But For the Grace of God

Imagine a kitchen, it’s after dinner. The dishes are stacked in the sink, the water is still running because I was in the middle of rinsing them when he came in. The cat had been weaving between my legs but ran off as soon as his presence was felt. He hadn’t liked the meal; it was overcooked, and I was useless. Did I know that? That I was useless? Did I? DID I?!!! I better talk to him; better look at him. No, NO??? Well why don’t you look at “this”! My back is suddenly slammed up against the wall beside the refrigerator. A fist goes through the wall to the right of my head. I’m told in rancid bourbon breath that the next shot is going on the other side, and the third is going through my face.

There is pounding at the door. I hear my name being called and neighbors asking if I’m all right. I didn’t think that my nightmare little world was being heard by the normal people that lived around me. It’s a good thing I was wrong. Their insistent pounding caused just enough confusion and distraction in the sad, sick man in front of me that I was able to dodge around him and make it to the front door. As my neighbors’ wife put her arm around me and led me to their apartment, the husband kindly, and wisely, addressed my inebriated spouse as he might a 5 year old; asking him to calm down and talk to him. I was six weeks pregnant at the time.

I’d like to say that those are the opening paragraphs of the novel I’m always planning to write. It feels, as I type the words today, like passable fiction. Instead, 26 years ago, it was my reality. Further details are unnecessary, although there are plenty I could choose from to share. There were other incidents, some worse, some better. In reflection, all were exceedingly degrading and intensely sad.

There was an article in the paper today about a financial award granted to the family of a young Latina woman who was shot to death by her estranged, abusive husband after the Sheriff’s department failed to follow-up on a restraining order. The same article made reference to another woman whose abusive husband stabbed her to death in front of their two children. I felt that momentary physical twinge of remembrance that always comes whenever I read or hear of another domestic violence victim. I ache for these women whose’ lives have been cut short by this personal hell that I was able to escape from.

Domestic Violence, thankfully and rightly, has gotten more and more validation as a dangerous and serious problem in our society. It has taken too long to get to that point because it is so easy to sit in righteous erroneous judgment of the victims, “How can you stay? Where is your self-esteem?” Or in the worst of heartless assumptions, “What did you do to bring it on yourself?”

You cannot judge a person who lives through such experiences. You cannot know why they stay and expose themselves. For every rational reason you can provide for leaving, they have an irrational one that is their truth and makes them stay. I know. It took me two years to find the courage and strength to get out before my husband killed me.

If they are fortunate, as I was, the victim eventually emerges from their false truth. A new life and healthy relationships can rise from the ashes of dysfunctional fire. But there is no magic formula to make it happen. Each situation, each playing out of the individual plot lines that make up our lives, leads to different endings. In my case, I have been able to let go of the past. To forgive the sad, very ill person who had been my husband and to get on with my life.

For others, that is not the case. They are either unable to remove themselves from the situation, or if they have, they have been unable to let go of the resentment and pain and therefore never truly move on. It is a choice not always consciously made. Sometimes the best a person in that situation can do is merely survive one day at a time.

And sometimes they don’t survive. And sometimes they are placed in the horrendous position of having to defend themselves and end the life of the person that would take theirs. Re-read my opening paragraphs and try to put yourself in my position; really try and imagine the energies of aggression and insanity and dysfunction swirling around in anger and fear. Trust me. You cannot. Unless you’ve lived it.

In an admittedly painful way, my first husband was one of the most valuable teachers in my life. I was able to find the strength to leave, and then forgive him. Learning from the agonizing lessons that he taught me about self-worth, I was able to create the functional, loving life I live today with two beautiful sons and my husband of 22 years.

My ex-husband had a fascination with guns. More than once, after I left him, he’d threaten to show up on the doorstep of my Mother’s apartment where I was living, and “teach me a lesson”. A year after we divorced, he was critically injured in a drunk-driving accident that left him severely disabled. Five years later, he died.

I sit with a cup of coffee in the sanctuary of my kitchen nook looking out my window at the peaceful rolling brown Sonoma County hills. I look down again at the newspaper article in front of me. There but for the grace of............................