A Love Story Gone Wrong

A young woman loves and lusts so hard, and feel­ings are rec­i­p­ro­cat­ed, by all the usu­al signs. He courts her, tak­ing her to nice places, even dri­ving near­ly two hours to an amaz­ing classy restau­rant to treat her. This classy: Flocked wall­pa­per, chan­de­liers, tables set far apart enough not to be over­heard by oth­er din­ers, and best of all is the serv­er who is there beside her to light her cig­a­rette when she pulls one out of the case. The food is her favorite and is so very good. A love­ly evening, danc­ing at a club, and a stay in a nice hotel. 

He lets her use his extra car until she buys one. He buys her pret­ty lin­gerie for Christmas and the train set she always want­ed. He nev­er lets her pay for any­thing, although he is mid­dle-class and pays child sup­port. He knows she can­not afford much beyond the neces­si­ties on a part-time salary. 

She is absolute­ly pos­i­tive this is her soul­mate, and she is his. They stay up many nights talk­ing on the phone until ear­ly morn­ing. They like the same music, have good work ethics, and like to trav­el, although nei­ther has done much yet.

And they have so much fun! Dancing, drink­ing, cook­ing togeth­er, and tak­ing day trips.

She thinks of him all the time, while work­ing, while clean­ing house, while falling asleep. This is the sec­ond time she has fall­en hard for a man, but the first time was in col­lege, and he turned out to be a dis­ap­point­ment. She was not seek­ing love or mar­riage; she had just been hav­ing fun with friends and dat­ing for sev­er­al years.

She can no longer remem­ber the pro­pos­al, but pro­pose he did—and she said yes. He took her to the jew­el­ry store, and togeth­er they picked out her engage­ment ring and match­ing wed­ding rings. They were expen­sive to her, but he said she was worth it and he could afford them.

He want­ed to go to her par­ents to ask for their per­mis­sion to mar­ry her. She was very impressed by this, espe­cial­ly since it would not be his first mar­riage. They did this, and her par­ents seemed hap­py for them and said, of course, they had their blessing.

A church wed­ding was planned with a love­ly recep­tion fol­low­ing at the coun­try club. There were friends and fam­i­ly as atten­dants. There was a show­er and a bach­e­lor par­ty. The hon­ey­moon was planned. 

It was all fun and love­ly for both of them. Except for that long moment when she took her father’s arm and almost told him she had changed her mind; she want­ed to run the oth­er direc­tion. But all those peo­ple and gifts and plans over­whelmed her into keep­ing qui­et. They moved into a nice apart­ment with plans to buy a house with­in a year or two.

Nothing is per­fect, but the only flaw seemed to be his ex-wife, who made crazy accu­sa­tions about him in ways that would get back to her, and told lies to his chil­dren. But the bride was sure love would over­come this one bit of adver­si­ty and that, once they were set­tled, every­thing would get eas­i­er. After all, true love can con­quer all, right?

But love does not always win. Six months into their mar­riage, after an evening out, he hit her in the face with his fist. He accused her of flirt­ing with a man at the bar, but that was a lie. There were accu­sa­tions, then shout­ing, then the fist.

This was a first for her. She had always man­aged to talk her way out of girl fights in junior high, although her father had taught her how to make a fist and how to use it. She had nev­er seen a man hit a woman and was not raised with vio­lence. She cried and shiv­ered with fear, ran into the bed­room, and slammed the door.

Later, it was qui­et, and when she ven­tured into the liv­ing room, she found him asleep on the couch. She was dev­as­tat­ed and emo­tion­al­ly so hurt and intel­lec­tu­al­ly so confused.

Later that day, he left the house and came back with a beau­ti­ful bou­quet of flow­ers, knelt before her, apol­o­gized over and over again, and even cried in his anguish at hav­ing raised a hand to her. He promised he would nev­er do it again, that it hap­pened just because he was drunk.

She believed him because she want­ed to, because she loved him, and she real­ly thought she could make it work.

Less than a year lat­er, it hap­pened again, and two more times before she left him for the last time. They had been mar­ried less than five years. She left him twice and went back twice. The details are so painful—emotional pain and phys­i­cal pain, but that nev­er hurt as much as her heart. There was also shame.

She didn’t know where to go or how to get help. No one talked about what we now call domes­tic vio­lence. There was a YWCA, and when she called, they told her it was only for home­less women with chil­dren. They did not know of any resources for women who had been beat­en, oth­er than the police.

One night, while he was hit­ting her, she ran from the house to a neigh­bor. He was a preach­er. It was after mid­night, and he answered the door with a shot­gun in his hand. He wouldn’t let her in but told her to wait out­side while he called the police. She walked, exhaust­ed and bloody and bat­tered, back to her house to meet the police. They looked at her injuries, looked at him—he was passed out drunk on the floor in the liv­ing room. They told her there was noth­ing they could do unless they saw it hap­pen. That was the law. She was crushed. They told her to call the coun­ty attor­ney in the morn­ing if she want­ed to file charges.

Once more, he cried, told her over and over how sor­ry he was, how much he loved and need­ed her, and that he would nev­er do it again. She gave in. After all, she had every­thing to lose—her income, her house, her dig­ni­ty, her lifestyle, her self-respect; she knew most peo­ple believed domes­tic vio­lence was caused by a woman’s faults.

But the final straw did arrive. The next time, he was so angry that his eyes seemed to bulge, his fists were clenched, he was shout­ing with that awful look in his eyes, and some­thing in her grew stronger.

She shout­ed back. He reached for her. She ran, but could not out­run his rage. He threw her down, and it was excruciating.

She lay there and cried. He walked away.

She got up, fol­lowed him to the kitchen, and when he turned, the rage was still there. He lunged, but this time she was quick­er, and she took him off guard. She made a fist and punched him square between the eyes. His eye­glass frame broke and drew a lit­tle bit of blood.

When he wiped his face and saw the blood, he was even angrier.

She jumped into her clogs, grabbed her car keys and purse, and nev­er looked back. She got in her truck, with him run­ning behind her. She slammed the door shut, locked it, put the key in the igni­tion, and turned it while pump­ing the gas. The wing win­dow was open, and he stuck his arm in and grabbed the turn sig­nal. It was four in the morn­ing, and it was raining.

She said, “You hold on if you want to, you son of a bitch, I’m leav­ing!” She threw it into reverse, and being the cow­ard he was, he let go. She final­ly let go of him.

Now what? Rebuild a life with no resources.

But it is pos­si­ble, with a strong will. And she did it.

“Difficult” does not describe it. Her best friend was the most help­ful, a steady pres­ence who helped with bills and let her vent.

Years lat­er, con­ver­sa­tions, laws, and atti­tudes changed. People heard about domes­tic vio­lence. Mental health pro­fes­sion­als spe­cial­ized in it, there were shel­ters, and women were not dis­be­lieved and blamed as often.

For her, twen­ty years lat­er, stand­ing at a cer­e­mo­ny to pro­mote domes­tic vio­lence pre­ven­tion, it was still painful. Trauma does not go away. However, she had an epiphany: she was not a vic­tim; she was a sur­vivor! And she want­ed to help oth­er vic­tims become sur­vivors. She want­ed to use her hor­rif­ic expe­ri­ence to help oth­ers know they do not have to stay, and they do not have to sub­mit, and they no longer have to be victims.

Reach out to a friend, an acquain­tance, a teacher, a librar­i­an, a police offi­cer, a fire­fight­er, any social work­er anywhere—hospital, school, hos­pice, any agency, any­one who can look up resources where you are. 

You can leave. You can start over. It is not your fault. 

You are not alone.