Empathy

em·pa·thy

ˈempəTHē/

noun

1. the ability to understand and share the feelings of another

A few months ago, I began compiling a “bucket list” of sorts, people I would like to meet face-to-face.  Only one of the names could be considered universally famous (former President Jimmy Carter), the rest are mostly the dynamic women who have helped me during this continuing journey of discovery, and the rededication of my life towards helping spread awareness to Domestic Violence.  Of course, at the top of the list, was Nikki Allman, my mentor, and my friend.  I was so privileged and thrilled to meet her over the weekend of October 10/11.  The others on the list (so far) are Melissa Dohme, Kristen Paruginog, Kate Ranta, Jenna Lee, Gabbe Rowland….and the list continues to grow. 

The day I met Nikki

The most common attribute they share (other than being involved with Domestic Violence Awareness) is their overwhelming sense of empathy.  They always try to understand the feelings of those they interact with, they use their own pain to help others….I’ve even witnessed them attempting to show empathy towards some of the trolls that bombard their efforts at spreading awareness with lies and hate, even though they know it will never work.

Recently, I engaged in a, for lack of a better term, “debate” with one of these trolls.  And, I am ashamed to say, he managed to drag me down to his level.  In the end, I realized he was only baiting me, and used anything I said to try to degrade and humiliate me.  He was not interested in learning or understanding.  Finally, I simply deleted anything I had posted, and blocked him from my Facebook page.  But, what struck me about him, and other so-called trolls, is his utter lack of empathy towards anyone who has suffered.  It doesn’t matter what the subject is, whether it deals with Domestic Violence or politics, or anything….they only strive to spread hate and ugliness, and they are best described as “inhuman!”  I truly believe that empathy is what makes us human, and, only through empathy can we end domestic violence.

While I was considering “empathy” as a topic for a blog post, I kept thinking of the first time I strongly felt true empathy, it’s rather a long story, and it started fifty years ago:

When I was ten years old, my mother decided that I needed to learn to play the piano.  I told her I didn’t want to learn the piano, piano lessons were for nerds.  I had no desire to play the piano and I knew it would only give the bullies who tormented me another reason to make fun of me.  Furthermore, (although I didn’t tell her this) I only saw it as a way for my mother to further humiliate me.  In spite of my protestation, she made me start taking lessons.

My first piano teacher was a younger woman who was full of enthusiasm and positivism.  I hated the lessons, I hated practicing….but she kept telling me how well I was progressing, in spite of the fact that I put no effort into any of it, I merely went through the motions.  Worst of all, I would have to perform at the end of the year in her annual recital. I was morbidly afraid of humiliating myself in front of a crowd of people.  But then I began to see the possibility that I could turn the recital to my advantage.  I knew I would fail, but if I failed badly enough, maybe Mom would let me stop taking lessons.  And so I practiced…practiced playing badly.  When I performed at the recital, it was a total disaster.  I hit just about every wrong chord, I repeated bad notes, and in the end, I quit before I finished the piece.  But my plan backfired.  My teacher, as she was wont to do, told me in her most enthusiastic voice, “that was such a good effort!”  My mother was livid.  First she turned to me and said; “you a little brat, you humiliated me!”  Then she turned her wrath upon my teacher, calling her a “fraud” and an “idiot.”  “You call that a ‘good effort?’ I could teach a dog to play piano better than that!”  Then she demanded a refund, and stormed out of the house.  Outside she told me she would find a teacher who would “force” me to learn.  That is when I met Mrs. L.

Mrs. L was a Jewish widow in her late 70s who taught piano and voice. She had immigrated to the United States at the end of World War II.  She kept her house very hot all year round, in spite of the fact that she always wore long sleeve sweaters.  She spoke with a heavy European accent, and it seemed that she was always angry….at least with me.  Wednesday afternoons became a torture for me.  She taught her lessons out of her home, a large house with a covered porch in the back…this was her “waiting room.”  The only redeeming quality (in my eyes) to my weekly ordeal was that she stocked the waiting room with copies of the kid’s magazine entitled Highlights!  I loved reading Goofus and Gallant.  I kind of identified with Gallant, the kid who did everything right (and was kind of a nerd) but I sort of envied Goofus, the kid who did everything wrong….the rebel…much like the bullies who tormented me.  But I digress.

Each week became an ordeal.  I put out minimal effort.  I rarely practiced unless my mother forced me to do so.   As I walked into the piano room, Mrs. L would start in.  “I can see by your face, you haven’t practiced.  Why don’t you practice?  Why? I tell you why, you are a lazy boy!”  She sat in an easy chair behind the piano, and held a long wooden pointer with a rubber tip.  She used this to point to the music on the page and the keys on the piano.  Often she would smack the back of my hands with it if my fingers weren’t curled properly, or if I hit a wrong note or chord.  I can still hear her shouting “ NO NO NO, VAT IS IT YOU ARE DOING?  NO NO NO!”

I hated the pieces she gave me to learn, many were such simple tunes, I felt like she was treating me like a baby….tunes like Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star.  I couldn’t understand how to read the music; it just looked like unrelated dots on the page.  Although, over time, slowly I learned to read music, but I just didn’t care.  Finally, she gave me a piece I liked (for the life of me, I can’t remember the title).  It was a fun piece…so I decided to practice.  And I practiced hard, and learned it perfectly.

The next week, for the first time, I looked forward to my lesson.  “I would show HER!” I thought.  I walked confidently into the piano room.  She saw the confidence and commented “so, maybe you practiced…we shall see!”  I played the piece through, without a mistake.  And I waited for the compliment.  “NO NO NO, You play the notes….NOT the MUSIK…there is no beauty in this, just noise, you have no feeling for the MUSIK.  How do you think I learn Mozart, Beethovan, Chopin????  Huh?  By being lazy…..NO NO NO…I VERKED HARD…you don’t care about the MUSIK!!  YOU MUST CARE ABOUT THE MUSIK, YOU MUST CARE ABOUT THE BEAUTY.  YOU DO NOT HAVE THE BEAUTY IN YOU!”  I didn’t understand what she meant, I had worked hard, I learned the piece!  After that, I figured it didn’t matter what I did, I couldn’t win with this woman.  I began to hate her.

I begged my mother to quit….she said “NO! you can’t quit…you’re a failure in school, you can’t play sports, all you do is read books….maybe she will get SOMETHING good out of you!”  Practice was torture, but I found a solution.  I was able to do scales without thinking.  As long as my mother heard something, she left me alone.  While I endlessly played scales, I had a book open on the music stand, and I read while I practiced. The ordeal continued until the summer I turned 13.  Mrs. L took ill, and was unable to continue teaching for the time being.  I rejoiced in the respite.

By then I had found a kindred soul in my school.  Sister Mary Myles loved history like me.  She saw something in me, she took me under her wing….and she liked my voice.  Puberty hit me at age 12, and by the time I entered 8^th grade, I had developed a deep baritone voice.  Sister Myles encouraged me to join the choir, of which she was the Choir Mistress.  We boasted of the only 4 part harmony acapella choir in the state….of which I comprised the entire bass section. Sister Myles was Irish, and she jokingly boasted of her Irish temper.  Most of the time she was fairly even tempered, but on occasion she would lose patience with her pupils and fly off the handle.  (She often broke yardsticks in exasperation.) Then one day Sister Myles turned her wrath upon me.

At the time, I had become interested in the history of World War II, my father being a veteran of that war.  My favorite hangout was the Public Library, which was a half block from my school.  One day, during lunch period, I found the book to end all books.  The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William L. Shirer….over 1,200 pages long.  I joyfully checked it out, and took it back to school with me.  I tried to put it inside my desk, but it was far too big.  So I set it on the corner of my desk.  As it happened, the first class after lunch was History, taught by Sister Myles.  When she walked in, the first thing she saw was a HUGE swastika (on the dust cover of the book) sitting on my desk.  She turned beet red, I thought she was going to have a stroke.  She strode to the back of the classroom (where I was seated) screaming “HOW DARE YOU DISPLAY THAT EVIL SYMBOL IN MY CLASSROOM???”   I was afraid she would strike me.  In a panic, I held up the book, and said “Sister, Sister, it’s a book, a history book….I didn’t draw it!!”  She grabbed the book from my hand, looked at the title page, and then handed it back.  She then returned to the podium and commenced an impassioned 45 minute lecture on the evils of the Nazi regime, and the horrors of the Holocaust.  I thoroughly enjoyed the lecture….my classmates were quite annoyed that I had caused an extra history lesson.  Sister Myles later apologized to me for shouting, but that she had known of many Nuns and Priests who had died along with the Jews in the Holocaust.  I dove into the book, I read the entire volume in less than two weeks, and I discussed what I read at length with Sister Myles.  It was difficult for me to understand the atrocities committed by the Nazi’s.  How could anyone be so cruel?  It saddened me that so many innocent lives were lost.

Soon after that, my mother informed me that Mrs. L had sufficiently recovered, and she could resume teaching piano, and that my first lesson would be the next Wednesday.  The respite was over.  Then she handed me a check to take to her to pay for the lessons.  Usually I took the payments with me on the first Wednesday of the month when I went to my lesson, but for some reason Mom wanted me to take it to her early, it was a Saturday afternoon.

I went to her house, and tried, as usual, to enter through the back porch.  The door was locked, I knocked but received no response.  I started to return home, but decided to try the front door, otherwise Mom would yell at me and send me back.  I rang the doorbell,  Mrs. L answered, and I was somewhat shocked at her appearance.  She was much thinner and paler, but what struck me most was that she was not wearing a sweater.  Her arms were bare, I had never seen her without a sweater.  She asked me “Vat do you vant?”  I told her my mother sent me with a check.  When she reached for the check, I could not help but notice the numbers tattooed on her arm.  I knew exactly what they meant.  I couldn’t release the check,  I stared dumfounded at her arm.  We engaged in a light tug-of-war, and I looked at her face.  She had tears in her eyes, and she glanced at the tattoo.  Then she uttered a single word:

“Auschwitz.”

Then she pulled the check from my grasp and closed the door.

I walked home with a huge lump in my throat.  I could not stop the tears.  And I was overwhelmed with guilt.  What had she seen?  What had she endured?  How did she survive the most infamous of the death camps?  Here I had considered her piano lessons torture, but she had lived though the real thing.  I never gave any effort, I didn’t care about her lessons, I had disrespected the one thing that she loved.  I wondered how many of her former students she watched walk into the gas chambers….students who did try, students who did practice, students who “had the beauty” in them.  When I arrived home, my mother was at the back door.  She demanded “why are you crying now? What?  Did she yell at you again?  Maybe you will learn to practice this time and she won’t yell at you so much…go to your room!”

I went downstairs and sat at the piano.  I couldn’t touch it…I tried to imagine the beautiful music that Mrs. L had played in her youth.   I remember reading about the bitter cold in the camps, and wondered if that was why she kept her house so warm.  I wondered how she survived.  I wondered how much of her anger came from her memories.  I wondered how I could ease her pain.  I would never love the piano, but I had found a love of music…I felt the need to let her know of my new found passion. I vowed to tell her how I felt.  Something, anything, to make up for being such a thorn in her side.

The next week, I went to her house for my lesson.  When I walked in, I could see she was uneasy about the fact that I knew her secret.  I asked her if we could talk before commencing the lesson.  She said “I will not talk about that time.”  I told her I didn’t expect her to do so…but that I wanted to apologize for never giving her my best effort, for not being able to see the beauty of the piano, but that I just didn’t think the piano was for me.  Then I told her I did love music, I loved to listen to it, and that I had begun singing in the choir, and I asked her if it was possible for her to help me with my voice.  She said “let me hear you sing.” 

I sang The Impossible Dream from the musical The Man of La Mancha.  As I sang, a smile crept over her face.  She closed her eyes, and kept time with her fingers.  When I finished she exclaimed “YES…THERE is the MUSIK,  THERE is the BEAUTY….you have found YOUR  instrument…YES YES YES, I can help you!  You need to learn to breath, you need to learn much.  Do you know anything classical?”  I told her I was learning  Ave Maria,  by Franz Schubert, to sing at Midnight Mass at Christmas.  She said “yes, I have this”…and she pulled out the sheet music and began to play.  I could hear the passion in her playing, and for the first time, I saw joy on her face.

For the next two hours we worked together.  She taught me how to breath, how to sing from the diaphragm, how to properly hold a note. She taught me how to read the nuances of the score, where the composer had shown how he wanted the soloist to sing the music. All the while she kept saying “I knew the musik vas in you, I knew the musik vas in you!”  At the end, she said “NOW you understand the beauty, NOW you have the beauty in you….NOW you can practice with joy!”  Somehow, for nearly three years, she recognized there was something musical in me, I don’t know how she knew, but somehow she did.  I believe that she had seen so much ugliness in the world that she wanted to instill beauty where she could, in any way she could.  It was the first time that anyone had ever told me that there was any “beauty” in me!

I did not dare say anything to my mother, she had sent me there to learn the piano, not how to “warble” (as she called my singing).  The next day I talked to Sister Myles about my lesson (but I did not mention the tattoo, knowing Mrs. L considered that a private matter, which is the same reason I only refer to her here as "Mrs. L").  Sister told me she had heard of Mrs. L, that before the war she was an accomplished concert pianist and music teacher in Europe, but that she had never performed after moving to the United States after the war, she thought perhaps it was because of her age.  (Years later, after I saw Playing for Time, a film about musicians who were forced to play at Auschwitz, I wondered if Mrs. L had survived in that manner, which would perhaps explain why she would not perform.)  

A couple days later, my mother informed me that Mrs. L had suffered a relapse, and could no longer teach.  I was devastated. Within a week my mother learned that Mrs. L had suffered a massive stroke, and had passed away.  When my mother told me, I started to cry.  She said “what is wrong with you, I thought you hated that woman….be happy you don’t have to take any more lessons. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, (Mom’s favorite curse)… you cry like a little girl…get out of my sight!”  There was no way that I could explain my feelings to my mother.  Only Sister Myles understood….only she held me while I cried, only she understood my grief!  My mother wouldn’t let me go to the funeral because “Catholics don’t go to synagogues.”

That Christmas I sang Ave Maria at midnight Mass.  I sang it with passion. Only Sister Myles knew why I sang it with tears flowing down my face.  Sadly, within a year Sister Myles would lose her life in a tragic automobile accident.  To this day, I cannot listen to Ave Maria without tears in my eyes, and the memory of the two women who opened my eyes and soul to the beauty of music.  Unfortunately I did not develop my talent.  Without the encouragement of Sister Myles or Mrs. L, I didn’t have the confidence to continue on my own.  That, and 40 years of smoking, destroyed any voice I once had.  But I still have the beauty of music in me!

I will never forget the first time I truly felt empathy, and understood that only by standing in the shoes of another, can one try to understand their pain.  I was consoled only by the fact that, through empathy, I was able to show Mrs. L that, somehow, she had taught me about the beauty in music she so loved.  After that, empathy became engrained in my soul.  That is why I became a Hospital Corpsman, I could not imagine inflicting pain on anyone, even in war.  Empathy is partially why I never retaliated against my abuser, because I would never inflict pain on any one for any reason. And empathy is why I have become an advocate against Domestic Violence.  When I first read Melissa Dohme’s story, it touched my soul.  And when I learned of Tabitha’s tragic end, empathy demanded that I do something to help others affected by Domestic Violence.  Apathy is the opposite of empathy, if we do nothing, nothing will change.  Only through empathy can our society understand how destructive domestic violence, or any violence, is for all of us.

 There is beauty in empathy…and in my mind’s eye; I can see Mrs. L saying to each and every one of the wonderful women on my “bucket list”  

                                     “YES, you have the beauty in you!”

נוח על משכבך

(Rest in Peace)

Healthy Relationships: Teen Newsletter

A relationship is the way two or more people are connected. Examples of a family relationship could be mother-daughter, brother-sister, or cousins. You can also have relationships such as friends, coworkers, and romantic relationships (spouses or dating).

Healthy relationships are respectful, kind, and thoughtful. The people in the relationship will feel loved, safe, and at peace when they are together. Feelings associated with healthy relationships could be described as; safe, connected, fulfilled, warm, accepted, and loved.

For a relationship to be healthy all of those in the relationship should feel respected, supported, and valued. They should all make decisions together and have input in conversations. They should be able to settle disagreements with open and honest communication. There should be more good times than bad times. Those in a healthy relationship will not be afraid to speak up if they are upset or uncomfortable. When respect is present in a relationship all those involved will feel secure.

Activities that build a bond will help a relationship be positive and thrive. Completing activities that both parties enjoy such as hiking, watching a funny movie, or cooking a meal together will help foster these connections.

Maintaining a healthy relationship with anyone is not an easy task, but it is an important one. Having healthy relationships with those around you will allow for greater happiness, positive mental health, and even a stronger immune system. 

LOVE IS KIND

The Tabitha Brock Foundation started a t-shirt project called “Love is Kind” to promote healthy relationships. We believe that speaking openly to others about relationship health will create a positive community and impact on our world. Those participating in the project were asked while wearing the shirt to speak with others about healthy relationships, mental health, and that kindness matters. 

Our goal with the shirts is to educate others on the nature of love and that it is kind, respectful, and patient. We encourage those in any type of relationship (family, friend, or romantic) to always remember they should receive nothing less. Love is never cruel, spiteful, or hateful. 

Those who are mentally healthy will also have healthy relationships with those around them. By understanding what a healthy relationship is you can much easier see what is unhealthy in a relationship. If the action of someone in the relationship makes you feel afraid, uncomfortable, or have low self-esteem than it is not love.

We hope with our positive message that “Love is Kind” that others will speak not only to their loved ones, but also those around them about healthy relationships. It takes all of us to educate one another on this issue. Local restaurant Rails joined us on October 22^nd, 2015 for Purple Thursday for Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Employees at the restaurant wore their “Love is Kind” t-shirt or a purple shirt to promote healthy relationships.

Thank you to all those who joined our project either by ordering a shirt or speaking about this project. We appreciate all your efforts in supporting us in our mission. #LoveisKind 

NEXT WEEKS ISSUE: TEEN BULLYING 

Bullying is a serious issue that many teens will face. Bullying can happen in school, at home by siblings, online, and more. Bullying done online through social media sites such as Facebook or Twitter is known as cyber bullying.

Bullying can lead to depression, anxiety, and negative self-image in teenagers. It can have serious consequences on a teen’s mental, emotional, and physical health.

In the next issue we will be speaking about bullying prevention, statistics in Indiana, and mental health issues surrounding bullying. 

* This newsletter was created for The Tabitha Brock Foundation's educational project with Girls Inc. of Seymour. It was geared towards the teen girls.

If you would like to have your teen join our educational project they must be signed up at Girls Inc. in Seymour to attend. You can email or Facebook us for more information. Thank you!

Email: 

justicefortabitha@hotmail.com

Websites: 

www.thetabithabrockfoundation.com

www.facebook.com/justicefortabitha 

TEXT only:

812-498-0129

Adjusting to Trauma

In the 24 years I've been alive I have had many wonderful memories, but I have also endured multiple traumatic events. Trauma can shape your life so completely that it feels as if it is your entire being. I was 21-years-old when my older sister, my closest friend, was murdered and later set on fire, The loss and violence of her death haunted me and took over my entire life. The first year I barely functioned. I knew logically that I was alive, but inside it felt as if I had died and found myself in hell. I barely ate, couldn't sleep or would sleep all day, and nearly lost every friend I had. While they would speak to me at work or when they saw me out I rarely left my home and barely allowed anyone to come over. The isolation and loneliness nearly drove me mad, but I feared allowing anyone in to see and feel my agony.

Tabitha Gayle Brock
Born: November 20th, 1988
Murdered: May 10th, 2012
In our hearts. Always.

I couldn't get over the way she died. Was she in pain? Did she know she was about to die? But mostly I wanted to know why? In the back of my mind questions, pain, and rage boiled every moment. It was everywhere I went. I was so trapped in negative thinking I could no longer see the beauty in life, the simplicity and joy of connection, or the positive aspects of humanity. Tabitha's death triggered something in me that came to the surface; my hidden fear and anger at the human race.

For a long time I had been afraid of other people. Even before Tabitha was murdered I had trouble connecting with others; especially in closer friendships or intimacy. Maintaining close relationships has always been difficult to me; especially after high school. I remember distinctly one of my biggest fears was going to stores or in public alone. I always had this feeling that I just knew someone was going to hurt me, but more importantly that they were going to touch me. Even if it was simply a kind and loving gesture such as a hug or touching my arm I would get a panicky feeling inside my chest.

After I lost Tabitha I began to research the signs of domestic abuse. I had begun a Facebook page called "Justice for Tabitha" right after she died. I planned on it being a memorial page and where friends/family could get updates on her case. Very quickly, however, I had people writing from all over the world with words of comfort and support. I never expected it to lift me up from the darkness as much as it did. Some days the kind words of someone halfway around the world was the only thing keeping me alive.

Throughout my research about abuse I began to open up more to myself about what had happened in my past. I stumbled across many articles about sexual abuse while researching domestic violence. As I would read the articles I realized that so much of it resonated with me. I had a secret that only a few friends and colleagues knew. It was a secret that I kept buried inside for a really long time because of the deep shame. As a child, over the course of many years, I was molested and raped.

Tabitha (left) & me (right)

While working with a therapist I learned most likely I had suffered from PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) my entire life. I fit so many of my symptoms even before I lost my sister. Why I had trouble sitting close to other people, my fear of being alone in public without a friend, my difficulty with intimacy and close friendships. The murder of my sister was compounded by the trauma I endured as a child and had never healed from.

I knew then all I could do is try to adjust, and heal, from the trauma. I consciously began to try focusing on healing myself. It began with understanding that both these events were out of my control. As a young child I did not understand that I was being molested and to tell someone about it. I only knew that someone was hurting me and I felt ashamed, humiliated, and degraded. Though my parent would have supported me instantly had I spoke up, I was too ashamed to say anything. Just like I could not control the abuse I received as a child I could also not stop my sister's murder. Four years ago I simply did not have the knowledge about abusive relationships nor could I see what her killer would do that night in May.

I have been working on letting go of blaming myself for acts that were out of my control. I focus on the positive parts of life - even small moments such as watching a funny movie, playing with my dogs, or laughing with my co-workers. I still have many bad days, but the good days are increasing and I appreciate them more than ever.

I take efforts every day to increase my mood and well being. Whether it is by watching a show I love, meditating, eating a healthy meal, or talking with my friends. Focusing on my mental health and understanding what I am going through has helped me on this journey. I found that once I did extensive research on PTSD, anxiety, stress, surviving sexual abuse, and grief that I began to find new ways to heal. I finally understood the problems I was facing and how to begin healing from them.

Healing from trauma takes a lot of effort and even then sometimes people never heal. For me it has consisted of working towards a greater good, something to help others, that has given me the most peace. I try to always be honest with others about my journey and speak openly about what has happened in my life though this is the first time I have done so in a public forum. I hope by telling my story it helps other people to know that speaking out about abuse is not only okay, but necessary for healing. Survivors deserve the right to tell their story and should be encouraged to do so when they are ready.

It's going to be a long journey for me; just like it will for so many others who have faced traumatic circumstances. But I can now say for the first time that I truly love myself and that I am finding my way to happiness again. I do believe that love, kindness, and support can save those who have gone through trauma and I do believe it will save me.

Nikki Allman
Tabitha's Little Sister

www.thetabithabrockfoundation.com
www.facebook.com/justicefortabitha
www.twitter.com/justice4tabitha

Sharing My Story on Survivor Saturday (March 14, 2015)

Several people have asked me where they can find my original story as it was posted on the Survivor Saturday feature on The Tabitha Brock Foundation Facebook page.  It is difficult to find on Facebook, so I have re-posted it here, just as it appeared on Facebook in March of 2015.  It proved to be a huge step in my journey towards healing....

Every Saturday The Tabitha Brock Foundation tries to share the story of one survivor of violence. We do this to give the survivor a chance to tell their story in their own words & to help spread awareness to why violence must end. Today, we have the honor of sharing our first story submitted by a male survivor of abuse. One in seven men aged 18 or older have been the victim of severe physical violence by a partner. Men also suffer from domestic violence, but are often less likely to be believed and are mocked when they do come forward about abuse. Together, we need to create an environment where not only women, but also men feel safe and comfortable about coming forward when they are being abused. Please take the time to thank Gus for submitting his story to help shed light on abuse towards men. Make sure to read & share his story to help any other men out there currently being abused. I will provide links at the end of the story for male victims of abuse. Thank you, Gus, for taking a stand against abuse! ‪#‎1in7men‬‪#‎AbuseMustEnd‬ ‪#‎DomesticViolenceAwareness‬

Gus's Story

"My story probably starts in my childhood. I always joke and tell people that “I loved my mother, but there was a lot I didn't like about her.” She was cold, calculating, manipulative, and emotionally abusive to me, my siblings, and especially to my Father. I don’t recall any physical abuse, but sometimes emotional abuse is worse. She would make sure that we knew how worthless my Father was, and how, without her, he would be nothing. I can’t answer for my siblings, but she often told me that I was “just like your goddamned Father.”

She proudly told people that when my younger brother came along she decided that she would work hard to be a good mother to this kid, because “the rest of them were write offs!” I was four years old, and she had already written me off. As a teen she told me to just accept the fact that I was a homely clumsy nerd, and that I would never have a girlfriend. I would hear the saying “a face only a Mother could love,” so what chance did I have? I was “the new guy” at my high school, it was a small parochial school, and very cliquish. My parents had moved to the town just before I started my freshman year, and I never fit in.

Subsequently, I was very shy and quiet in high school, the few times I asked a girl out for a date, I was laughed at. It wasn’t until my senior year that I had the nerve to ask another girl out on a date. When I did, it turned into a seven year nightmare. I was a senior, she was a junior. We had met while we both worked in the cafeteria (to pay for our lunches). She was short, nicely shaped, and very pretty. My best friend convinced me that I had to go to at least one high school dance before I graduated, and talked me into asking her to the dance (unbeknown to me, he also had convinced her to say yes). When she agreed to go with me, I was ecstatic; it would be my first “real” date. First kiss, first touch, first everything, except sex, she was “saving herself for marriage (I later found out that she hadn’t been so particular with her other boyfriends, even while we were dating, and later engaged).

I was very naïve, and was blindly in love. This was the first person besides my Grandmother, who had shown any affection towards me. She soon found that I would do almost anything to keep the relationship…I was desperately afraid that I would never find another girl to care about me. There was the added plus that the very fact that I was “going steady” with a girl infuriated my mother. My mother would tell me that she had to be “pretty trashy and desperate” to settle for a guy like me.

The first time she hit me, and the reason she hit me, shocked me to the core. We were at the State Fair, I was trying to win a stuffed animal she wanted by throwing softballs at milk bottles. As in most cases, the games were not designed for people to win. In the end, all I was able to win was a small stuffed bear. When I tried to give it to her, she said I hadn’t tried hard enough, and that I was paying too much attention to the girl running the booth. She threw the bear into a trash can, and slapped me hard across the face. I later went back on my own, and after spending something like $35.00, the girl at the booth felt sorry for me and gave me the big bear (probably at the time, 1973, it was worth maybe $5.00). When I gave it to her, she called me an idiot for spending any more money at “that rip-off booth!”

While we were dating, she always made sure I knew how “lucky” I was that I had a girlfriend like her. Not that it was all bad, we tend to remember the worst parts, but I was genuinely happy to have a girl who paid attention to me. Although, I was always walking on eggshells, for fear of losing her. We became engaged, actually, I never proposed, she told me we were going to get married. (She had let me touch her bare breasts, so I was obligated.) But it also pissed off my mother, so I went along. She wanted an escape from her family situation (her father was very abusive to her mother, and to her and her siblings) and I seemed to be the best option, I was soon to have a very good job.

After graduation, I joined the United States Navy…partly to avoid the draft (this was at the end of the Vietnam Era) and mostly to get away from my mother. We got married in a civil ceremony while I was home on boot camp leave….she was still in high school, and as I found out later, was dating several different guys while I was away at boot camp, and Hospital Corps School. (Years later she told me (bragged to me) that she actually slept with one of her boyfriends the night before our wedding.) I lost my virginity on my wedding night. I was eighteen. After she graduated high school, we started our married life together.

My first duty station was at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland (just outside Washington, D.C.). We both grew up in the Great Northwest, so Bethesda was a world away both in terms of distance, and in culture. Soon she became disenchanted with being away from home. She didn’t like the big city, she didn’t like being around “blacks” (although she used a different word), she didn’t like being a “military” wife.

Now and then she would punch me in the belly if I didn’t do what she wanted me to do fast enough. I would always apologize, and promise to do better. She started to refer to me as “worthless.” I had to do shift work at the hospital, and she accused me of sleeping with the nurses if I had night shift duties. She often would show up unannounced at the hospital to “checkup” on me and those “slutty officers,” as she referred to them.

Often when I came back to our apartment, she would start screaming at me, wanting to know “which bitch” I was sleeping with, all the while slapping at my head, and scratching my arms (never leaving any marks on my face). I would numbly submit to it, telling her I wasn’t cheating, I only loved her, and I was so sorry she was unhappy. Eventually she would calm down, and tell me very quietly that I had better not be cheating, and if she ever found out I was, she would simply kill me. I have always said that the SECOND biggest mistake I ever made, was marrying her.

After two years in Bethesda, I went to Operating Room Technician School, and upon graduation, I was assigned to a Marine Corps Base in North Carolina. (The Navy supplies medical personnel to the U.S.M.C.). I graduated O.R. Tech School in December of 1975, and I took ten days Christmas leave before reporting for Field Medical School in North Carolina. We flew home for my leave…she was going to stay home until I graduated FMF school, and reported to my permanent duty station.

On the day I was flying back to report for duty she drove me to the airport…as I was getting my sea bag out of the trunk, she informed me that she was moving in with her boyfriend, I would get the divorce papers in the mail, “F--- you and goodbye!” She drove away. I was dumbstruck. I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t know what to do, I was under orders. I had to report for duty or be declared A.W.O.L. Plus, it was a holiday (New Year’s Day, 1976)…I wouldn’t be able to reach anyone. So I got on the plane.

For the next few months I was too busy with Marine Corps Training and getting into working in surgery to dwell very much on my situation. She refused phone calls, letters were sent back unopened. Although I was out of the abusive relationship, I was still miserable. I was so afraid that I would never be in another relationship…the attitude that a bad marriage was better than no marriage.

My drinking increased, I started doing recreational drugs (which I haven’t touched in over 37 years), I spent a lot of time sitting on the beach, stoned, watching waves, and feeling sorry for myself. My buddy tried to get me to start dating other women….but I was still married, and I took my vows seriously. But slowly, I was starting to move on…then I made the BIGGEST mistake of my life. She called one day…she had broken up with her boyfriend, she hated living with her parents, she hated being broke (although I had been sending her money to live on)….she wanted to come back, and she told me I was obligated to take her back because we were still married (she never apologized for not keeping her vows).

My buddy told me I would be a damn fool to take her back. I rationalized that, now that she knew that I was a “good” guy, our marriage would be better. So I took her back. The abuse started immediately. She hated living on base. She hated being a Navy Wife, surrounded by Marine Wives. She demanded I ask for a transfer…I tried, but the military is not want to follow orders from a Petty Officers wife.

One day I came back to our base housing, she demanded that I beat up the neighbor because his wife was playing music too loud. I refused to confront them, she started whipping me with a leather belt. Over the next year and a half, my military medical record showed me to be the clumsiest person on earth. I fell into bushes (scratches on my body and arms and face), I fell against a wall (concussion), I fell down stairs often, ran into doors often. Each time she beat me she would use a different weapon…flower vases, shoes, frying pans, cooking utensils….and sometimes, just her fists.

Sometimes I would try holding her wrists to keep her from hitting me, and I would leave bruises where I held them. She threatened to call the Military Police and show them the bruises as proof that I was abusing her. One time we were driving to the commissary to do some shopping….I can’t remember why, but she was punching on me as I was driving….the military police were following, and pulled me over. She jumped from the car, screaming that I was beating her. The M.P.s laughed at her, explained that they had been following us for the last 10 minutes, and told her she was lucky they weren’t going to haul HER to the brig. Then one of them walked up to me, told me to grow some balls and “slap the bitch around a bit, and maybe she won’t hit you!” And they drove away.

In between the beatings things were merely tense. I loved her; I believed that if I could just find a way to be a better husband, I could make her happy. She told me she loved me, but that she was ashamed of how much of a wimp I was. I let people push me around; I wouldn’t stand up to our neighbors, or my superiors in the Navy. And in some ways, I thought she was right. My Father taught me never to fight, unless it was in self-defense, and even then, try to find some other way to avoid fighting. And he taught me to NEVER hit a woman, for ANY reason.

One of the most severe beatings I took at that time (and the most embarrassing moment of my Navy Career) was when I was assigned to go on a “float” to Norway. A three month voyage, on a troop carrier, to provide medical support to the Marines. She accused me of asking for the assignment (which was true) as a way of being away from her (which was true) so she took out my pool cue and started beating me with the butt end of it. She broke two ribs, gave me a concussion, left multiple bruises, and ended up breaking my right tibia (lower leg). When I went to the emergency room (in the hospital I worked at) I told them I fell down the steps. Because of the broken leg, I missed out on the assignment.

After that incident, I went to the Chaplain. I didn’t know who to turn to, or where to get help. “What could I do” I asked him, how should I react to this. He actually told me to beat her on a regular basis. He said she wanted me to beat her, she was trying to get me to beat her, he said she could not respect me because I let her beat me without retaliation. “Women”, he told me, “need to know who wears the pants.” I told him I could never hit a woman for any reason. He told me “then get used to it!” (I haven’t had much use for chaplains since then)

Then she got pregnant. I have to say, during the time she was pregnant, it was the happiest and most loving period of my marriage to her. She calmed down, I did everything I could to be the most attentive husband. The beatings stopped (partly, I believe, because she was afraid to exert herself for fear of hurting the baby), and the verbal and emotional abuse slowed down. One of the happiest days of my life was the day my daughter was born by C-section. As it turns out, probably, the last happy day of my marriage.

Her surgical pain was my fault (I had given her too “big” of a baby to be born normal). I was expected to change ALL diapers, give ALL baths, rock the baby at night after feeding, and deal with the baby when she was fussy. She was breast feeding, so she shouldn’t have to do any of the rest of it. I didn’t mind in the least…I loved spending any time I could with my baby. Unfortunately, it gave my wife the opportunity to beat me without worry of me blocking the blows, since I was holding my daughter. She gave the excuse of post-partum depression, which gave her the right to hit me.

The Navy extended my enlistment so my daughter could be born in a military hospital (much cheaper than in a civilian hospital), but once she was born, I was Honorably discharged. I hoped that moving back home would improve her demeanor. I started college (primarily to get the G.I. Bill money); I began working in a factory, and cleaning buildings. From Monday thru Friday, I worked 8 hours at the factory, worked two hours at small cleaning jobs, went to school for 3 hours, then cleaned a large building for 4 hours. Then slept for two hours and started it all again.

On weekends, it was my turn to take care of the baby, since she had to do it all week. Again, I didn’t mind. While I took care of the baby, she would go places with her mother, or friends, or, as I found out later, with her boyfriends. It all came to a head when I was expelled from school for poor grades (something had to suffer with my schedule)….I realized I was slowly killing myself. Working 20 hours a day, smoking 4 packs a day, eating little (I was down to 160 pounds, I hadn’t weighed that little since I was twelve years old).

After I was expelled, some little flame ignited in me. I quit my cleaning jobs, and I told her that if the income from my factory job wasn’t enough, she would just have to get a job herself. She beat the hell out of me, giving me a concussion, blacking both my eyes breaking the orbit in the process, and cracking three ribs. Then she threw me out, and, ironically, she filed for divorce. I still loved her…..and I was afraid of losing my daughter. So I went along with whatever she wanted. She told me if I expected any chance to get back together I had to do whatever she wanted me to do.

She “allowed” me to stay at the house for a while (I had to sleep on the floor outside her bedroom door). The divorce was finalized, but I kept trying to please her. As long as I went along I had a great deal of access to my daughter (although the abuse continued). I kept thinking that by doing this it would show her how good of a husband I was.

Then came the luckiest day of my life…..she DEMANDED that I seek psychiatric help because she thought I was “crazy!” I went to a therapist. He patiently listened to my story and then let me know I wasn’t “crazy!” He told me I was a victim of spousal abuse. I didn’t need therapy; I needed counseling from someone who has been there. He referred me to another therapist in his office named Diane. (For the life of me, I can’t remember her last name, I’m not sure she ever told me).

She had a Master’s degree in psychology, and was a survivor of abuse herself. With her help she made me realize I was not defined by my relationship. I was someone who had worth, and that I didn’t “deserve” punishment or abuse. No one “deserves” to be abused. She made me realize that I had, in a weird way, married my mother…my ex-wife was very much like my mother, and I had spent the last seven years desperately seeking the approval that I never got from my mother.

After several weeks of therapy I began to feel free. I didn’t NEED this person in my life, I didn’t WANT this person in my life. The only reason I should have anything to do with her, was to maintain contact with my daughter. Suddenly I had purpose in my life. Happiness did not depend on being “in” a relationship. I stopped begging for her to take me back; I only interacted with her when I visited my daughter.

Then several weeks after I stopped trying to “repair” our relationship, she called me. She hated being alone, she had broken up with her boyfriend, she hated living with her parents, she loved me and wanted us to get back together. (Déjà vu from 1976) I told her simply “Sorry you are not happy, but ‘been there, done that’ and I ain’t going back!” I then told her that I would only have a relationship with her as an EX husband, with visitation rights to his child.

I truly believe that the only reason she reached out to me was because she no longer could dominate and control me, even though she was no longer married to me. (I saw a similar response from my mother towards my Father a few years later, when he was able to make his escape.)

After that, difficulties began with regard to seeing my daughter (and, as I found out years later, my daughter became the object of her abuse)…in those days, the courts were very “pro mother”, and as things turned out, my daughter and I were estranged for 25 years….but that is another long story that needs not be related here…suffice it to say, my daughter and I have a wonderful relationship today]

After I declared my independence, I went back to school, earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology, and later a Master’s Degree in History. I’ve had my ups and downs in relationships, but in 1988 I met a wonderful woman who loved me for who I am. And in 1989 we married and she is the love of my life! We celebrated our 25th anniversary last July. (She is also a survivor of a former abusive relationship). As I enter my silver years, I am a very happy man.

My story started over 40 years ago. Men did not admit to being abused. There was a character on the old radio program “Fibber McGee and Molly” called Wallace Wimple. His wife was a hulk of a woman named “Sweetie Face” who would regularly do terrible things to Wallace, for no apparent reason, and audiences would roar with laughter at his abuse. (The term “Wimp” actually originated with this character.) The stereotype of the “henpecked/mousy/wimpy/etc” husband is strongly engrained in our society. The few times I sought help; I was usually laughed at, or simply not believed.

The usual advice was to “man up” or “smack her around” or “put her in her place.” Often guys would say “Really, that little “girl” beats you up….yeah, right!” So I stopped seeking help. Ironically, it was only after SHE demanded that I seek help that I finally got the help I needed. Although awareness of the existence of “husband abuse” has improved, many of the attitudes have not. I hope that sharing my story helps change the attitudes, and further increases awareness of ALL abuse.

One additional note I would like to add to my story: In nearly sixty years of living, I can honestly, and proudly say, I have never hit a woman.....and I never will.....

- Gus"

Links for Male Victims of Abuse:

http://www.helpguide.org/arti…/abuse/help-for-abused-men.htm

http://www.thehotline.org/…/men-can-be-victims-of-abuse-too/

http://www.mensadviceline.org.uk/mens_advice.php.html

http://www.mayoclinic.org/…/domestic-violence-…/art-20045149

BEFORE THE VIOLENCE (Why I Stayed)…

Maybe, sometimes, instead of asking “why did you stay?” the question should be “Why did it start?”  When I started writing this blog post, it was with the intention of explaining why I stayed for so long with my abuser.  However, as I was writing, I began to realize that this was another survivor story…a story of Domestic Violence that was not physical in nature, rather, a story of emotional child abuse.  Both the preparation, and actual writing of the post has been very painful, but at the same time, very therapeutic.  

I have come a long way in my Domestic Violence journey.  I am no longer embarrassed about discussing the abuse I suffered.  I still encounter people who find it necessary to ridicule me when I admit that I was abused.  Those kind of comments no longer bother me.  But the question I have difficulty with is “Why did you stay with her?”   More often than not, my answer is simply “I don’t know.”  However, such an answer dodges the issue, and does nothing to help those who are being abused, and need to escape....and isn’t that why we advocate against Domestic Violence?

Being a truck driver, I have lots and lots of time to think.  I drive for an average of 8 to 10 hours a day, and most of the driving is down relatively quiet freeways, and I am able to think about a lot of things, and still keep my attention on the road.  So lately I have focused my attention to this particular question:  Why DID I stay?  And I’ve found that there is no simple answer, and I apologize in advance, the answer is quite long and complicated.  And it starts with my mother in 1945...

Whenever the topic of my mother comes up, I always preface what I say about her by saying “I loved my Mother, but I didn’t like a lot of things about her.”  Near the end of World War II, at the age of eighteen, my mother left home to attend training to become a Navy Auxiliary Nurse in Bremerton, Washington.  A year and a half into training, she met a man, and in 1947 she became pregnant.  After she told him of the pregnancy, he made a hasty retreat, basically telling her, “you’re on your own, I’m out of here!”  She had to drop out of training.  Then she met my father who was in the United States Navy.  He felt sorry for the cute girl who was “in trouble.”  Within two weeks after they met, they were married.  (Not exactly the recipe for a successful marriage.)  Seven months later, my oldest brother was born (I was not made aware that he was actually my “half” brother until I was 28 years old.)  Ten months after that, my second oldest brother was born, and 16 months after that, my sister came into the world.   Six years later, in 1955, I made my entrance into the world in Twin Falls, Idaho.

My father used to joke “you came into the world backwards, and you have been going that way ever since!”  I was what was called an “impacted breech” baby.  I came into the world “butt” first.  I had to be pushed back into the birth canal to bring down my legs, then, when I was half born, the doctor realized my arms were over my head, and had to push me back again to bring them down.  Because of the difficulties of my birth, my mother was convinced that I must have had some kind of birth defect.  For a time she considered having me committed to the State School for the Mentally Retarded.  However, I developed fairly normally…and at the age of 3 I learned my letters, and was reading at the age of four.  My mother often told me she was glad I was “kinda slow” because I caused her little trouble while she was dealing with my older siblings.  I asked her once what she meant by “kinda slow?”  She said “you were quiet, never cried, and liked to be by yourself, and you could entertain yourself without toys or anything, and when you started to read, you kept your nose close to the book, like the ‘retarded kids’ do.”  When I started kindergarten, the teacher noticed I couldn’t read the blackboard, even from the front row.  It was discovered that I was severely near sighted, and I started wearing glasses.

At around the same time I was getting glasses, my youngest brother came along.  My mother was fond of telling people that my youngest brother was the only one that was “planned…and planned right down to his blond hair and blue eyes!”  (I’m not sure how she accomplished that?)  She often told others (when I was present) that when my youngest brother came along, that she had decided “to be a good mother to this one, since the other four were ‘write offs’!”  So, in short, she was letting me know that she wrote me off when I was four and a half years old!

I became the proverbial “middle child.”  Although I was not chronologically in the middle, my parents were dealing with three children entering adolescence and the teen years, and a brand new baby.  I was the quiet kid who always had his nose in a book.  Easy to ignore.

I struggled in school.  The only subjects I excelled at were reading and history, and history was primarily reading.  I had great difficulty with mathematics and spelling (and still do, thank goodness for calculators and spell-check).  Many years later, when I was in college, I was diagnosed with dyslexia, which explained a lot of my difficulties.  The professor who diagnosed me explained that I must have found a way to compensate for my dyslexia with reading, because books had become my refuge.

I was bullied at school because of my glasses, I was the “four eyed” kid. I had a pointy head, and was kind of goofy looking, and I had developed a profound stutter.  Furthermore, as the cliché goes, I “couldn’t walk and chew gum” at the same time.  I was clumsy and very non-athletic.  To give my mother some credit, she tried to help me.  She sent me to speech therapy to help overcome my stutter.  To overcome my clumsiness, she sent me to dance classes (which only served to give bullies another reason to pick on me), and made me play little league baseball, but I just didn’t have the skills, and many of the bullies who picked on me happened to be on the team. 

Second Grade

My memory of my father was that he just wasn’t there.  He was always working; he was a carpenter and general contractor building houses.  Often he would work out of town, and for nearly three years he worked over 400 miles away from home because the housing market was slow in my home town, and he would come home “to visit” a couple times a month on weekends.  He had grown up on a farm, and never was involved with athletics.  So he wasn’t the “dad” who played catch or hoops with his kids.  What memories I have of him, was that he wasn’t very happy, and my mother was very critical of him.  She made fun of him because he couldn’t throw a ball properly, and he ran “stiff legged.”  She also made fun of his intellect.  I remember a couple times when I would ask him a question about homework my mother would tell me (in his presence) not to bother him because, “it embarrasses him that he is dumb because he never finished school.”  She told us that my father had “flunked” out of school in 7^th grade.  (In fact, he joined the Navy to support the war effort at the age of seventeen; he was a senior in high school. After 9/11, the state of Illinois honored him, and other WWII veterans who had left school early to volunteer for military service, by awarding him his high school diploma.  He was so proud when it happened.)  I realize now that my father was just as much a victim of emotional abuse as I was.  However, he stoically endured the abuse, because he was determined to raise his children (including the one that wasn’t his biological son) the best he could.  And he stayed with my mother through thick and thin until all of us were adults before he made his own escape and divorced her after 33 years of a miserable marriage.

I’ll never know if she did so deliberately or if I was just invisible to her, but she would often disparage me in front of other adults.  I recall one time she was telling a friend how “wonderful” my younger brother was.  She described him as having a combination of the best of my two older brothers’ best attributes….according to my mother my oldest brother was the intellectual, but was a complete klutz, and my next oldest brother was a gifted athlete, but “dumb as a rock.”   “And on top of it all”, she explained referencing my younger brother, “he’s the best looking one of the bunch!”  Her friend ask if he had any attributes of Gus…my mother laughed and said “poor Gus, he’s dumb as a rock, a total klutz, and homely as hell!”  I was, as usual, in the corner of the room, reading a book.  In another instance:  I had been home sick for a week with strep throat.  My teacher showed up on our doorstep and asked to speak to me.  My mother came to get me, and asked me what I had done wrong for my teacher to show up?  I told her I didn’t know.  My teacher told me that she just wanted to bring me something….I had won first prize for an essay I wrote for the American Legion on why I love America, and she had brought me the certificate.  My mother asked my teacher if this was some kind of joke because “that kid can barely write his name, let alone an essay!”  My teacher was appalled, and gave me the certificate, and told me how proud she was of me.  She looked at my mother and stated firmly “Gus is very bright, and you should be proud of him.”  Then she left.  My mother asked me who wrote the essay.  I told her that I did.  And she said “liars go to hell, either someone else wrote the essay, or you are faking being dumb, and you are just not trying to get good grades.”  She sent me back to my room in tears, I never saw the certificate again, and she never mentioned it again. 

Two greatly significant events occurred in my youth which affected the way I interacted socially.  I went to public school through 5^th grade.  I always had difficulty making friends, but by the time I was in 5^th grade, I had started to do so.  Plus, I was getting to the “top of the pyramid” in school, 6^th grade was the highest grade in the school.  But, then my mother decided that simply going to catechism classes after Mass on Sunday was not sufficient.  So she transferred me to the Catholic Parochial school in our town.  So in 6^th grade, I became the “new kid.”    For the next three years I struggled to fit in.  I became an Altar Boy, I tried, and failed, to make the basketball team.  I joined the Boy Scout troop sponsored by the Church.  But I was still the outsider kid who wore glasses, who wasn’t very bright (I still struggled academically), and who was a nerd who spent half his time in the library.  However, I did make two friends…one being my best friend, who, like me, was somewhat of a misfit.  He was the “fat kid.”  My other friend was also a “misfit,” she was a “tomboy” and almost “one of the guys.”  She was good at sports, tough, and didn’t like girly things.  So she was ostracized by the girls, and the boys thought she was weird.  (We kissed one time when I was twelve, just to find out what it was like...I liked it, she thought it was gross.) I also discovered a passion for History.  Two trips with my family, one to Illinois, where I saw a lot of sites associated with Abraham Lincoln, and to Washington. D.C. increased my interest in history. I also discovered a passion for music.  I loved the music of the sixties….The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkle, Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul, and Mary were amongst my favorites.  But at the same time I discovered Beethoven, Mozart, Grieg, Tchaikovsky and other classical composers.   I joined the choir,  and found a wonderful teacher who encouraged both my passions.  Sister Mary Myles was the choir mistress, and she took me under her wing.  She discovered that I had a deep singing voice (I finished puberty by the time I was twelve) and pushed me to achieve in the choir by giving me several solos.  She also loved history, and would take the time to discuss the books I was reading.  (After I left the school we corresponded, until she was tragically killed in an automobile accident a year later.)  By the time I reached 8^th grade (the final grade at the parochial school), I had begun to find my own niche.  But then my parents (I have heard conflicting stories as to the why from both my mother and father) decided to move to Boise, Idaho.

Just before moving to Boise, Idaho, 1969

I thought, since I had finally found a niche in a Catholic Elementary School, that maybe it would continue in a Catholic High School.  But I was the “new kid” again.  The school was very clique-ish.  The kids from the different parochial schools hung out with each other, and I didn’t attend any of those schools, so I was left out.  At the end of my freshman year, I was miserable, and I asked my mother if I could go to a public school…she said “by god we moved to Boise for you to go to that school, and you will damn well go to that school.”  I was 14…my mother just told me the whole family had been uprooted for me to attend a special school; I had no idea that she could be lying to me.  So I spent the next three years in misery.

I did what I could to fit in.  I played football my sophomore year.  I wasn’t very good, but I was the biggest kid in class, 5’ 10” tall and 170 lbs.  When I finally made the starting team (as it was a small private school, the team only had a total of 22 players), I rushed home to tell my family.  My mom, Aunt, and my younger brother were working out plays and strategy for his little league Football game the next day…I excitedly told them that I was starting that night, my mom said “can’t you see we are busy here?”  No one from my family attended that game, or any game I played in.  At the end of that season I developed a hernia, and my playing days were over.  Since I couldn’t play, I became the equipment manager for the football, basketball, and track teams.  When I was awarded a Letter for my work with all the teams, my mother commented, “they gave you a letter for being the ‘water boy’…how humiliating, at least your little brother is the star of the team, and will win ‘real’ letters!”

I was miserable in school, and I was miserable at home.  My mother constantly criticized me for everything; how I dressed, how I wore my hair, the music I listened to, the books I read.  Furthermore, she used me as an example of what NOT to be for my younger brother.  I asked her once why she was so hard on me.  She told me:  “it’s a hard world out there honey, and you might as well hear the truth from me, I don’t want you to get you hopes up for any kind of happiness.  You got dealt a bad hand, I’m just helping you realize it!  Your youngest brother is the only one with any talent, smarts, and looks; just face it, you are a loser and you’re gonna be miserable for the rest of your life, just like your mother…I mean, your father!”  At the time, I took her at her word that she had misspoken, but years later I realized she was a bitter and angry woman her whole life.  She felt trapped by her children.  The oldest reminded her of her indiscretion in her youth, the next three represented the burden of being a woman in the post WWII era, expected to have babies and stay at home.  She resented being married to a man so (in her mind) beneath her intellectually.  She idolized her father as the perfect man…a big strong, red headed, blue eyed Swede. My oldest (half) brother was tall and skinny, dark eyed and dark haired. The next three were also dark haired and dark eyed, but squat in stature.  Only my youngest brother met her ideal of the perfect child, fair haired, blue eyed, big and tall…the perfect “Scandinavian Viking.”  She lived vicariously through his achievements, his athletic prowess, his popularity with girls, his being the “cool dude” in school. 

She truly believed that being cruel and critical of the rest of us, she was helping to prepare us to “survive” in the cold cruel world!

I was afraid of girls.  I didn’t date much in high school, actually that is not true, I didn’t date at all in high school until my senior year, and then only with the girl who would become my first wife, who was my abuser.  I only asked two girls out for dates before my senior year.  The first I asked if she wanted to go to a movie….she laughed in my face.  The second I called and asked if she wanted to go to a concert (my mother was a student at Boise State College, and had picked up two free tickets and gave them to me) , the girl asked me who was playing, I told her, she said “never heard of him, it would have to be someone famous for me to go with you!”  And she hung up the phone.  (It happened to be a fella named John Denver, and at the concert he introduced s new song he had written called Rocky Mountain High…within a few weeks he was a mega star).  I didn’t ask another girl out until my final year in high school.

After I was rejected by the girl I asked to the John Denver concert, I went to my mother to ask her how to talk to girls, and why girls didn’t seem to like me.  My mother told me I was a homely clumsy nerd, and that I may as well resolve myself to the fact that I would never have a girlfriend because I was a loser.  My mother had me convinced that I was an undesirable troll, and that any attempt to even talk to a girl would only get me rejection and pain.  Whenever a girl would talk to me, or flirt with me, I convinced myself that she either just felt sorry for me, or was setting me up for humiliation.  I seriously considered going to a seminary to become a Catholic Priest, or even better, a cloistered monk.  I figured I might as well live a life of celibacy, since women were never going to be part of my future anyway!  I began to hate my mother, but I felt extremely guilty for doing so.

Then I met Ric.  Just before my senior year began, the football team started pre season practices, and I remained the equipment manager for the team.  Several players from Boise State College were working out with our team because of NCAA restrictions on organized practices at the college level.  I assumed Ric was one of those players.  He looked older, he had a full red beard, and carried himself with the confidence of a college student.  On the first day of school, I was surprised to find that he had the locker right next to mine.  He was a “new guy,” and for some reason we hit it off.  He became the best friend I ever had…and remained so until his untimely death in 2007.  He made it a project to get me involved with a girl.  We both worked in the school cafeteria (to pay for our lunches) as dishwashers.   There was also a pretty redheaded girl from  the junior class working with us…he constantly flirted with her (he flirted with all the girls), and he nicknamed her Curly.  When the homecoming dance came along, he told me I had to go….that I had to attend at least ONE dance while I was in high school.  I told him that no girl would agree to go with me…he said “I bet Curly would, ask her!”  A few days later, after a short football practice was over, I went to my locker.  Ric was waiting for me (he had quit the team, because he didn’t like the coach).  He told me he had just got out of detention, and guess what, Curly was also in detention, and there she is at her locker (about 60 feet away from mine)….”now go ask her.”   My knees were literally shaking when I approached her, suddenly my stutter returned in earnest.  But somehow I managed to ask her to the homecoming dance…when she said yes, I thought I was going to pass out, so I said, “see ya tomorrow in the cafeteria,” and beat a hasty retreat.  I didn’t realize until years later that Ric had set it all up, and made sure that she would say yes before I ever asked. 

When I told my mother I was going to the Homecoming dance, she asked me “what kind of girl would go to a dance with YOU?”  I told her she was a Junior, and mentioned her name, which was Hispanic (her father was from Spain).  My mother made the comment, “what, is she a wetback trying to hook up with an American?”  I said “she is an American, and why don’t you just leave me alone, you are not going to ruin this for me!”  She started to say something else, but I walked out the door.  It was going to be my very first “date” in my life, and I wasn’t letting my mother make a farce out of it.  Being around Ric had helped me to have more confidence.  I began to stand up more to my mother’s insults and put downs.  I was going to prove her wrong, that I was not a pathetic loser…I could find a girlfriend, and this was my first, halting step.  As it turned out, it was also the first step towards my worst nightmare.

She was pretty, she was nicely shaped, she had long red hair….and I was in love!  After the dance, I asked her if she would like to go to a movie or something some time, and she said yes.  We started dating on a regular basis.  She warned me that she had a terrible temper, and that she could be very jealous, and she hated “cheap” guys.  I didn’t care, she was a girl, she paid attention to me, Mom was wrong!  She kissed me on our second date.  This was only the second time I had kissed a girl:  the first time when I was twelve with my “tomboy” friend.  The relationship moved fairly fast.  By Christmas we were “going steady,” she was wearing my class ring. By February we were “engaged.”  The funny thing is, I never proposed.  As our relationship grew, our “kissing” turned into “necking,”…and soon the “necking” turned into “heavy petting!”  One day she told me I had to buy her a diamond ring since we were getting married.  I was somewhat surprised and showed it, she reacted by saying “no man is gonna touch my tits without an engagement ring!”  I wasn’t objecting…I was elated, I never thought it could happen.  I was blinded by love, and I was desperate, I just didn’t realize it.  I also didn’t realize I was trading one abusive relationship for another.

My mother absolutely hated her.  Mother said she was “poor wetback trash pretending to be white.”  One day I came home, and my mother asked me who I was taking to the upcoming Senior Prom.  Before I could answer she said “you better be taking a ‘fat’ girl!  I was the ‘fat’ girl in high school, and I never got to go to a prom, and, BY GOD, my sons will take ‘fat’ girls to their proms!”  I responded “not THIS son, I’m taking my fiancée!”  She said “no, you’re breaking up with that little slut.”  I came back with “F*** YOU!”  (The first time I ever used that word in front of either parent.)  My mother slapped me across the face, and when she went to hit me again, I blocked her hand away, and accidentally grazed her face…she got a cruel smile on her face, and calmly said “you will pay for that!”  When my father got home, he took me out to the back yard.  I expected to receive a beating, in fact, I was afraid he might kill me, because, according to my mother, I had broken his cardinal rule….you never hit a woman for ANY reason.  He asked me what happened.  I told him the story, he got a sad look on his face and said “well son, you were in the right” and turned to go back in the house, then he turned and pointed at me and said “DON’T let it happen again!”  He knew my mother was trying to get a rise out of me, he understood her abuse.  It was then that I realized that my Dad was just as abused as I was.

I began to spend as much time as I could away from home.  I was either with my fiancée or on the ski slopes.  I learned to ski at the age of 10, I was on the ski team, and Ric was an avid skier.  And each year for Christmas, my father bought me a season pass to the local ski resort.  I had a job so I could pay for nice things for my fiancée, and take her on nice dates.  My schoolwork suffered…I was barely passing, but I didn’t care.  I would soon be 18, and my number was up.  The Vietnam War was still going, and my draft number was 11, I was certain to be drafted.  I decided to join the United States Navy to avoid going into the Army (Ironically, 3 days after I joined the Navy, when I was still 17, President Richard Nixon suspended the draft!).  As far as I was concerned, my future was set, I was going to marry my fiancée and make a career out of the Navy….and escape from my mother.  What I didn’t realize was that I was trading one abusive relationship for another.

I graduated with the barest minimum grade point average.  My Graduation Day was an experience, to say the least.  We received our diplomas from the Bishop of the Diocese.  First you dropped to a knee, kissed his ring, then he handed you the folder containing your diploma, then he blessed you.  As I walked off the stage, I opened the folder…..no diploma…just a note saying “see the school secretary.”  Wow, I must have failed something.  After graduation (no one from my family attended except my Aunt, and she was there to see my cousin, who was a freshman, sing in the choir) there was a reception in the cafeteria.  I approached the school secretary and showed her the note, asking her if I had graduated.  She said yes, but there was an issue with tuition, and to see her in the morning (graduation was on a Sunday).  The next day I was informed that my parents had neglected to pay the tuition for the last three years, and my mother refused to pay it, stating to the secretary “he wanted to attend that school, so get it out of him!”  $1,500.00 was owed.  The secretary graciously gave me a photocopy of my diploma to show the U.S. Navy as proof of graduation.  (I kept that copy in my graduation folder for 5 years, until I was able to pay off the debt.)

After graduation I attended the “official” graduation party….graduates ONLY, thus my fiancée could not attend.  She was very tight lipped about not being able to go with me.  The next day, I experienced the “temper” that she had warned me about.  The party was a “controlled” kegger.  When you arrived, you had to have a sleeping bag, and turn in your car keys.  The parents hosting the party kept a constant vigil, after the festivities (including beer) the boys slept in the back yard, and the girls slept in the front yard…and the parents (the father being a state patrolman) stayed up all night patrolling the grounds.  The next morning my fiancée started screaming at me for staying all night (even though attendance at the party required staying overnight) and wanted to know what girl I “f***ed” at the party.  It took flowers, and a gift, and my best friend Ric, to convince her that nothing had happened.  She let me know that I was not allowed to ever attend a party (or anything else, for that matter) without her again.  She also reminded me that I better not “f*** up” what I had, because “you’re damn lucky to have me!”

Graduation Picture (1973)

That summer I was caught between the proverbial “immovable object and unstoppable force.”  My fiancée pushed me to stand up to “your bitch mother,” and my mother was doing everything to sabotage my relationship, and my life.  Both my younger brother and I were working for my father.  Up until that summer, I was doing carpentry work with my Dad…foundations, framing, roofing, siding, drywall, and such.  He had started to teach me cabinet making and finish work.  Suddenly it stopped.  Now he had me prepping houses for flooring.  I cleaned the houses, and burned the scrap materials, for $4.00 per hour.  My younger brother was doing cabinets and finish work…AND at the age of twelve, was being paid  $5.00 per hour.  (Years later my Dad told me he did it because my mother insisted that he do so.)  I was angry, but it was the best job I could have at the age of 17, and in a temporary status, I was leaving for Navy boot camp in September.  Plus, I could work whenever I wanted to…the houses all had electricity, so I could clean them at night if I felt like it.  One Saturday morning, after a late night date with my fiancée (I had a 2 a.m. curfew on Fridays and Saturdays, midnight the rest of the week), my Dad came into my room at 6 a.m., and asked me if I was going to work, I said “yeah, later,” he said “don’t bother, you’re fired!” (again, he did so at the insistence of my mother).  I managed to find a job pumping gas for the rest of the summer.

My birthday happened to be on a Saturday that year, my fiancée and I stayed out until 4 a.m., when I got home, my father met me at the door.  “Your curfew is 2 a.m.” he said.  I said “not anymore, I’m 18 now, I’m an adult, I can do what I want!”  He said “what’s on top of this house?”  I said “a roof.”  He said, “who pays for it?”  I said “you do.”  He said “and as long as you are under it, you follow MY rules….or get the hell out!”  (again, he did this at the insistence of my mother.)  So I got out, I moved into my fiancées parents house, and less than a month later, I began my military service.  On December 21^st, 1973 I was married…..and my long nightmare continued…..I stayed for six years because I was desperate for someone, anyone, to love me…even if she beat the hell out of me.

Navy Boot Camp 1973

My mother passed away in 2003.  A couple of months before she died, I asked her why she never liked me.  She responded by saying “does it really matter?  You turned out ok, so I must have done something right!”  I told her, “yeah mom, it does matter….and I didn’t turn out ok, for a good portion of my life I have been depressed and miserable.”  She said, “Ok, if it means that much to you, I hated you because you are just like your GOD DAMNED FATHER, you look like him, you sound like him, and you are a just as much a weakling as he was!”  I told my Mom that I had spent my whole life trying to gain her approval, trying to make her proud of me, tying to get her to love me.  She said, “sorry honey, you were doomed from the start!”  When she was on her death bed, and in an out of a coma, I sat at her bedside.  She came out of her comatose state one time, saw me, and lunged to hug me around the neck…to this very day, I’m not sure if she saw me, or if she saw my father…but from the look of surprise on her face, I’m fairly certain she thought I was my father.  She passed away 6 hours later.  Never once in her life, did she tell me she was proud of me.  To this very day, I am still trying to deal with the whys of how I was raised.  I guess I will never know, but thanks to some special people, I am dealing with the questions…

I started this essay with the intention of explaining why I stayed in an abusive marriage.  I now realize that my marriage was merely a continuation of much of the abuse I had already suffered, but with the added element of physical violence.  Sigmund Freud would have said I married my mother….and in many ways, he would have been correct. 

My second oldest brother, Dave, and I are now very close…he is my best friend.  (I don’t speak to my other siblings for various reasons, mostly in connection to our relationship with our Mother.)  Dave and I have spoken often about the relationship we had with our mother, both as children and as adults.  And I spoke to him about this essay.  He told me simply this:  “Mom was not a nice person!”  I can speculate on why she was so bitter and angry her entire life, but I will never really know.  All I do know is, it doesn’t matter why, people just should not treat their children like that!

There are many reason why victims of abuse stay.  Sometimes it is financial, sometimes it is fear, sometimes it has to do with self esteem….there are many, many, reasons.  In my case, I stayed because I had been raised as an abused person, I truly believed that, not only was being abused normal, but, that I deserved every bit of abuse that I experienced.

No one is worthless, no one is ordinary, no one deserves abuse.  Everyone has worth, everyone is special, everyone deserves love.  And Love should always be kind!