door behind me, as my husband sat - for minutes - in his truck just outside the window of thhe store, staring inside. The police were called seven times and never came. Finally, my husband left and I went to the Emergency Room, got bandaged up, my broken ribs taped, and then I spent the night in my car. The next morning I called a friend to ask for help, and when he got his first look at me, he burst into tears. I spent several weeks in motels, hotels and at the homes of new friends. My husband would find me and stalk me. And then I would move on again. None of my old friends believed me, and neither did my children. Finally, I became independent, got my own apartment and began to go on with my life. And then I met (the very nonviolent) Dwight. We formed a relationship and cohabitated for two months. Every day I did a little better, but I still had issues. Every night I would have at least two violent nightmares, where I would wake up screaming and slugging. Sometimes I wouldn’t sleep at all, and sometimes I would sleep a lot. It was difficult on Dwight dealing with all of my problems of pain and insecurity - especially with the serious health problemms of his own that he was battling. But in spite of it all, Dwight tried his best to help me and managed to win back (through much effort and expense of his own) all of my children. I was safe and - for the first time in 23 years - experiencing peace. I will forever be grateful for the time, emotion and expense that Dwight invested in me at a time when I really needed a friend. I no longer have nightmares about being beaten, and now I sleep through the entire night. I have my own place again, am no longer living at Dwight’s house -- although Dwight and I remain good friends -- and I have found a good job. One day in the recent past, I called my estranged husband and told him that I had forgiven him. And for the sake of our children, I asked him if we could just be friends. He said, "Yes," and he sounded relieved. I have reconciled with my (adult) children and am working with amicably their father on our divorce. My children appear to be much happier and much more secure since their dad and I declared our "truce" and have laid down our arms. I no longer hate my estranged husband anymore, but I will never put myself in harm’s way again, either. And after forgiving him with my words, I have since forgiven him in my heart. My confidence is returning in leaps and bounds, and I no longer feel like I am carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders - a weight that I carried for a long, long time. Mine is just one woman’s story. For many years, I was a victim. And our victor-oriented culture disparages the victim, blames the victim, ostracizes, isolates and condemns. And for some abused spouses, there is simply no exit. The door is open, but the battered wife cannot leave because she has no resources of her own. Her children need her. She is terrified of the police and she knows of no safe haven from her abusive spouse. There is no Federal Witness Protection Program for victims of domestic assault. Her fear is real, the threat is real and the pathway to freedom is a very difficult one to find. For other abused women, the shame is crushing. To heal in private, behind closed blinds is far better than to be seen by others. Physical pain is more bearable than shame. The shame is deeper than embarrassment. It is mortification, humiliation, dehumanization. Shame depends on the eyes of others. Avoid the eyes, avoid the shame. Stay home. Endure. There are abused women who harbor an unrealistic hope for better times. The cycle of tension-abuse-relief, tension-abuse-relief, has periods in which optimism is rewarded. Hope for the cessation of battering is realized and the relief experienced in the periods of peace is profound. For some battered women, the thin thread of hope and the episodic experience of relief reinforces their decision to stay. Every abused woman deserves dignity, freedom from fear, and compassionate acceptance by her community. But not all women get it because our so-called civilization is not as civilized as we would like to think that it is. Men get away with beating and terrorizing women every day. The first time I called the police after I had been beaten, when they finally arrived - 45 minutes later - I showed them the bruises on my arms. One officer looked at me and sarcastically said, "Maybe you just bruise easily." But when the police got around to observing my husband, they had him committed to a mental hospital. Initially, though, I was the suspect -- not my husband. What if the police hadn’t taken my husband away? Where would I have found protection? Would my husband have finally killed me? My heart goes out to all of the women who are trapped within abusive relationships. The prospect of leaving is a dangerous one, and it is always difficult. I was just lucky because I succeeded in getting out. Spousal abuse is a long-standing, entrenched problem that is often hidden behind optimism, lies and closed doors. But with each survivor and with every person who develops an awareness of this problem, the closer we come to changing this cruel aspect of human history. I feel extremely lucky that I survived my ordeal because I was one of the fortunate few women who was given the opportunity to put a stop to the cycle of violence occurring in her life. During my time of escape and the re- establishment my new life, along with Dwight, I developed a support system of new friends. (Only two of probably one hundred of my old friends encouraged me, supported me emotionally, did a single thing to shelter me from being in harm’s way, or even believed me.) And since I have emerged from the "battered wife experience," I have become a person with more empathy for others, a better listener, and when someone is suffering from grief or some other mental struggle, I find myself identifying much more easily with their pain and find myself wanting to ease it for them in some tangible way. "For sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." And I know this is true, because after weathering my own sorrow for a long, long night and finding my way out of it -- morning -- with its unlimited joy -- has finally come to me. About the Author(s): See under Our Contributors to find out about the Author(s) of this article. |
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