In honor of Domestic Violence Awareness Month. I share this with you. This is my story... then. It happened very quickly. He pinned me up against the wall, his hands choking me. I don’t talk about it much, but I will now. It happened long ago. Over twenty five years now. To be bluntly honest, I knew the minute I met him he was not right for me. I knew it. I felt it in my solar plexus – the core of my being, as my acupuncturist would say. Dead smack center. I knew it. And I didn’t pay attention. I didn’t pay attention to a lot of things back then, mostly my own inner voice that often, and reliably spoke the truth to me, “HE is not right for you,” my inner voice said on more than one occasion. I didn’t listen. We were together for almost five years. He, like myself, was a writer. Writers, incase most of you don’t know go under the category of freelance. Which means in part that it’s not a very stable or reliable source of either income or confidence. Back then, twenty five some odd years ago, we – he and I – were trying to break into the film business. And the film business is a very competitive and heart breaking business. It’s heart breaking even if you’re successful. We wrote screenplays -- sold a few, became moderately successful, as in: people knew who we were and hired us. We were known as script doctors. A term that is somewhat deceptive. Although, in the Jewish community, it gave my mother a bit more clout when she spoke of the work I was doing. “A doctor.” The thing was, when we weren’t working, he felt completely powerless. He became belligerent, mean, and moody. He was a malcontent -- moping, and stewing, and spewing. I would come home and find him reclining in his own misery – sitting in the dark. And while we had great flurries of work, we also had months on end when nothing seemed to generate. I knew this going into the film business. What I didn’t know was how brutal it can be on the ego, particularly, an ego that is fragile at best. Someone once told me that the film business teaches you how to love yourself. What it doesn’t teach you is how to love someone else. “He is not right for you.” My inner voice would say, loud and clear. I ignored it. I heard it, but I paid no attention. I believed with every fiber in my being that I could change him. If I were just a bit kinder, nicer, sweeter, more generous, more understanding – he would stop being so unhappy. I could save him from his misery. It began with yelling and screaming. Escalating into the breaking of things and walking out, being gone for hours on end. I of course would scream back and often be the first to slam the door. Out of guilt, I would return, apologizing for…my bad behavior. I would call my friends, and they would encourage me that it wasn’t my fault. I made a ton of excuses for him: he’s not working, he’s unhappy, he’s trying to find himself, oh, you know, Hollywood can be so cruel, etc., etc., etc., etc. As I look back on that time, what I really see is a girl with very little self-esteem. Someone desperately wanting to be loved, someone not quite sure of her place in the world, or where she belonged; someone who believed that others had more power or control. I see a young girl who never really believed that she deserved to be happy, whose choice in men mirrored her lack of self-confidence and reinstated that misguided belief system over and over and over again. And then I hit a comfort zone - where familiarity absolutely breeds contempt. A place, as my friend Emi once reminded me, that at best, was mediocre. “You’re accepting crumbs.” Emi said. It happened very quickly. He pinned me against the wall, his hands choking me. It felt like an eternity. I managed to gather enough saliva and spit in his face. He slapped me hard. I pushed myself away from the wall. I looked into his eyes; they were dull and flat and hateful. There was a loud exchange of words, and he came after me again. I held my hand up and screamed, “If you touch me one more time...” Just as I don’t exactly recall what it was that made him lunge after me, I don’t recall what it was that stopped him dead in his tracks. Maybe he saw himself in the full-length mirror leaning up against the wall that he had pinned me to. I grabbed a bunch of clothes, throwing everything into one suitcase, along with some very personal items, and left. I got into my car, and drove away. I never once looked in the rearview mirror. I drove straight to a friend’s house. A friend he didn’t know - my friend, not our friend. I had black and blue bruises that went all around my neck right down to my clavicle. Cell phones were not popular back then, so he had no way of finding me, or getting in touch. I called my parents and told them that we had broken up. I didn’t mention the abuse. My father gently reminded me that he was not very fond of this guy from the get go. I asked them to not tell him where I was. I stayed with my friend for a few weeks. I tried covering the bruises with make-up, but it couldn’t cover up my shame. I was filled with unbelievable shame. The kind that makes you want to stay in bed and hide from the world. His father had abused his mother. His grandfather had abused his grandmother. His brothers, all four of them, abused their girlfriends and wives. We watch, we learn. We repeat patterns. I had no desire to return to him. I walked out of that relationship a bruised, scared, shameful girl and emerged (through great support, love, nurturing and time) a brave, fearless, courageous woman. What I know now is that it took a horrible, poisonous experience - being abused and mistreated - to uncover my truth: the power, the beauty, and the unlimited potential of who I was truly meant to be. “Tell me a fact and I’ll learn. Tell me a truth and I’ll believe. But tell me a story and it will live in my heart forever.” -Indian Proverb My story. Please, oh please...share yours. You can save a life today.
Posted on: Tue, 08 Oct 2013 17:31:38 +0000