BF’s Story of Abuse

BF’s Signs of Being Abused

I am writing under strong recommendation of police, detectives, and judges about my 33 years of harassment and the courage that I've developed.I was forced to realize I was being abused on my own. This caused me to reach out to authority figures, i.e. police, psychiatrists, etc., who I sat with and talked to ad nauseum to validate my impressions of the situation, getting positive feedback on a highly negative situation so that I could get re-oriented correctly.

BF’s Emotional Signs of Abuse

Fear, Shame, Confusion

B.F.’s Story of Abuse

I developed a crush on a boy while I was in high school. This blossomed into what I mistakenly felt was love. He had me convinced, due to my youth, naivety, and having been overly protected as a child, that he was the only person for me.

He had me convinced that his form of rough-love (as he phrased it – which in all actuality was nothing more than raping of my mind and body) was merely him being assertive with his affection which proved how much he “really cared”, and he also had every adult around me convinced that he was good for me. Even though I would tell my family that he was harming me, he had them convinced that I didn’t know what I was talking about.

This led the members of my family to keep pushing the two of us together even though I tried to dump him in my senior year at high school. No matter where I went, what I did, or who I was with, he would show up because my mother had called him to come and get me or find me. This happened whether I was innocently at the library studying or out with friends being a little bit on the wild side.

After a tragic death in my family, my mother then saw this guy that I was trying to leave (whom I shall now refer to as Bozo), as her rock to lean on. Bozo made himself available to her at all times of the day and night so that she could cry, mourn, and get male support that she needed. There was never a sexual component to the two of them, but he did this to perpetuate the image of strength and stability for her that she was sorely lacking in at the time. This caused her to feel, even more, that Bozo was “just perfect” for her little girl, i.e. me, and he was then around my home all the time.

I tried speaking with Bozo’s mother on this issue, asking her to keep her son away from me and trying to articulate to her what he was actually doing. She informed me that I was “just under too much strain and needed some professional help” as “my son is NOT capable of the things that I accused him of.”

I accused him of manipulating my family to the point where they saw him as their savior – which he did do through actions and verbalization. I accused him of forcibly manipulating my thoughts so that I thought it was okay to be treated roughly – which he did do through his odd statements to me, along with rough physical treatment which he explained to me he would not do if I would be a good girl and behave as I was supposed to (which was a lie). I accused him of stalking me when I tried to leave him – which he did do on his own, but also with the permission and support of my family.

Stalking behavior, at the time, which was the mid 1970’s, was not seen as a behavior that authorities had to take note of, but more of just an inconvenience that the victim had to deal with. It was also often felt that it was really the victim who had a problem with viewing situations for what they really were – the victim had the problem, not the stalker. When I would speak to police about this matter, I was told… “Go home and be a good little girl. Sounds like you’ve got yourself a boyfriend that just likes you a lot.”… and other such chauvinistic statements meant to just blow me off and make me go away. I had no support whatsoever – whether from family, friends, or authorities.

In late 1976 I succumbed to the will of Bozo and our families; I agreed to marry him. During the 15 months that we were together as husband and wife, he went into law enforcement. He was taught how to beat someone up and not leave a mark by his colleagues. I was oftentimes roughed up to the point where I could hardly move, but no marks could be found. If I went to the police I was told “don’t have such rough sex with your hubby, kid” or “we understand you have an emotional problem where you feel a need to try to ruin your husband’s reputation – you need help”. Yes – I needed help, but not the type of help that they were suggesting.

On a regular basis, Bozo drugged me, beat me, raped me, humiliated me in front of his friends, threatened me and anything or anyone that I cared about, and forced me to do things that I had never wanted to do in my life. He forced me to do sexual acts upon him that turned my stomach, he sold me to other men so that he could get money, he forced me to learn how to get high with marijuana and hash, all the while also informing me, through other people that he was also using and abusing that, if I didn’t cooperate and do as I was told, it would be me that the law would go after. Let me now elaborate on this last bit…

Bozo “befriended” teenagers in the town-house complex we lived in. He had them over to our house often and had me become friends with them, too. We were close to the same age and they all did seem as if they were very intelligent young people with good heads on their shoulders and promising futures; basically, they were nice people and so were their parents.

Unbeknownst to me, being as naive as I was then, they were ALL into doing pot and other drugs. Bozo was the adult that was supplying them. He found their weakness of the drug use and used this against them and me for control. He told these young people that they were to either get me to learn how to get high or he would go to their parents, tell them of their drug use, and tell the parents that it was actually I who was the supplier so that I could get sexual favors from these young people.

The kids all liked me and knew that I was a bit of a goody-two-shoes-prudish-nerd, but they would do whatever they had to do to keep their secrets from their parents and keep their supplier, especially since their supplier also wore a badge, carried a gun, and would be seen as the good-guy by the public. I was set-up to fall.

For my own protection, I learned how to get high and hated every darn minute of it. Prior to my learning how to do this during the summer of 1977, I had been drugged by Bozo often and he grew bored with the predictability of what would occur. He became bored with my succumbing to the effects of the drugs that he would slip into my tea or soft drinks. Bozo got angry when I would pass out due to the delirium induced by the drugs, which caused me to awaken out of this stupor with the stench of sex all over my body and soreness in areas that I had never thought existed. After nights like this, I would often receive a beating because I hadn’t been responsive enough to his needs or he felt that I was having too good of a time “just laying there” and making him do all the work.

I could go on with this horrific and nauseating life that I was forced to lead, but I won’t right now. I’d like to turn this to where I woke up out of this insanity. In late 1977 I had obtained a position as a security guard to make Bozo happy. This now gave me some power and authority, but I didn’t realize how much at the time. His thinking was along the lines of, if I too wore a badge like he did, I would then wake up and see things his way and see his great intelligence over the world and its seemingly sage sense of right and wrong which, to him, was nothing more than something to be manipulated.

While at one guard site where Bozo was also a relief guard, the men on the site saw how I was being treated. One man in particular was a very formidable man who, by just his presence, made people fear him – me included. This one man took me aside one afternoon, sat me down, and had a heart-to-heart discussion with me like a father should have with his daughter.

This man, though being feared by many, was a good man inside and took the time to wake someone up that he felt was not seeing things straight – me. I listened to everything he said and knew, deep down in my heart, that he was right. He told me things to look out for and predicted a time when I would definitely see, clear as a bell, what Bozo was. At that point, when the bell of clarity rang in my head, my heart would find the strength it needed to seek an opportunity to leave Bozo.

Within two months an event happened where my eyes were opened. The bell rang clearly, and in 1978, I left Bozo. I proceeded to file for divorce, which was settled in August of ’78. But (and this is a big BUT), the story doesn’t end there.

I will now jump ahead to 2011 – 33 years later. I married another man in 1997. For the purposes of reference, I’ll call husband #2 by the name of Jake. Jake and I have been subtly harassed by Bozo many times during our 13 year marriage. Bozo is still at it.

His most recent episode was on my birthday this year. Jake came home from work and saw something lavender fall off of the garage door when it opened as he pushed the remote-door-opener in his car. Jake drove over this lavender thing, but picked it up and brought it in to me. This lavender thing was a birthday card from Bozo – THIRTY-THREE YEARS LATER I’m still being bothered by this piece of shit!

Inside the card, Bozo writes that I’m “special” and signs it, Your Husband with his name underneath in parenthesis. Bozo is NOT my husband, legally, morally, or ethically, in any way, shape, or form, but he STILL sees himself as such even though he remarried less than 8 hours after our divorce in 1978 was final.

I have not spoken to Bozo since 1985 when he somehow got my phone number and also, somehow, found out that I’d had a child. Since then, I have been contacted by other women that he’s abused and taken advantage of in many ways.

He was also arrested for drugging girls in a local youth correctional facility where he was a counselor of girls. His felonious charges were all pleaded down to misdemeanors by the court. He now is a Registered Sex Offender, but due to the charges being seen as misdemeanors, he has been able to obtain a CCW permit (Concealment Carry Weapons permit).

He also has obtained black belts in several different martial art disciplines, was an MP in the US Army, has been a Process Server for a private detective, has worked as a representative for a health insurance company that I had my health insurance with for myself and my child, and he has even been a representative for a loan company that my now current husband and I used to get a loan for a new air conditioner/heater for our house.

The information on his criminal record is not hearsay – it is all information given to me by either police officers or court officials who have contacted me. The information as to where he has worked has all come to me by experience of having to call these places at various times due to communications that I’ve received through the mail and, when I call the numbers that I’m told to call in the letters, it is Bozo who answers the phone.

I’m being stalked and have been for 33 years now. I have made attempts to file orders of protection on Bozo. I have been informed that, should I successfully serve orders on him, then all hell will break loose.

When his second wife filed on him, he took the order (which is truthfully nothing more than a lousy piece of paper in the minds of men like this) with him, pulled her out of her home, handed her the phone, and told her to go ahead and call the cops as he would be done with beating the hell out of her by the time they got “their lazy asses” there to help her. He was arrested for doing this, but was out by the next morning thanks to the talents of his well paid mouthpiece. His wife was in the hospital for three days. Again, I was informed of this by the courts.

Back in 1980 Bozo informed me that I was his, I belonged to him and only him, and he would never leave me alone, and, if necessary, he would “take me out” to prove his point. He didn’t mean take me out to dinner – he meant kill me. Unfortunately, I was the only person who actually heard him say this lovely statement. I’ve lived with it echoing in my head all these years.

I have received no real help from law enforcement as they can only do what the law allows. Bozo has really not “acted” where I’m concerned and, of course, HE has HIS rights. I have been informed that I must get proof of his harassment and other things. I have surveillance cameras up around my house and he was indeed caught on surveillance when he left the birthday card.

I spoke to our local crime-stop people to make a report and was told thank you for calling, but there really wasn’t anything they could do. Bozo has rights and the most they could get him on was trespassing charges, but since he was no longer on the property, he was within his rights. In fact, the officer on the other end stated, “It sure is nice that an ex-husband of 33 years remembered you on your birthday – you’re a lucky lady.” Yeah…Right.

The next night after my birthday, I was up late working on my book that I’m writing about this life I’ve led, when there came a loud banging on my back door. My dogs went crazy at the banging and it reverberated throughout the house. I grabbed the phone, called 911 as I walked past the back door and saw a shoe under the curtains covering the door. I woke Jake out of a sound sleep, quickly and calmly explained the situation where he immediately went to the recording device for the surveillance cameras to try to catch Bozo, once again, to permanently record for police. Unfortunately, Bozo had found the one weakness in our camera locations and had moved between them so as not to be seen for posterity – he’s not stupid!

When police arrived, I explained the situation and gave them all information that they requested. I was asked if Bozo was still in the back yard, to which I was able to truthfully answer no, but did tell them that he was either still in the alley or he’d made his way to a location where he could observe my house. I was then asked by police, “So, what do you want us to do about it?” I was again informed that HE has HIS rights and he can be where ever he so chooses so long as it’s on public property – like a street or public sidewalk. They agreed to drive around the area and “take a look”, but that was all.

My frustration grows at the evidence that I have and not having it taken seriously by authorities. I do understand that there really is nothing they can do until “he does something” – their hands are tied. That doesn’t help matters, though.

I realize, wholeheartedly, that I am greatly blessed and fortunate in having a current husband that puts up with this drama. I am also greatly tired of the frustration in dealing with authorities, but, until Bozo does pull something drastic, there is really nothing they can do. I, on the other hand, can protect myself, continue to collect evidence, and not give up. Why? Because I realized a long time ago that I matter and have value.

What I am doing, under strong recommendation of police, detectives, private detectives, victim’s rights advocates, and judges, is write about my 33 years of harassment and the courage that I’ve developed over the years to stand tall against Bozo. I have been told to go underground and hide – that gets a HELL NO! from me on all counts. There is no way on this earth that I will allow this fool to win. Besides, with his connections with detectives and other authority figures, he would just find me anyway, just like he always has.

As victims, we have our rights, too. Unfortunately, a lot of our rights are clouded by the rights of the victimizer. We matter, we, the victims of abuse in all its forms, count for something. We victims are sisters and brothers under the skin. Together we can find ways to survive the hell that we are forced to go through at the hands of these jerks and together we can laugh at their childishness and control.

I now speak to you all who are going through similar situations as to what I’ve gone through and am going through – YOU MATTER! You are a beautiful person who has a right to live your own darn life without this kind of drama. You have a right to be free of the tyranny that you are under. Contrary to what you’ve been told by these jerks, you have a mind of your own and you have a purpose other than to serve their selfish desires. Your body is your body – not a plaything to be treated like hell. You may feel that you are alone in your fight, but you aren’t. Survivors such as myself and others may not be there to physically hold you and tell you to your face that you are a beautiful human being, but know that we are all there with you, sending you healing prayers for growth and success for your healthy future.

It isn’t easy to get enough strength to override the brainwashing that has been done to you. It is also, sometimes, very dangerous to leave these jerks that feel that they own you. But, it’s more dangerous to stay with them and believe me when I say that I totally understand the things that have been said to you that make you stay.

You must make a move, though, and reach out to those who CAN help you and even hide you if necessary. Truth will win in the long run – I know, my run has been abnormally long. We all together have value – GREAT VALUE – to many others out there. Know that you DO have value and you most definitely DO matter.

Stand tall – my prayers are with you all. My prayers are also with me and mine as I’m still going through this crap (I type as I’m rolling my eyes and shaking my head while saying “Oh, brother” wondering what he’s going to pull next).

Are you abused? Tell your story and Break The Silence and download this Safety Plan. Did you leave an abusive relationship? Tell us how you did it at How I Left Abuse.
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