Danny had progressed to smoking pot at this point, and he had a new group of friends in town to party with. He would stay out longer, come home, pass out (which I was grateful for), and arise early the next day to go to a construction site. We rarely spoke. I had learned not to irritate him. We never socialized with his family anymore. I was lonely so I would go to visit his aunts, which would only make him angry. He would say, “You are just going over there to complain about how I hit you!” And then he would.
I was twenty years old and beginning to wonder if I would ever see twenty-five. Danny used to say he would never see thirty.
It amazes me now when I think of all the relatives who knew he was physically abusing me, yet did nothing. It has made me think of those who surely knew my father was abusing all of us, but no one stepped in to stop it. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have been told that when my sister was just a baby, my father struck my mother so hard that she ran to my grandmother. Mother, Daddy, and Carol, then a small baby, lived in a garage apartment behind my grandparents’ house. I don’t know what my grandfather did, but my grandmother, called Mama, told my father he better never touch my mother again. Of course, my father begged, pleaded, and promised that he would never hurt Mother, so she came back to him, baby in tow. I am not certain if Daddy ever hurt her after that, while Mama took watch, but after moving, the abuse continued over a course of twenty-seven years until my parents were finally divorced. I often think of how different my mother’s life would have been if she had not succumbed to my father’s empty promises. Most certainly my brother and I would not have been born, but I would love to think that her life could have been turned around and that she could have found happiness. Safety and happiness. It is important to note that Mother never stopped loving Daddy. That will forever remain a mystery to me. I do know she never learned to love herself; her children, grandchildren, and God, but never truly herself.
I fantasize a lot. Always have, probably always will. I think I taught myself to do that from an early age just for survival. I can remember very vividly wishing and praying every year when THE WIZARD OF OZ came on, that when I went to sleep, I would be transported over the rainbow and never come back. While it is true that there is “No place like home,” I would have rather dealt with the flying monkeys than my father. With Danny, I would imagine that I was married to Heathcliff (which was odd because he had his own abusive issues), or some charming, gentle, romantic man who would treat me like a queen. I wanted to be cherished. I wanted to feel safe. I would drive by people’s homes and wonder who lived inside and if they were happy. What did that word mean, anyway? I knew that I had experienced happiness at some point with friends and siblings. I had talked myself into believing that I loved Danny because he was willing to marry me and give me a home. I didn’t know on my wedding day what kind of home that would become.
It is fairly common knowledge that when a person drinks or takes drugs, it alters their ability to think as they normally would. Every day I would tell myself that if I could just get Danny to stop drinking, he would stop hitting me. The more I tried to divert his attention away from grabbing a beer right after work, the more determined he was to consume not just one bottle, but all that were in the refrigerator. It took me awhile to understand that this was his “normal.” He had been drinking since he was twelve, and he not only wanted it, he needed it. How was I supposed to compete with that? I guess that I started changing after we tied the knot. I was maturing, but only in some ways. I had an unrealistic vision of what our lives could be. One of his aunts told me that perhaps my sophistication was working against me. What was I to do? Should I speak differently? Should I start getting high on the weekends? Should I dislike literature and philosophy and art and all those things I had loved since I was a young teen? Is that what I needed to do to make my man happy? I just couldn’t. I was already losing a portion of myself on a daily basis; I was not about to let go of the decent, wonderful things in life that I cared about. So what if I could not have a discussion about King Lear with my husband? Did that mean our marriage was doomed?
I have always been a stubborn, somewhat opinionated individual. The stubbornness in me did not want to admit that I could not change Danny. I could not get inside his head, nor mine, and erase all the hideous things of our growing up years that made us behave the way we did in our adult lives. I was also ashamed to admit to my friends and family that it had been a huge mistake to marry Danny. It is interesting what happens to that pride when you are being thrown across a room in the middle of the night, just as your mother had been decades before. I would look in Danny’s eyes and could only see hatred and anger. He fed upon my fear. I firmly believe that once a man beats you, they, like an animal, taste the blood, and therefore they can never stop. They may try, but I think it is rare to find an abuser that can give it up. Do I believe that a person can get help through therapy? Yes, if one is truly willing, but perhaps the enticement will always be there to hit. At nineteen, I did not have that figured out.
When I hear women tell of their feelings of taking responsibility for being hurt, it always makes me shudder. I am reminded how many times I questioned myself, after the abuse, of what I must have done to provoke it. Did I say the wrong thing? Was the house not cleaned well enough? Did I not praise him enough for his weekend shenanigans? Obviously, I was being a bad wife.
Danny knew he had me over a barrel because I had no family to run to. In addition to my parents and their new spouses, my sister was going through her own problems, as she had recently had three children, two with severe handicaps. I couldn’t possibly burden her any more than she already was. And, I didn’t even know where my brother was. I was living in my own real life, bad soap opera.
Danny never broke my arm or leg or gave me a black eye; never anything visible to the people at work. When he hit me across the face, I could cover it with makeup. When he would yank me up by my hair, my head would be swollen for a while, but, generally all right by the next day. All my bruises were, for the most part, hidden by my clothing. I was constantly buying bras and underwear to replace the ripped ones. I lost weight and had to buy clothes. I gained weight, and had to buy clothes. I began to find comfort in anything sweet, so on the many nights when Danny was out late, I stuffed my face with cake and candy. They became as addictive to me as alcohol was to him. Of course, the extra weight was just one more negative thing for my husband to focus on. One night in a drunken rage, he took a box of donuts and started cramming them down my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I was strangling, and, spitting what I could out of my mouth, which made him think I was spitting at him. I was knocked down for that. I then threw up, which disgusted him, so he kicked me. I had better clean up the mess or he would do worse, he yelled. The crazy thing is, one would have thought that would have taught me not to have sweets in the house. It didn’t. It just made me clever about where to hide things. When I would hear him pull into the driveway, I would rush to the bathroom to brush my teeth and get rid of the crumbs.
Somewhere along the way, drugs became involved. It started with marijuana and worked its way up. Danny would get angry with me for not participating in his new pleasure. All I can say about the pot is that it mellowed him out enough that if I was quick enough to stay out of his way, I would not get in trouble. I often wonder how he could drive in his condition. He got to the point where he would not wait to come home to start drinking. He would have a cooler in his car and would pop a cold one as soon as he hit the seat. His drug participation started with his new friends, and that rarely happened at our house because, I am certain, his buddies thought me to be a prude. Basically, I never knew what state he would be in when he walked in the door. I could bank on his speech being slurred, his walk unbalanced, and his eyes glazed over. Depending upon how his day went, or the instigation of his co-workers to “knock his wife down to size,” I was either in for a tongue lashing or something much worse. To tell the truth, I am not certain that his friends knew that Danny was b
eating me. He looked like this handsome teddy bear that one would never believe could cause such pain to another person, especially not his own wife. Maybe that was the main reason he never had any friends over to the house; he was cautious that he may lose his temper and back hand me in front of them. He knew what he was doing was wrong. In the beginning of the marriage (which lasted three years), he would honestly regret that he had hurt me. I could see him fighting the urge, once he was drunk, to keep from hitting me. But, as time went by, and the more I wanted him to settle, the more rebellious he became. I would look at him sometimes and he would seem like a time bomb was ready to explode. I became to wonder what he actually saw when he looked at me. Sometimes, I felt it was his mother. Sometimes, I was just this chain around him that he was determined to break. I wondered why he didn’t throw me out of the house, since he so obviously didn’t love me. I realized years later that he needed me. Not for the reason one wants to be needed, but I was his emotional punching bag. He could say the most venomous things to me, or release his frustration by literally punching me. Maybe he didn’t think he was worthy of anything or anyone decent in his life, so he was going to try to rid himself of what was standing before him.
I continued to work at a department store in Evansville, Indiana, selling baby and children’s clothing. I was accumulating a little money that I was putting aside. I wasn’t sure what Danny would do to me if he were to find out I was not depositing everything into our checking account, but I was starting to get stronger each day just by being around people at work that I was beginning to confide in. Those who knew of my situation were horrified and begged me to leave. My fear was that, when I did decide to leave, he would find me and kill me. I knew I would have to leave the state with enough funds to survive. I also knew I needed to get a divorce. That was also going to cost money. I was aware that Danny had most likely found a girlfriend who was occupying more of his time, so he had less interest in berating me about my job and my looks. The nightly rituals of whether I would invoke his wrath became less, but I still knew I could never really breathe easy until I was out of that house. Each night that I pulled in the driveway, I felt like I was preparing to walk into a prison. In those days, there were no cell phones to quickly call for help. We lived in the country and the nearest police station or hospital was a good half hour away. I knew I was taking my life in my own hands every day and I had to get out. Having a voice at work allowed me to get support and some strength.
One day, a former classmate saw me at the counter selling a baby dress. He came up to me and I could see the surprise on his face. It was not due to the time element of which we had not seen each other. It was the fact that I looked worn down. This self-confident, independent young woman who’d once been attractive was no more. My friend demanded to know what I was doing with myself. Everyone thought you would become an actress, he said. What has happened to you? I know he was not deliberately trying to be cruel, but was truly disturbed by what he saw. I cried when my former friend left the store, but it was a push I needed to remind myself of who I was before Danny, and a cold, hard look at what I had become.
Probably because I had gotten a shot of confidence, I was particularly strong willed that evening when I went home. Danny was there, but called me a “bitch” and left the house. I felt very triumphant. I had not bowed down to him and he did not touch me. I watched some television and went to bed.
I really don’t know what time it was when he came home. I heard his car pull in then dosed back to sleep. I only remember this series of actions: He was calling me names, cursing, smelling like he had been soaking in a tub of booze. He yanked me onto my back from my side, climbed on top of me, and before I was even fully awake, had his hands around my throat. His fingers were digging into my skin. I started gasping for air, trying to remove his hands, but even in his drunken stupor, he was extremely strong. I could not move my body. I could see his eyes, but they weren’t his eyes. They were the eyes of a monster set to kill. I closed my eyes and started praying. I promised God that if I were to survive this night, I would leave that house and this man for good. I was only twenty-one years old and knew I had so much more of life to live. Maybe because I stopped struggling, maybe because he saw me praying, maybe he just tired out, but he let me go. He rolled over on the bed and passed out. At first, I was too scared to move, but I gathered my courage and bolted from the bed. I grabbed my coat, shoes, purse, and left the house in my nightgown. I knew his sister would be awake at that time of night, so I headed into town. The next day he came looking for me, but when I knew he was a work, I drove to the house and put all my clothes in plastic bags. He later found out I was at his sister’s, but all his family knew that he had tried to kill me the night before, and so he stayed away. I am certain he thought I would return, eventually. I did, but not until the following year. I moved to Miami briefly, then came back to get a divorce. Danny did not contest it. I asked no money from him. I just wanted out.
Not long after, I moved to Macon, Georgia, applied to Mercer University, worked until school started, and then began my freshman year. It was one of the best decisions I had ever made. I had taken a giant leap in recovering my life. In addition to my determination, I had summoned the courage to call my father and tell him that I desperately wanted to better myself and that, as his daughter, I expected him to financially help me. I should note that my dad had worked for Pan Am for almost forty years at that point and was married to a doctor who had no children. He could afford to send me to school. He did. I then went to school in London for theatre, and upon returning to the states, I got a call from my sister, who had heard that Danny had fallen from two hundred feet from the top of a construction site and was killed. I will never know whether he was drunk or high. I do know that he had not reached his thirtieth birthday, just as he had predicted.
Every time I hear of a case of abuse in the home, I am reminded how lucky I was/am, to have escaped. I have great compassion for those who are so consumed with fear that they cannot figure out what exactly they are to do. Their sense of self has been robbed from them. Perhaps they, too, were raised in an abusive home and never really had a sense of self-importance, of value. I can only hope and pray that whoever they are, that a voice will speak to them to tell them to “get out,” to seek help. We are all on this journey together. We all have value. No matter our past, we deserve a future.
CRIME VICTIM RESOURCES
IF YOU ARE A VICTIM OF A CRIME AND ARE IN NEED OF EMERGENCY ASSISTANCE, PLEASE CALL 9-1-1.
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800-799-7233
National Sexual Assault Hotline: 800-656-HOPE
To find an emergency shelter by zip code visit Domestic Shelters
National Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network RAINN
International Human Trafficking International Justice Mission
Office of Victims of Crime (Domestic) Domestic Crime Victims
Office of Victims of Crime (International) International Victims of Crime
Women Against Violence Europe - resources by country Women Against Violence Europe
ADDITIONAL RESOURCES
DIRECT SERVICES FOR CRIME VICTIMS – Toll Free Numbers
Americans Overseas Domestic Violence Crisis Center
866-USWOMEN (866-879-6636)
Childhelp USA National Hotline
800-4-A-CHILD (800-422-4453)
Disaster Distress Helpline
800–985–5990
Mothers Against Drunk Driving
877-MADD-HELP (877-623-3435)
National Domestic Violence Hotline
TTY Hotline
800-799-7233
800-787-3224
National Teen Dating Abuse Helpline
TTY Hotline
866-331-9474
866-331-8453
National Organization of Parents of Murdered Children
888-818-POMC (888-818-7662)
National Runaway Safeline
800-RUNAWAY (800-786-2929)
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National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
800-273-8255
Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN)
800-656-HOPE (800-656-4613)
Safe Phone Helpline (sexual assault support for the DoD community)
877-995-5247
Sexual Assault Support and Help For Americans Abroad
886-USWOMEN (866-879-6636)
StrongHearts Native Helpline (domestic violence and dating violence support for Native Americans)
844-7NATIVE (844-762-8483)
DIRECT SERVICES FOR CRIME VICTIMS – Online Help
Lifeline Crisis Chat
https://chat.suicideprevention
lifeline.org/GetHelp/LifelineChat.aspx
National Sexual Assault Online Hotline
English https://ohl.rainn.org/online/
Spanish https://ohl.rainn.org/es/
Safe Online Helpline (sexual assault support for the DoD community)
https://www.safehelpline.org
National Runaway Safeline Chat
https://www.1800runaway.org/
INFORMATION/REFERRALS FOR CRIME VICTIMS
Battered Women’s Justice Project
800-903-0111 x 1
Bureau of Indian Affairs Indian Country Child Abuse Hotline
800-633-5155
Federal Trade Commission IdentityTheft.gov
English: https://identitytheft.gov/
Spanish: https://robodeidentidad.gov/
National Center for Missing & Exploited Children
TDD Hotline
800-843-5678
Betrayed: Powerful Stories of Kick-Ass Crime Survivors Page 48