It Can Happen to Anyone!! (or The Hardest Thing I’ve Ever Written)
My Adventures in Starting Over
Leaving was the most dangerous part. I had gone into the relationship with such optimism. After my divorce, I’d vowed the next time I married it would be for love. And he’d been nothing but sweet and attentive during our courtship. Granted it was a brief one — about four months — but he was so caring, so thoughtful, so courtly. And he had a great job: he was a San Bernardino County sheriff. Who needed a long engagement? Why postpone?
So…we drove to Vegas and got hitched. And that’s when his personality changed. The courtly, attentive, sensitive gentleman I’d married turned into a complete and total bastard overnight. First, the morning after our wedding he confessed to me that he wasn’t actually a sheriff. The uniform he wore had been issued to him when he’d entered the Sheriff’s Academy. Unfortunately, he’d washed out — twice! In reality, he was an unemployed bum living on relief checks that were about to run out. But I loved him and wanted to be supportive. Things happen. I was sure he’d be back on his feet soon.
At the time I was working as an elementary teacher in a private school while attending classes at night to obtain my teaching credential. I wanted to make the move to public school where the pay was better. Suddenly finding myself with an out-of-work husband to support, I knew I needed a raise more than ever. I left for school every morning at 7 a.m. and returned home around 9 p.m. at night after my evening classes. Most days Terry was already sitting in front of the television playing video games when I left for work, and he’d often still be sitting there doing the same thing when I returned home after a long day.
After a month or so of this, I became quite irritated by his lack of initiative and his apparent willingness to allow me to support him financially. One day after a particularly grueling day, I made some pointed comments to that effect, and he lost his shit. He leapt from the floor where he’d been sitting, and before I knew what had happened, he’d knocked me to the ground and had me pinned face down on the floor with his knee in my back. Dazed, I realized he was trying to tie my hands behind my back with the cord of the video controller.
“He’s going to kill me,” I thought in stupefied disbelief, before feigning a swoon and going completely limp. I have a heart condition, and he knew it. I was hoping my sudden lack of fight would make him think I’d suffered a heart attack and get him off me. And thankfully, it worked, but just for a second. When he realized I was alright, he yanked me to my feet, shoved me into the third-floor bedroom of our apartment, ripped the phone out of the wall (this was pre-cellphone days), and barricaded the door, so I couldn’t get out.
Shaking and terrified, I slunk into the walk-in closet and hid myself in the back corner behind my dresses. That was the first time. I now know about the abuse cycle: an attack followed by a heart-felt apology, followed by another attack, each one worse than the last. But I didn’t know about it at the time. During the next few months, Terry began isolating me from my family and friends. He didn’t like them, they weren’t good for me, I needed to spend more time with him…there were a million reasons why, but bottom line, he was controlling me. And I let him because I was afraid not to.
He also started driving me to and from work and attending my university classes with me. That last was strange — no one else had their spouse tagging along and sitting in class with them — but he said he was worried about me being out alone at night, walking to the parking lot by myself, driving home in the dark. But of course, his actions weren’t motivated by love or concern, they were all about control. And again, I meekly went along with him.
When he’d lose his temper — and he’d lose it all the time about the tiniest, most insignificant things — like leaving my house key in my desk drawer at work or not wiping the kitchen counter down “properly,” he’d manhandle me. He would pick me up and throw me bodily around the apartment. He once picked me up and dropped me onto the kitchen counter so hard that it caused permanent damage to my left hip. He’d throw things at me: car keys, books, a lug nut which barely missed my head and left me with a huge, nasty bruise on my arm. He shoved me out of a moving car into traffic more than once.
He was a bitter, hateful human being, and I soon realized that marrying him had been the biggest mistake of my life. But, although I let him cow me for a time, I was and am a very strong individual. I decided I wasn’t going to allow him to take the frustrations stemming from his poor life choices out on me. I gave him an ultimatum. I told him if he laid a finger on me, threw anything at me, or mistreated me again, I would be gone. And I meant it. Well…he lasted about a week. It was Super Bowl Sunday in 1996. Unbeknownst to me, he was pissed off because I’d spurned his advances the night before (who could blame me?). So, when I asked for the car keys so I could go study at the University library while he watched the game, he threw them at me in a huff.
The keys didn’t hit me, and he’d done much worse before, but that was the last straw. I’d given him my ultimatum, and he’d blown it. Without another word, I took the keys, went to my sister’s house (Terry didn’t know where she lived, as he’d refused to meet her or most of my family since our marriage), and promptly called to inform him that our marriage was over.
While at my sister’s, I started planning. Because I was attending University, I didn’t have a lot of money to spare, so I found a room for rent in a house near the school where I was teaching. I only had one term left to complete my teaching credential, so I figured I would live cheaply until I finished my studies and got a better job. When I returned to the apartment I shared with Terry to collect my personal effects the following day, I discovered he’d taken my ATM card and withdrawn a large sum of money. He’d also sold most of my furniture and broken the rest. Luckily, I had arrived with a couple of friends who assisted me as I removed what was left of my belongings.
As I was carrying out a bag containing a few personal mementos of sentimental value, Terry grabbed it from my hands and said, “Let me help you!” while throwing it over the third-floor railing of our balcony, smashing its contents to bits. Rushing down the stairs, I started collecting the scattered items only to discover that an angel figurine my grandmother had given me when I’d made my First Communion had been dashed to pieces. As I picked up the scattered fragments and tried to fit them back together, tears filled my eyes and blurred my vision. Of all the things Terry had destroyed, that one hurt the most. The man was a complete, total, and utter asshole.
Fast forward six months: I completed my studies, received my teaching credential (with a 4.0 GPA, no less!), and immediately secured a public-school teaching job, doubling my salary in one fell swoop and changing my life overnight. I was able to rent myself a lovely two-bedroom apartment, buy a nice new car, and actually have enough money to pay my bills every month with a tidy sum left over to boot! I adopted a kitten, started getting monthly massages, and made several new friends at my new job. I joined a hiking club and went for delightful hikes every Saturday in the mountains around Big Bear Lake or in the desert around Palm Springs. I took a cross-country road trip with one of my fellow teachers — something I’d longed to do for years — and had a marvelous time.
In the process of divorcing Terry, I grew a set of balls. I told him if he ever set foot in my apartment complex or came near me, I would call the cops on him so fast his head would spin. That was literally all it took. Once I stopped being afraid of him, his whole schtick collapsed. He was nothing but a blustering, bloviating bag of wind. However, my healing took a bit longer. I didn’t date for three years after I left him. I know I suffered from PTSD as I would sometimes wake in fear, clutching the bedclothes to my chest, expecting someone to materialize out of the dark and hurt me. But that fear faded over time and is now a faint and distant memory. As I cocooned and healed during those years, one song resonated with me, perfectly expressing the emotions I was experiencing. That song was “You Learn” by Alanis Morissette.
“I recommend getting your heart trampled on to anyone…
Swallow it down (what a jagged little pill)
It feels so good (swimming in your stomach)
Wait until the dust settles
You live, you learn
You love, you learn
You cry, you learn
You lose, you learn
You bleed, you learn
You scream, you learn…” — Alanis Morissette
I’d been through the wars, but this song showed me the silver lining. I learned…I learned a LOT. And so…after three years of healing and learning to love myself, I finally succumbed to the peer pressure coming from several of my fellow teachers who felt very strongly that I “needed a man.” To shut them up, I went on-line and found myself a date.
Unbelievably, that is how I met my husband of 25 years. He was my first and only Internet date. It was love at first sight, and we have been together every day since. We have had many, many amazing adventures together, and plan on having many more. I still regard my re-start with awe and wonder. I am flabbergasted by my incredibly good fortune, but oh, so grateful for it at the same time. You learn, indeed. I certainly did.
If you or anyone you know is experiencing domestic violence, call the National Domestic Abuse Hotline at (800)799-SAFE.
