Linda recently wrote to tell us about her abusive marriage. Although it appears her husband is changing, she suffers from PTSD and cannot trust that what happened before truly will not happen again. She remains in the marriage, prays for guidance, and trusts that God will guide her steps.
Back in March, I spent a couple of days writing a story for a Memoirs, Ink short-story contest. I didn’t win, but now I can share the story with you.
This story did not factually happen the way it is presented. I drew from my last night with Will and all the other times that were (and are) so vivid in my memory to create a snapshot. Again, this story is a mash-up of times and places, a reorganization of reality, with a knife thrown in because I had only 1500 words to tell this story.
DayBreak
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “You’re calm. You’re calculating your next move … I can see it in your eyes.”
“What?” I asked. I felt my eyes scrunch at their lids, felt my brow knit together into the one wrinkle on my face, off-center between my eyebrows by a fraction of an inch.
He used to smile at me when he saw that wrinkle appear, run his finger along it gently. Now, years later, looking into his whiskey reddened face, I understood why he loved that wrinkle. The subtle line showed my first signs of anger. It was his clue that he was getting to me.
“I can’t trust you when you’re calm,” he continued. I felt my wrinkle deepen. “Why won’ cha you call me an asshole, a bastard? Why won’ cha yell at me no more?” he said, “I’d respect that more than this calm, manipulative thing you’ve been doin’ to me lately.”
He grabbed his drink from my desk. I smelled the sourness of the whiskey as he pulled the glass toward his pinched mouth. He took a sip, looked into his half-empty glass with narrowed eyes, and then finally relaxed his face enough to gulp the rest.
I felt the wrinkle disappear, my face relaxed as if I were his mirror image. Calm for an instant. But then his knuckles whitened on the glass and he brought it down fast, stopping it an inch above the surface of my desk. My hand gripped the computer mouse tighter than a second before. He concentrated on his hand and banged the glass to the desk three times, seeming to need the punctuation of sound. I squeezed the mouse three times harder and felt my ribs clench together in my chest.
My eyes were wide as he slowly defocused from the offending glass and settled his greener-than-sober eyes on me. “What’s that look for? What’s wrong with you?” he whispered, emphasizing the “wrong”.
We looked at each other for a long silent second, me wide open and scared and him white-knuckled and angry. Was he angry because I was frightened? Was he mad because I wasn’t angry?
It would be wise to choose anger. Smart to give him what he wanted. My mind shot five minutes into the future and I saw myself yelling and crying, shouting horrible things I didn’t mean to placate him. I foresaw his muscles relax, envisioned him turning away toward the kitchen. He would be saying, “You’re fucking irrational. I can’t talk to you,” with a sneer on his lips.
I would hear the ice banging into his glass, then hear the Coke fizz briefly before the Jim Beam silenced the fuss.
What he wanted was an excuse to keep drinking.
Spinning out of the vision, looking into his eyes, I realized I was stuck in a tight corner, my only exit through him. If I stood from my seat, I would have to lean into his space. Would he allow me to stand? I decided he wouldn’t.
I blinked my eyes, then pinched my lids together tightly for a moment. Opening them, I saw that he was leaning in closer to me, bending at his waist and eyeing me curiously. I felt like an unknown type of animal the hunter must study before killing. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Tryin’ to figger out what you’re gonna do,” he said, tilting his head a little and slowly pushing his chin toward my face until he managed to look down at me even though our noses were aligned. I felt his breath on my cheek.Smelled the residual stench of alcohol mixed with sweat as if it were my own. Familiar. Threatening. Vile.
I didn’t move. I thought of how a deer froze in the road as if its stillness guaranteed immunity from the car barreling down on it. The car always won. I saw my carcass in a ditch.
I snapped back in my chair. He startled. I rose up from under him and escaped the corner. I didn’t go far, turning to face him as quickly as I could from a new position near the freedom of the kitchen and its exterior door. Six feet of air stood between him and me, and my purse was three feet beyond him on the table by the front door. Could I exit the kitchen and then round to the front door, re-enter the house to grab my purse and get to the car before he could stop me? I considered his slowed and drunken state, but I doubted my ability to execute the plan. I imagined that once I was out of the house he would lock the doors, and I would be outside in my socks and the cold dark rain.
Or worse, he would chase me outside to subdue me. I would run, but he would tackle me. I would fight, but he would win. What did it mean to win? What did he want from me?
“What do you want from me?” I yelled, knowing he wanted me to yell. “You are scaring the hell out of me!”
He slowly stood erect, a delayed reaction that bought time for his voice to switch to a croon. “You’re scared? Come on, Woman. Have I ever hurt you before?” he said, corners of his lips lifting upward while the centers stayed straight. He slightly lowered his head like you do when you peer at your naughty child over the top of your glasses. I expected him to tsk and shake his head in disappointment.
He may have forgotten holding my face over the lit stove burner and using my neck to swing my head into the wall, but I hadn’t. Five years had passed between that night and this, but I remembered it clearly.
I put my hand to my mouth partly remembering the heat and partly in shame. Why hadn’t I left him then? Why was I still here?
He took a slushy step toward me and I heard the sole of his Ridge Desert Storm boot slide barely over the surface of the wooden floor. At 1 a.m. he was still wearing his uniform and boots. That meant his knife was still attached to his belt, in its case, positioned horizontally not vertically.
I took a step backward, purposefully staring into his eyes so I wouldn’t glance at the knife.
He wore the knife horizontally so he could pull the 5-inch blade from his side with a smooth backward motion before giving a powerful forward thrust. He’d shown me the move, proudly, not long ago. The knife was too long to be regulation, but he’d said “Some of us get to carry what we want,” and I hadn’t doubted him. He was a stellar soldier.
“Why do ya gotta be so different from me, Woman? Why d’ya havta challenge me all the time?” He took another but steadier step my way. My thighs tightened into coiled springs. He subtly rounded his back. My torso twisted slightly facilitating my right arm’s creeping motion toward my own imaginary weapon. I was gonna take my knife and twist it into something raw.
“I only want you to respect me,” he said. His glassy eyes filled with tears. “Why can’t ya respect yur husband, Woman? Why?” He moved toward me, the toe of his boot rubbing the floor somehow wrong. He stumbled and then fell to his knees, putting his hands to his face, shamed. He sobbed. I felt the tension drain from my body. I couldn’t run.
I dropped to my knees and pulled his head to my breast. My eyes welled up with tears and we cried together for a while. He cried until he passed out on my lap and I let him sleep there while my legs grew numb.
I sobbed my goodbyes to the sleeping soldier. He seemed innocent like this, on my lap, in my arms. I smoothed his thick dark hair. I wondered if he would wake to mimic my broken heart, to express grief in the same way I now mourned, realizing we would never grow old together, never see our children, and never once touch one another, ever again.
It was a comforting thought, thinking he may weep for me.
I gently placed his head on the golden wood floor then straightened my legs to get the blood flowing. I uncased the knife at his side, and carried it with me to our bedroom. Packing, I would stare at the knife at times, reminding myself why I was leaving. It would be easier to pretend he hadn’t wanted to stab me, that I had imagined the whole thing. I wanted to crawl into the bed and sleep away the pain. Instead, I packed.
On this side of daybreak, I stepped over the soldier on the floor. I laid his knife on the table by the front door, took up my purse, and drove away.
Tonight, a conversation occurred that I knew would come but hoped would not. Will was angry after reading the past few days’ blog entries. He feels that he is doing everything he can to provide for me, and yet I continue to drag his name through the mud.
He says that he believes that I believe what I write is the truth, but says I do not tell the whole story. He insists that I have never mentioned throwing keys at him, or to saying mean things to him. He says that he has done nothing I haven’t done, that we are both equally wrong.
He says that I am slandering him. Dictionary.com defines slander as “a malicious, false, and defamatory statement or report (i.e. a slander against his good name).” So I am lying, he says.
He told me that I had better write something good about him. He has an appointment with his attorney on Wednesday and they are going to initiate the financial consent order. If I want him to be reasonable, then I’d better write something good. When I asked if he was threatening me, he said he was “promising” me.
The really sad thing about his promise is that in the past 24 hours I have spoken to two family members about the things I truly love about Will. But I hadn’t had time to blog (weird, isn’t it, for a woman who “isn’t doing shit” to not have time to blog).
Last night, I told my mother that he protected me from other men (who, after the date rape, were the enemy). That he was once intrigued by the ways we differed. I was an artist, a free spirit, and although he didn’t understand me, I offered something to him that he must have needed. He loved me. He wanted to provide a home, a family, and financial security to me and our children, and he has done those things admirably.
Never once have I worried that my family would have no income, or that he would refuse to have or keep a job. In fact, there were times he carried the burden of two jobs on his shoulders while I remained at home, safe and sound, with our young boys.
Will re-entered the military in small part because there was no real future in the company he worked for due to buy outs and the resulting seniority issues, but also because he believed that the military could offer more family time. It may sound silly to assume the military would offer more family time, but at that time, he was working second shift with no change in sight and NEVER got to spend much time with his boys. The military offered a 9-5 job, home on the weekends; he couldn’t have anticipated the number of times he’s been ordered to deploy or the length of time he would be gone.
This morning, I spoke to my grandmother. I told her that Will was now the father I know he always wanted to be. Since his return from deployment in December, his children are his priority…not work, not his “schedule”, not his other commitments to friends/acquaintances. He is enjoying time with his boys – real and memorable time.
They work together, they joke together. I know his relationship with them is different from my relationship with them, but I sense a closeness between them that wasn’t there before. Marc and Eddie were excited to see their dad on Sunday night; I was happy for it, happy for them – all three of them.
But yet, this post, the one that most likely would have come naturally from me, is bittersweet. I so wish I hadn’t talked to him tonight; if I hadn’t spoken to him then this post would have been better. It would have been “good”. It wouldn’t have included the introductory part about his “promise” to me.
I was talking to my friend about “how” smart, confident women (as I was at 19 soon before meeting my husband) get suckered in to abusive relationships. How we ALLOW ourselves to fall for guys who end up abusing us and then stick around for years of it.
Are we asking for it? Are we seeking it? Is there something in our make-up that attracts this type of guy? (Gee, don’t those sound similar to questions rape victims ask themselves? Questions used to accuse ourselves?)
Yesterday I think my friend and I hit upon one answer. Or rather, one question that is actually RELEVANT to “How did I get here?”
What was going on in my life when I met and fell in love with my abuser? Or gave it one more try?
I was date raped less than a week before I met Will. This guy drugged me (I think, ’cause I know I didn’t drink enough to pass out in a bar – never have). I woke up at least once after he was already inside of me, I remember saying, “No, no, no…” and then going black again.
Next day, he came to visit me. Didn’t mention the night before. I think he was checking to see if I remembered. After that, he started telling people what a good lay I had been. Sicko.
I didn’t report it because my sister had been summarily discharged from the Army for “failure to adapt to military life” after reporting her own rape. I was new to my unit. I was happy to be a soldier. I feared being discharged or having to work with this guy while an investigation was going on. I thought it was best to ignore it.
Nevertheless, Sicko was running around blabbing about the sex. I was “fresh meat” as female soldiers always are upon arrival at a new duty station. When my soon-to-be husband tried to flirt with me at a coffee shop, I turned him down flat.
But something about him aroused me. Whether it was his deep voice, muscular build, overall “manliness”…he was hot. But more than that, in hindsight, he was protection.
Will was and is “manly”. There’s not a feminine tendency in his make-up. He is strong, forceful, confident, and everything else a woman in my position longed for. He was exactly what I needed, what I wanted.
And in fact, Will helped make the rumors GO AWAY without even knowing it. His presence and his soon-to-be renown jealousy and possessiveness, kept ALL predators (er, men) at bay. I did look at all men as predators at that time. They sucked.
But I thought I had found the one good one in the herd.
When Will’s jealousy and possessiveness began to be problematic, I overlooked it. When he ordered me to throw away the box containing my letters, pictures, mementos and journals, I did. Well, I threw it away the second time he told me to do it. The first time, I just told him I’d thrown it out. The second time, he had seen the box in my friend’s room and confronted me so angrily that I did it.
I threw away the first piece of me. Because I thought doing so would keep Will from turning on me. Prevent him from becoming a predator in my mind and heart.
You see, I HAD to keep Will on my side. I HAD to have protection from those other slime bag men (who, in hindsight I know were not all slime bags) . I had set Will up to be my ALL. My protector, my lover, my partner, my equal, my defense against all bad things in life.
If I were to admit to myself that he was overstepping his role, that his request to destroy my box was irrational, then I would also have had to admit that he was irrationally “protecting” me.
And he was. Jealous rages are irrational protection mechanisms…but not for their victim. Jealous rages protect the rager – the one who cannot bear to “lose” someone whom s/he never really “owned” in the first place. But he thought he “owned” me because I let him think so because I wanted someone to protect me, know me, love me.
So “How Did I Get Here?” is answered with one statement: I wasn’t in my right mind when I chose Will. I was in “survival” mode, crisis mode. I was irrational and didn’t know it. None of my decisions at that time were based on fact…the “solutions” I devised for myself came from FEELING, not THINKING.
Will felt like “the one”. Will felt like my soul mate. And I think that because those feelings for him were SO STRONG, that I overlooked a multitude of signs to the contrary.
I love Will and see no end to that feeling. I sense it changing, morphing into a different kind of love. Without Will, I wouldn’t be who I am today…and I like me today. He was sucked into my irrational world as much as I was sucked into his.
You would have to ask him what need I fulfilled for him 18 years ago. But for me, at the time, his ability to protect me from the outside world was what I needed. I didn’t foresee that same quality morphing into abuse.
HOW DID YOU GET HERE?
I signed a form today that says I would like for the state to dismiss the charge against Will of assault on a woman.
I walked into the attorney’s office and told the receptionist that I was there to sign some kind of dismissal form for the domestic violence charge on my husband. A woman took me to her office, pulled out a form to fill-in, and asked me for my identification.
When it was time to sign the form, I started to cry. I moved my hand holding the pen behind my back and looked around for a tissue. I put my hand to the paper three more times before I managed to sign my name, and when I did sign, I did it quickly and without watching what I wrote.
I turned from the notary and she asked, “Mrs. Helget, are you sure?”
I wanted to grab the paper and rip it into shreds, but I told her “I am sure” and she notarized my signature on that piece of paper that will help dismiss the charge against Will.
He and his divorce attorney will go to court and say that I dropped the charge because I lied about what happened. His attorney asserted in court last week that “there was no abuse in Mr. Helget’s home,” and I’m sure she’ll say that line again and he’ll love it when she says it. And they’ll use what I did today against me.
So, why did I sign the paper? Because what is “just” is not always “right” and what I want cannot always be the best deciding factor between the two.
Justice would be served if Will were pronounced guilty of the charge and ended up in an orange jumpsuit. It would be briefly satisfying to know that Will had to live in a situation where he was uncomfortable and unloved with the threat of violence (physical or mental) hanging over his head from day one.
I’ll flat out tell you – I feel vengeful. I want him to suffer as I’ve suffered. I want him to know what it’s been like to live with an angry, irrational man who thinks he is right and doesn’t apologize for anything. And if I could choose his cell mate, I would choose one who is just like Will but bigger and louder and who hits him on the first day and, after that, rarely does it again because the sidelong looks and muttered comments are enough to keep Will in line.
Will wouldn’t be surprised to read that. I’ve told him more than once that I wish he hurt like I hurt.
The difference now is that I know Will cannot hurt like I hurt. He doesn’t have the capacity to take it as I have. He’s told me more than once that if he felt like I said I do, then he would have left me a long time ago. I wondered how he could understand my pain enough to know he wouldn’t stand for it, but not enough to make him want to change his behavior. He seems to want me to be in pain, inflicted by him when he chooses.
His controlling nature will continue to reveal itself as Time goes on, in court and out. Maybe Time will reveal Will’s truth on my schedule, but most likely I’ll have a long wait.
So I signed that paper in order to give Time what it needs to reveal Will for all he is.
Vengeance is fiery-hot, but short-lived. If I got what I wanted, there’s no way to know how Will would exit the jail cell. Would he understand any better? I don’t think so. I think he’d emerge an angrier man, not a gentler one, and the “lesson” I sought to “teach” him would backfire on me and our children, in Time.
When I think back on the ways I’ve tried to “make him hurt”, I see that the only one who felt anything was me and those feelings were guilt and shame, not satisfaction. The guilt and shame caused me to become less of who I was because I absorbed the punishments he inflicted afterwards – I felt like I “deserved” punishment because I was a bad person, and it seemed fitting that the one I sought to hurt was the one who did the punishing. I suppose I tried to keep Karma “in the house”.
It is not my job to do (or seek) what I consider “just” – it is my job to do what is “right” to the best of my ability.
For one, a father who’s been imprisoned and dishonorably discharged is not right for Marc or Eddie. They love their father as much as they love me – we are equal, almost “one” in their hearts. What happens to him reflects on me, and what happens to me reflects on him. Will and I cannot end the “oneness” our boys consider us to be – we’re parents.
The choice to sign the paper was right for me because if I had refused to sign it, then I would know that I gave in to the lesser part of me. I would have given in to the part that wants him to hurt.
Now, the right thing to do, the hardest thing to do, is to let go of today and the fact that I signed a piece of paper that eradicated justice in favor of what I think is right. If there’s any justice to be had, it will come in Time.
20 minutes until I have to leave the house. I could waste it playing Solitaire, or I could spend it writing.
Writing every chance I get is proving to be an easy new habit. The other night, Marc’s school put on a presentation and I wrote down observations and snippets of prose (not good prose, but prose!) while listening to the lectures of area business people. I carry (have always carried) a notebook in my purse, and now I use it to jot down words other than reminders and family business. Easy.
This morning, with 20 minutes before I must leave the house to attend a “Career Make Over” class, I could have done any number of things which need doing. Fold the basket of laundry. Wipe the kitten footprints from the floor. Clear off the end tables. All things I would have done in the past to avoid problems later in the day. But I chose to write. And I feel good about it.
No, I don’t know who is going to do the household stuff or when it will be done, but it will get done. There’s no one here to tell me I’m not a good person because it isn’t done. No one to tell me what my “job” entails or complain if I let them down because there are crumbs on the table.
I’m free to write.
Much like Will has been free to soldier. He is required to go to work every day, and look how far it’s taken him! He’s one rank from the top, and he got there because he “soldiered” day in and day out, religiously. He didn’t have anyone telling him to stop soldiering and clean the car. He didn’t have anyone breathing down his neck to fix the leaky faucets or clean up the dirt he tracked into the house.
I left him to mind his own time and be a soldier. Any other demands of his time he chose to attend to when there was an opening in his schedule – not before and not after. He decided when to do something other than soldier.
I’m going to learn from him when it comes to writing. I am going to write even when I don’t want to write. I’m going to “go to work” even if I’m sitting here at home and not worry about other menial chores that will be there later. When I can, I’ll tend to the laundry, the car, the faucets, the dishes… Until there’s an opening in my schedule, I’m not going to worry about the things that can wait.
I’m excited!
As usual, I’m reading books to educate myself. Tonight’s subject is divorce.
The thrust of Nolo’s book on divorce is on deciding what kind of divorce I want, then considering how I want to get there. Do attorney’s hash it out? Do we have to go to court and air our dirty laundry? Or would mediation work for us?
But then there’s the big question: Am I on the path to divorce? Is there NO alternative? Am I going to get divorced in the same hasty manner I married? Did I throw out the brakes on this vehicle on a down hill road?
If we lived in Texas, we could get a quickie divorce (so long as we were happy with the separation agreement). In North Carolina, we must live separately for one year. I am beginning to see the wisdom in the forced wait.
I find myself wishing Will and I could talk. We both want separation from each other. We both want the other to change. We both want to renegotiate a LOT of crap. And there I go speaking for him again when there is no way to know what he is thinking. I cannot, by choice and by law, talk to him now.
I need time.
But my attorney wants my financial documentation yesterday. She wants to know exactly where I’m headed when all I know is that I don’t want him around me now. Isn’t there some way to slow down?
Will wants me to not show up in court for his next appearance. If I don’t show up, then chances are the court will drop the charges. Good for him, makes me look like a liar. I’m no liar; I’ll be in court. What he says doesn’t align with what my attorney says. He says I can’t trust a civilian attorney; I think I can trust a civilian attorney because I have NO ACCESS to a military one.
I trust that everyone knows military courts are completely different from civilian ones. Even Will, an active duty soldier, cannot hire a military attorney to represent him in civil court. JAG is not a free attorney service for the military. JAG only governs what happens to a soldier under military law (discharge from the military, dock pay, reduce rank…that kind of thing).
Because the military now pays attention to domestic violence and abuse, IF Will’s convicted of domestic abuse the Army will dishonorably discharge him. That’s what Will says JAG says. I haven’t been able to get to JAG yet – they have a class two times a week and my other appointments have taken priority.
So here I am, being pressured to “not show up” in court and to get financial documents so “we can proceed,” and all I’m really wanting to do is to SIT WITH THIS for a bit.
There may be a really smart way to handle this separation and divorce that doesn’t involve ridiculous amounts of pressure OR money. I’m no attorney, but I think, given a little time, I can get a handle on WHAT I WANT and then find out WHAT HE WANTS and then see how close to agreeing we are.
I’m thinking a mediator is necessary. Will wants the cheapest way out, but I have a lot at stake. If I don’t have someone who can protect my interests, then Will loses nothing and keeps everything WE have worked for and created in the past 18 years.
I think he doesn’t care about that. I think he wants to rush things so I don’t have a chance to think. Or maybe he wants to rush things because it hurts. But ALL of those ideas are simply me projecting my own thoughts onto Will, and that isn’t going to help me one bit.
Instead of blogging, I am going to write out what I want. I’m going to give that to my attorney (for record-keeping) and have her send it to Will. Then maybe he’ll tell me what HE WANTS and I can either be pleased, hurt, or angry, but I would be able to move ahead without feeling unheard and rushed.
See “What I Want” on the post entitled I Want To Lie To You
Ramona says~
“Nowhere in what I wrote assigns blame to you or him, and I am trying extremely carefull not to do so. I remind you that I care about you both. Your escape plan put you in a somewhat comfortable situation as far a money is concerned. But that will change if “Will” is dishonorably dicharged. I understand that their is no person or institution you can talk to to change the charges. But what are you going to do when “Will” has no income. If he has no income, he can’t pay child support, which he will pay otherwise until the boys get out of collage if they choose to go. The Armed Forces will see to it that.”
“Because he is in the Armed Forces, you guys are leagally residence of Texas, there is no allimony, only community property falls into play. If what you have already taken from the accounts is less than half you’ll be OK for now. But how long will that last. Texas also has one of the most conservative child custody systems in place. Another words, unless you are a “prostitute, turning tricks for a fix”, which I know your not, Mother gets primary custody of the children.”
“The current charges don’t have to have anything to do with the divorce, unless you plan on making them. Actually, the ball is in your court. I’m pretty sure, weather true or not, “Will” is feeling betrayed by you taking the money. I am not saying you were wrong to do so, I’m trying to make suggestions which will bring about the best resolution of the situation for everyone involved.”
Ramona, you are assuming a lot. Or maybe you’re repeating what Will has told you, there’s no way for me to know. However, I am tired of bantering with you. (see more here and then here and then here – read from the top of the comments section down, reference “Ramona”).
What do you know about how comfortable I am financially? I took what amounts to less than two months of his net pay. I took the money out ONLY after receiving emails from the bank, time stamped, showing that he had attempted to lock me out of all of our accounts. He changed all the personal information on the accounts, thinking I had no way to access the money. Fortunately, he forgot to change the email notification address in his haste to deny me a way to sustain myself. When I found out what he had done, I took the lump sum from the emergency account because it was obvious he wasn’t going to “share.” I had no way of knowing when I would receive any more money, only that I would, eventually, and a good portion of the money I did have has already been paid out in attorney fees.
You are also assuming that I have no means of financial support besides my husband, no way to provide for myself and children. Besides my own ability to earn an income sufficient to cover our needs, the Army gives out what is called “Transitional Compensation” to women divorcing their soldier due to domestic abuse. It isn’t much, but it is enough to fill in the gaps, and it lasts for three years. That is assuming that he would be found guilty of the charges; there is no guarantee of that, and I’ve already told you how I feel about the charges.
The military “sees to” his paying child support only so long as he is in the military. After he retires or is discharged, the Army has no further interest in what he does financially (except for Survivor Benefit Plans and IF I receive a portion of his pension benefits). If he retires, that will be in about 5 years; if he’s discharged, the Army’s disinterest begins immediately.
Currently, Will is planning to give each boy two years of his GI Bill. Because Will officially “earned” the GI Bill by the time he left the Army the FIRST time (in ’96), the GI Bill is his to keep regardless of the outcome of this stint in the military. And, even WITH Will’s contribution of his GI Bill to the boys, there will be a need for financial aid. Depending on Will’s and my income in the coming years, the boys may or may not qualify for Federal Aid. As it stands right now, with us married and he providing the only income, we do not qualify for Pell Grant money – he makes too much. I know because I applied last year. Separated, the situation may change.
Yes, it is true that his attorney could refuse to hear this case in North Carolina. I really don’t care. There are benefits and drawbacks to either state; I’m sure Will’s attorney will fill him in on all of that. (ref TX maintenance)
I find it odd that you mention a prostitute turning tricks in your assessment.
And finally, you are wrong about the current charges having nothing to do with the divorce. They are domestic violence charges; they have everything to do with the divorce.
Will has felt betrayed by many things. I am not surprised that he discounts what he has done in his assessment of my perceived betrayal of him.
I am done explaining things to you. Besides, what I say doesn’t hold water with you. You evidently know more about my situation than I do and have spent more time considering my best options for me. If you see fit to call me or email me personally, please do so. For this weekend at least, I am done with this conversation.
On January 22, I wrote My Heart is Failing. I’d been sitting here at my desk, writing in fear, for awhile at that point. But something about that post helped me to remember: It is NOT okay or reasonable for me to stay in a place in which I am afraid only because the one who I am afraid of once promised to love, honor and cherish me. He promised that he would, once, almost 18 years ago; the time between then in now is full of proof that he didn’t mean it.
Later that night in a voicemail, he called me a traitor and told me to never come back. And I thought, “I am the traitor?!”
But I’m a bit ahead of myself. After I finished the blog post, I realized that the feelings I was feeling (anxiety, angst, fear) were my CUE to get the hell out of here. I logged off my password protected computer, walked past him and down the hall to our bedroom. I put on my boots, my coat, and grabbed a small blanket.
I came back out and he said, “Are you going somewhere?” to which I responded, “Yes. I’ll be back when I feel safer,” then grabbed my purse and left.
I drove to a safe place, previously scouted, and parked the car. I shook out the tension from my hands and shoulders as best I could and let a tear or two fall. He had been calling my phone, but I’d been letting it go to voicemail. I decided that I didn’t want to hear that phone ring, so I called my sister and we talked for almost two hours.
We talked about what was happening, and later, we talked about my hopes for the future (getting paid to write – dare I say I wanna be an author?) and our kids and our mom and her idea to prepare a hypnosis session for me. Eventually, my caller ID stopped showing his calls. I waited another 45 minutes or so, and thinking he’d finally passed out on the couch from drinking all night, I decided to go home and go to bed. He probably would pretend to not even remember what had happened tonight, I thought.
When I pulled up in the drive, everything looked normal. Living room light and tv were on, I didn’t see Will roaming about the house snapping his belt; I thought he was asleep. It was about 2AM.
I unlocked the side door in the dark and pushed it, stepping inside. Suddenly, as if he’d somehow shot up from out of the floor, Will was there. He opened the door, but stood in my way. He said, “Give me your keys and drivers license and get out.” I figured he meant to give him all EXCEPT my keys and drivers license, but he was drunk and smelled like he’d bathed in Jim Beam while I was gone.
In a perfect world, with a perfect emergency plan, I would have turned away with ALL of my things and left for a hotel. But that isn’t what happened. I didn’t have a bag in the car, he had scared me with his appearance and tone of voice, and I didn’t think too clearly. Funny thing about emergencies – they don’t happen when you’re expecting them, and even if you are expecting “something” you’re never expecting the worst something possible.
Out of habit, I put my purse in its spot by the door while sidestepping the man blocking my way. (He would later claim to the police that I “shoulder bumped” him.)
I walked to my room as quickly and quietly as I could.
Will began yelling. He said that he had already woke the boys to tell them that I had abandoned them to go “f*ck a n!gg#r” and wasn’t living here anymore. He added with greater volume, “Even a WHORE doesn’t abandon her children!” and I heard his footsteps getting closer.
I locked the bedroom door behind me. I went to the bathroom to pee. Will hit the bedroom door and said, “Unlock this f*cking door or I’m gonna kick it in!” I said, “If you kick in that door, I’m calling the cops,” and it came out of my mouth more calmly than I thought it would. I exited the bathroom to him exclaiming that I had better get away from the door because he was going to kick it in.
As I listened to his threats and obscenities, I repeated what I would do if he kicked in the door.
I heard him walk away, his shadow disappeared from under the door. He was yelling something, I figured the boys were awake by now (I hadn’t seen them when I’d come home). I pushed my dresser in front of the door, realizing it wasn’t strong or big enough to keep him out forever but could buy me some time.
Part of me thought he wouldn’t be back, that he would carry on his rant in the other rooms and not try to come in the bedroom. He kept telling me to leave his house, reminding me that it was, in fact, HIS house because he’d paid for it and everything in it. That the boys were his too – they didn’t deserve a whore for a mother and he was taking them from me.
It got quiet for a few seconds. I contemplated whether I should pack a bag or if I should crawl into bed and pretend nothing was happening (or rather, pretend that nothing could happen).
His shadow reappeared in front of the door, I heard the tickling sound of metal on metal as he unlocked the door. Later, I noticed that the doorknob had been changed. I had installed a doorknob that needed a key (like the one on my keyring) to open it. I wonder when he changed that knob to one you could pick open with a hair pin? I wonder why he changed it without telling me?
He was surprised to find something behind the door. More yelling. He was pushing the door open, the dresser was pressing into the wall behind the door. There’s now a hole in the wall where the top edge of the dresser cut into it. I turned to the window, unlocked it, tried to raise it. The damn window was freaking STUCK. It wouldn’t budge. I was looking around for something to break the glass when the door opened a crack and I saw his red face smirking at me.
He forcefully hit the door with his shoulder repeatedly to gain entry to the room, to make a crack between the door and the frame. He didn’t take his eyes off of me as he squeezed through the crack. The door was pressing back against him and I remember hoping the doorknob would snap back and hit him in the balls. I had no where to go. I couldn’t think.
He was yelling at me to leave, to get out; I wasn’t welcomed here because I was a whore and a traitor and, yes, unappreciative of all he’d done for me.
When he finally made it into the room, I tried to go to the door. He was telling me to get out, and I wanted to get out. But when I moved toward the door, he pushed me on my chest. Hard enough that I lost my footing and fell backward onto the bed. My fear and the bouncy mattress put me back on my feet. I sidestepped him once, trying to get to the door, saying, “Then let me leave!”
As he grabbed my arms and shook me, he said, “NO! It’s too late for that!” My head snapped back on the shake before he pushed me backwards again. I didn’t fall this time. He had turned his back to me for some reason. I called out to Marc to bring me my phone (I couldn’t see how the kids could be sleeping still) and Will glanced at me over his shoulder before throwing out his arm and hitting me across the throat.
I coughed, got my voice back, started yelling for Marc to bring me my phone or call the police. Will said, “Why are you going to bother calling them? You ain’t gonna have no marks that show!” and he did a weird little spinny dance with his hands in the air – “You have no proof!”
“There’s a hole in the wall!” I said. “What? That hole?” he replied, “That has been there for months!”
Then, and this is possibly the worst part of the entire night, Marc finally poked his head through the crack in in the door and said, “MOM STOP!”
Yes, he said, “Mom stop!” Then Marc said, “If you respect me at all, you’ll just leave!”
I was hurt, but I remembered that Will had woke them up to tell them lies. I said, “He put his hands on me!” and Marc stared at me blankly. I looked at Will. Will stood there with his arms crossed, smiling at his son. Will was pleased, very pleased, and he certainly wasn’t going to touch me in front of Marc. I said, “Fine, Marc, I’ll leave, but you have to get out of the way so I can get out of here.”
Marc moved, I squeezed through the crack, went straight for my phone and called the police. I stayed on the line with the 911 operator until the police got there. At one point, Will had flipped out his knife to OPEN A PIECE OF GUM. He flipped it out twice while looking at ME, not at the gum.
After the cops got there, Will was handcuffed as a restraint. He was belligerent and ugly with the policeman. As the handcuffs snapped into place, I begged Marc to please go to his brother’s room (he hadn’t listened to me before) and he did.
Bottom line, there were no marks on me at this time. Therefore, the cops couldn’t remove Will from the home. I knew I didn’t want to be there with him after the cops left, so I packed my bag and went with them. Will was pleased. He thought they were forcing me to go.
For the love of Pete, please, Army spouses, understand that you CAN report domestic abuse in your home WITHOUT your soldier losing his career!
Army policy may require counseling, classes, and interviews, but your report WILL NOT ruin his career. Hell, the Army may mark your report as “unsubstantiated” like they did my first one, and absolutely NOTHING WILL HAPPEN to your soldier.
You see, the Army learned the hard way that putting guys out of the military (killing their careers) increases their anger AT THEIR WIVES AND FAMILY. These soldiers leave the Army and the abuse at home increases – or someone ends up DEAD.
The only way my husband’s career will come to an end is IF he does something (else) to piss off his command. He could be disciplined for not being financially responsible to us. He could be disciplined for breaking his no contact order. He could be disciplined for disobeying an order (just like always!), but the MOST he will receive out of my report is a poor counselling statement. He may not even get THAT.
And for God’s sake, please understand that if you report HIM because HE IS ABUSING YOU, then you have done nothing WRONG. Think about it. The Army marginalizes us spouses/families for the most part…how in the HELL are we powerful enough to end a man’s career?!
Besides, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t we talking about abuse here? Who’s fault is THAT?
OURS?!
MINE?!
Whatever. I’ve talked to the Social Services in the Army hospital in 2008, during domestic violence group meetings between then and now, and on Friday. I know that “what I’ve done” is not a career killer for HIM, but if I don’t get help, then it could be a life killer for ME.
Report it. Report it. Report it.
Report it.
