Worth

She had been in classes most of the day. As she hurried home, her mind was swirling with all of the things that needed to be done—study, cook, clean. She knew he expected a hot meal. He was going to school and held down a job, so she didn’t really mind. As she rushed around the small apartment kitchen, she decided on spaghetti. It wasn’t the greatest choice, but it would be hot. She was finishing up when she heard his key in the door. He jammed it in. Uh-oh. This was never good. She quickly set the table and brought a huge, steaming bowl of spaghetti into the alcove that served as a place to cram a small table and chairs. He was angry. She could hear it in his breathing. Spaghetti—hot and down her entire front. Humiliated. Scared. Why didn’t’ she leave? She wasn’t sure.

I know this woman. I was this woman. I wonder how she can be so smart yet stay in this situation. Maybe I don’t understand why she doesn’t just pick up and leave. Or, maybe I am uncomfortable, scared, etc. and distance myself from her. I believe these are all things her abuser counts on me doing. From my experiences, I have seen that the abuser wants to isolate the victim. It doesn’t really matter how the abuser achieves this, so long as it is achieved.

Domestic violence is dangerous for everyone involved.  Is this why some people tend to distance themselves? I don’t know. I have had several friends, some closer to me than others, who have been victims of domestic violence. What I refer to as The Spaghetti Incident did really happen to a friend of mine when I was in college. I found out because I accidentally saw some bruises on her. She then went on to tell me that it wasn’t that bad. I had no idea what to do, but I felt like I had to do something. I told one of our close, mutual friends. Then we sat. What could we do? Before too long, it became apparent to my friend’s husband that I knew. I was confronted by him and told to stay out of his business. I calmly told him that I wouldn’t. His business involved hitting his wife, and I was not going anywhere. Then, I didn’t go anywhere.

My friend would try and downplay what was happening to her. I would always correct her. It was a big deal, and it was dangerous. On the rare occasion I was around when abuse took place, I called the police. Always. The police would come, and she would say nothing happened.  Didn’t matter.  I always called. My friend and her abuser/husband moved away after graduation. I stayed in contact. Roughly 10 years after the first incident I knew about, I received a frantic call from my friend. She was finally leaving him, but he wasn’t going to make it easy. It involved possibly losing her child (which she didn’t). It involved her being falsely accused of abuse and neglect. It involved severe physical and emotional abuse that he continued to dole out. She stayed strong this time. I stood with her.

She’s free now, and I’m so proud of her. She has moved on and is living the life that I believe she wanted from the beginning. I know how hard it is to leave. I’ve been there. I did anything I could to hide it. I couldn’t hide it. I’m so grateful I couldn’t hide it. Some of my friends at the time retreated for various reasons. Some thought I caused it and should just not pick fights with him (him being the abuser). Some stood by me and were vocal. Some stood by me with silent support. I clung to all of that support.

Not too long ago, I was emailed a mugshot of my abuser. He had been booked for domestic violence against his then wife. They rarely change. I don’t like to say never, but it just may apply in these situations. I hope she got out. When we were in a relationship, I had “friends” who didn’t believe me. I’m not sure what they thought was going on, but they didn’t believe me. Do you know how desperate I am for them to believe me still? I knew how to contact one woman, and I sent her the mugshot. I never heard from her.

As I said earlier, in my experiences, the abuser wanted to isolate the victim. I went through this, and I saw it in my friend’s situation. The abuser counts on friends and family not wanting to get involved. The abuser counts on people abandoning the victim because she won’t just leave. In some situations, I’ve seen the abuser force the victim to make choices between friends and him. As a person who has been the friend in this situation, it can be hard. You get frustrated with the victim. There are times where the victim may even lash out at you. You want to retreat.  Wash your hands of it. She chose it and deserves it. But, she doesn’t. The abuser counts on you going away and/or getting angry with the victim. Isolation. That’s the goal.

Recently, I have watched this happen to an acquaintance. Because we aren’t really friends, I feel like it’s even harder to figure out what to do for her. She has started to lash out at the people who care about her. At first, I was angry with her for this. Some of these people are my close friends, and they don’t deserve that kind of treatment. Then, I took a step back and my vision cleared. The abuser is behind this. He is likely pushing her to get these people out of her life. They have popped up on his radar, and they must go. The easiest thing to do is get her to do his work. I’m scared for her. This woman has some wonderful qualities. She’s artistic, creative, thoughtful, etc. He will destroy her if she doesn’t leave. It doesn’t get better.

I’m writing this because I’m upset with myself for initially wanting to be pissed at this woman. I have watched a friend go through an abusive marriage. I have been in abusive relationships and know first hand what victims go through. My response has been silence—for now. She needs to get out. Should I write a letter? An email? I just don’t know.

Any time I hear of someone going through the scariness that is an abusive relationship, it takes me back to some (not all) of my past relationships. I can look back on my teenage years and my young adult years and see that I have made some major changes in how I function in romantic relationships. With that said, I can also look back and see that some of those behaviors have seeped into friendships. I’m working on it.  I’ve let go of some people in my life that weren’t really bringing much to it. It’s been sad, but I feel like it’s a positive change for me.

My hope is that someone will read this and possibly glean something from the experiences. If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic violence, there is help.  Make sure you support people in the best ways that you can. Stay safe. March Fourth.

http://www.thehotline.org

"Clothes"ing Doors

The selling feature for our house was the closets.  I never thought I would find a 1950's ranch with so much closet space.  Our master has his and her walk-ins.  Who did that in the 1950's?!?  Problem: I had filled up three of the closets. 

I have always known that I say something through my clothes.  They set the mood for my day.  Is this how I ended up with so many?  Maybe.  The point is I had collected so many different moods, and I was bursting out of three closets--ridiculous.  For over 10 years, I had to wear business to business casual clothes to work every day.  I was working in a college setting, but I knew the expectation was for me to look different than the students.  So, I did.  After working in that environment, I moved on to a strict dress code.  By strict I mean no open-toed shoes, no sleeveless anything, and the expectation of just blending in the background.  Now, it's important to know my moods/styles can range from very Stevie Nicks to Donna Reed to occasionally Peg Bundy.  Don't judge.  My Donna Reed worked well in the college setting, and I could rock my Stevie Nicks and Peg Bundy on the weekends.  Nothing really worked well in the strict environment.  My clothes were the least of my problems, but I should have paid better attention to this little piece of info in my interview.  The interview committee looked like little boxes on the hillside made of ticky tacky--all the same.  The same=frowny. 

I left the strict dress code environment to become a writer.  My dress code changed, again.  Now, I was working at home.  The first few months were fun because it was a novelty to wear footie jammies to work.  Work was my home office, and my home office was filled with dog hair and pups nudging me for attention.  Not bad.  After a few months, the jammies weren't working for me anymore.  I realized that my clothes were still setting my mood for the day.  The jammies made me feel like I shouldn't be working.  I know, I know.  Rattling on about clothes seems trivial, but it goes deeper for me.  During this time, I would open up those three closets and just stare at my old life.  There it was.  My old life crammed into three closets.  It didn't feel good.  Again, I was focusing on my goal, which was to become a working writer.  I needed that day-to-day contact with work peeps.  A former colleague and friend happened to call me during this "questioning" stage, and she said the magic words.  "The non-profit I work for really needs a writer.  You interested?"  Umm, yeah! 

As with any job interview, I decided to wear a suit.  It wasn't a traditional suit.  It was something I had put together from Anthropologie.  As I was introduced around the office, I noticed that no one else was dressed like me.  There were people in summer dresses, slacks, shorts, tennis shoes, t-shirts, etc.  Here's the other observation...they looked happy.  On my drive home I realized how badly I wanted to work at this place.  It wasn't because of the relaxed dress code.  I actually enjoy dressing up and wearing heels most of the time; although, the heels have been slowly transitioning to flats.  Everyone was allowed to set his or her mood for the day.  This place treated its employees well.  And, yes, I got all of this from the clothes.

A few weeks ago, the non-profit called me and offered me the job.  I'm a full-time writer.  A full-time writer!!!  The statement is still settling into the crevices of my brain.  I opened the closet doors again and realized how uncomfortable my old life would look in my new life.  Out it went!  I donated most of the professional wear to a local agency that helps women get back into the workforce.  Now, I'm left in an exciting and uncomfortable place.  I have no idea what to wear.  HR called yesterday to remind me that the dress code is VERY casual.  It made me giggle, and it gave me good "feels" about this place.  HR also reminded me that I could dress however I wanted, and they were just calling to remind me about the dress code because they didn't want me to be uncomfortable on my first day.  Uncomfortable.  Am I finally leaving that behind?

Answer: probably not.  Discomfort is part of life.  If I hadn't been uncomfortable for the past year with working through my decision to be a writer, then I wouldn't have landed this sweet gig.  So, what's next?  Well, those crammed closets actually represented what others had dictated I wear.  I had my style, but overall a workplace had set the parameters.  I know that is normal; however, it feels fantastic that this new place doesn't dictate.  Cleaning out the closets has helped me move forward with my new career--I'm Marching Fourth.