And earnestly, passionately, I continued. “God, I feel like I’m lost right now. I’m in the wilderness, and I haven’t been able to find my way in a long, long time. I need your guidance. I believe you can change people and you can change things. Bring a change in my life — bring it quickly; please hasten. I am your child. I do not have the strength to take any more, to carry this burden one moment longer. I need you. I need you now.”
I repeated this prayer over and over, and it gave me peace. I meditated on the New Testament story of Paul and Silas in prison, their backs badly beaten and their feet shackled — and yet they sang praises to God and worshiped him, even in the middle of their horrible, seemingly hopeless situation. They sang praises to God even when they were powerless to set themselves free. This was me! I could sing praises to God in the midst of my situation, and his peace came upon me and surpassed all my understanding. Somehow I knew I would be okay.
I began to spend more time asking for forgiveness and less time pleading for mercy. I started listening more and talking less. I learned how to be still. Tentatively, I began trusting God. Ingrid and I continued studying the Bible together and also attended Bible studies during the day while the kids were in school. This kept me encouraged — it kept me alive.
God spoke to my heart. He had been speaking all along, but I was finally still enough to hear his voice. God’s goodness penetrated my heart and my spirit, and change took root inside of me. Nate’s antics no longer had the same effect. It was like I lived inside a bubble of God’s peace. I filtered every word that came out of my mouth and every move I made through God’s Word.
When I thought about not being able to make it on my own while supporting two kids, when I was filled with regret over giving up my career to support Nate, I quoted this promise from Scripture: “My God shall supply all your need according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:19).When I felt too weary to go on, I relied on the words of Christ: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28 – 30). I committed Scripture to memory, inscribing it on the tablets of my heart. It was my weapon. It was my shield.
I prayed diligently for Tré. He was, for the most part, a happy-go-lucky child. He was very smart and very protective of me and King. Still, there was too much heaviness on a boy so young. He had seen too much. He had heard things no little boy should ever have to hear, and I was worried about what kind of man he would grow up to be. Would he solve his problems by lashing out in selfish anger? Was history doomed to repeat itself? I prayed it would not. I spoke words of life over him. I prayed over him and declared good things over his future. I declared that he and King would grow up to love God with all their heart, soul, mind, and strength and not repeat my mistakes, not repeat Nate’s mistakes. I loved these little boys with a fierce, protective love. They filled my life with purpose and gave me a mission greater than mere survival.
CHAPTER 24
Divorce
If the numbers we see in domestic violence were applied to terrorism or gang violence, the entire country would be up in arms, and it would be the lead story on the news every night.
U.S. Congressman Mark Green
The 1997 season began, and Nate and I were in a season of calm. It was almost as if we were living separately under the same roof. I never asked him about the details of anything going on with his life outside our home, but things were not good. He was getting into trouble more frequently — DUIs, car accidents, and he even faced a misdemeanor for disorderly conduct after a loud argument with a fan who wanted his autograph. I kept my distance from these things and did my best not to get involved.
I took advantage of the season of calm to approach Nate about the divorce. “I think it’s best if we go our separate ways,” I said. “I need to be free from the marriage. We can each just go our own path. I’ll take care of the boys. You can keep all the money; just help me out with three months’ rent while I get a job.”
“Dot, just wait a while. Just wait a little while. Everything is going to be better,” was Nate’s answer. I knew he didn’t want me to leave. I knew he wouldn’t give me a divorce. I knew that in his own twisted way he loved me, but I wanted out. I didn’t want to live a double life anymore.
The Cowboys had a “White House” scandal at some point during all of this. There was a house (they called it The White House) located near the team’s Valley Ranch practice facility where some of the players brought women for sex and had frequent parties. When questioned about this by the Star-Telegram, Nate removed all doubt about his involvement: “We got a little place over here where we’re running whores in and out, trying to be responsible, and we’re criticized for that too.” I was disgusted.
My humiliation seemed to have no end. I was constantly embarrassed by Nate’s public behavior, but I stood by him, no matter what. It seemed like every time I approached him about leaving, he got into some crisis again and needed me.
We continued to have seasons of relative calm followed by seasons of violence in which he would be verbally abusive, push me, and grab me by the throat. I never knew exactly what to expect.
I drew closer and closer to God for my strength. It seemed like the worse things got for me physically and emotionally, the more my spirit soared. I was filled with the Holy Spirit, and he was indeed my Comforter. No matter how bad things were with Nate, my soul was at peace with God. Nate had no control there. He couldn’t spoil it. He couldn’t interrupt it. He couldn’t harm it.
Nate knew I was close to God. When it came to this area of my life, Nate still had me on a pedestal. There was almost a reverence from him about it — he never wanted to mess with that. He counted on the fact that I prayed, and on rare occasions he still asked me to pray for him, though he wasn’t willing to pray on his own. In his mind, God was reserved for “good” people who already had their act together.
Nate was involved in another affair. In the past, he was careful to protect me from knowing about them, but he had grown careless. Not only was he coming home in the wee hours of the morning; he was leaving evidence all around — condoms, notes, receipts. I knew he was unfaithful and had probably been so for our entire life together. When he wanted sex, I was frightened. What if he gives me a disease? I began collecting the evidence, wanting to have proof of his indiscretions so I would at last be able to leave, even if he wasn’t willing to consent to a divorce.
In the summer of 1998, just before Nate went to training camp, I found evidence of yet another relationship. I became enraged. Nate came into the house, and I lost all my fear of him. I screamed at him. I accused him. I was crying and shouting and storming around the room. It took Nate completely off guard — he wasn’t used to this kind of behavior from me. He grabbed me by my arms to bring me under control.
“F_____ you!” I screamed.
It was like I had thrown ice water on him. He was so startled. I never used that kind of language, and it shocked him.
“Dot,” he said, his face contorted, “what’s wrong with you? That’s not like you. Calm down, now. Calm down.”
“That’s right,” I said through clenched teeth, “I said it — f_____ you!”
Nate was mortified. He shook me. “Get hold of yourself, Dot! Settle down.” He let me go, and I crumpled into a heap on the floor.
“Who am I?” I said, almost in a whisper. I was genuinely frightened at my own anger. This wasn’t me.
Could I hurt him? I wondered. I shuddered. Yes, I could. In fact, I wanted to.
I shuddered again, trying to shake myself out of whatever it was that had taken hold of me. I went to my room, got on my face, and prayed. I knew I could never give in to that anger again. I rolled over, looking up to heaven, and prayed, “God, you’ve got to do something spectacular to get me out of this situation. I don’t ever want to feel this
way again. I never want to lose control like that again. Help me, Jesus. Help me now.”
In 1999, Nate was cut from the Cowboys. It was a crushing blow to him. He worked hard to get a contract with the Carolina Panthers and then announced we were moving to North Carolina. My first thought was, This is my way out.
“No, Nate,” I said. “I can’t take the boys to North Carolina. Tré is involved in sports and has good teachers. Taking him out of school is not good for him. Think of Tré. We need to stay here.”
Miraculously, I convinced Nate that I should stay behind in Texas with the boys while he moved to Carolina. My heart lifted. It felt as if God had stepped in and offered me a way of escape. I was rescued! I could use this time to find a job and get established. I knew this was the beginning of my breakthrough.
Tré attended school Monday through Friday and played football on Saturday, so we only went to North Carolina on holidays. We couldn’t watch Nate play all his games — and I didn’t want to. I was happy on my own with the boys.
Another American Express bill came to the house, and I saw charges for airline tickets to and from Carolina — yet another woman. I didn’t care. At least I was safe. I was involved in Bible study and enjoying “normal” life. I felt lighthearted. If Nate needed another woman in Carolina so I could stay at home, so be it.
At Christmas, Nate demanded I come to see him and bring the boys with me. I couldn’t think of any good reason why we couldn’t go, so I packed them up and flew out to meet him. When I arrived and began unpacking, I came across pieces of women’s jewelry. Right there in plain sight was proof Nate was seeing someone. I flew home the next day. I was glad to be away from him. I was happy he was living in North Carolina. He could stay there as long as he liked. In January, the season came to an end. I was dreading it, knowing it meant Nate would move back home with us. He had injured his shoulder, which was going to require surgery to repair it. It had not been a good season for Nate, and with the injury, his football career was in serious jeopardy. I had physical evidence of a long-term affair, and I was ready to go to an attorney. Nate asked me to stay with him during the surgery and his recovery. He promised that if I stayed, and if I agreed to use his attorney and accept his terms, then he would give me a divorce. I consented to everything. All I wanted was out.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll stay until you are recovered. I’ll use your attorney, and I don’t care what the terms are as long as I get to leave.” I meant every word I said.
February came, and we scheduled an appointment with Nate’s attorney. The attorney told me we could split everything down the middle, and Nate would pay $2,000 a month in child support. “Down the middle?” I asked, shocked, “Down the middle — what does that look like?” I didn’t need to be shocked; there wasn’t anything left to split. Nate was out of money. He had managed to spend everything he’d earned over the years. All that remained was the house. We had paid cash for the house and owned it outright. The plan was for me to stay in the house with the boys until it sold and then we would split the proceeds — and that would be the end of that.
March was coming, and we had already booked and paid for a trip to Jamaica. Tré had learned about Jamaica in school and dreamed about going for a long time. The Martins’ son Drew was flying in from Jacksonville to join us. I didn’t know how to back out of the trip without letting Tré down, and I wasn’t ready to tell the Martins about the divorce. They had been so good to Tré, treating him like one of their own, that I just didn’t think I could cancel. I told Nate I would go on the trip, but we would not sleep together. I still wanted a divorce.
On the trip, Nate was very relaxed and attentive to the boys. It was actually the best trip we ever took together. I felt as if a giant weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I didn’t want Nate out of the boys’ lives completely. He was their father. He had never been abusive to them, so this arrangement was like an experiment for me.
When we returned from Jamaica, Nate disappeared. I had no idea where he went. I didn’t hear from him again until June. It was time for us to appear in court, and the attorney told me that only one of us had to be present, so I didn’t worry about trying to find Nate. I didn’t have to worry though; he called.
“Dot, are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I mean really sure? I’m out of football now. I always promised you if you would wait until my career was over, I would be the best husband ever. You don’t need to do this. There won’t be any more football. It will be different now. Things are gonna be totally different now.”
“No,” I answered, feeling genuinely sad that things never worked out. “I’m sorry. I’m going before the judge tomorrow.”
The next morning, I went to the courthouse. I had not cried in a very long time. In fact, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d cried. I didn’t have time to cry and feel sorry for myself. But standing there before the judge, the tears flowed unchecked. When the judge asked me to state my name, no words came out of my mouth.
“Mrs. Newton,” the judge said sternly, not an ounce of sympathy in his voice. “Mrs. Newton, you do need to speak up,” he said, frowning. It sounded like Nate’s voice, stern and cross. I shook myself, snapped out of it, and went through the rest of the proceeding without another tear.
I made arrangements to have dinner that night with Ingrid. I hadn’t told anyone I was getting a divorce. I left my kids with a babysitter and pulled into Ingrid’s driveway to pick her up. She slid into the passenger seat, smiling, ready for an outing.
“Ingrid,” I said, “we’re not going anywhere, okay? I need to be by myself right now.” I paused, and Ingrid studied me, sensing something was wrong. “I’m divorced,” I finally said.
“What?” she said, and then she repeated, “You’re what?”
She was shocked. I had confided many things to Ingrid, but I hadn’t told her everything. I suppose I wasn’t sure if it was actually going to happen. Until I had actually signed the papers and knew it was for real, I hadn’t wanted to tell her.
“Divorced,” I said again, letting out a long, slow sigh. “I’m divorced, Ingrid. I need to make some calls to my family. Do you mind if we skip dinner?”
I called my mom, my biological dad, my aunt and uncle in Virginia, Lynn and K-Mart, T. Hayes, and several other people. In the days and weeks to come, I slowly began telling people what my life had been like. Shock was the common response. No one but Ingrid and T. Hayes knew anything about the abuse.
To the public, I was living the perfect life of a celebrity wife, so my divorce seemed to come out of the blue. The media reports of Nate’s trouble with women, fighting, and drinking revealed an ugly thread through our public life, but I had stayed with him through all of it. No one knew how rough things had been for me, and I guess my decision seemed sudden or even rash.
As agreed, I kept living in the house. In July, I held a birthday party for King, and Nate showed up. He was pleasant and amiable — and then he disappeared again.
One night he called and wanted to know where we were, telling me he was in town and wanted to see the kids. I wouldn’t tell him where I was, but I reassured him that I would make sure he could see the boys. We drove up to the house and saw Nate’s truck parked at the back where the guesthouse was. The boys were excited, bouncing up and down. “Daddy! Daddy!” they shouted. I drove around to the back so the boys could run and find him, and there he was — with a woman. I was furious. I got out of the car, picked up a rock, and threw it in his direction. “Get off the property,” I shouted. “Just go. Get off the property!”
Nate rushed toward me and held me. “Calm down, Dot. Calm down. Don’t worry; I’m gonna get her off the property.”
“Don’t you touch me, Nathaniel Newton. You will not hurt me again!” I pulled out my cell phone and called the police and then T. Hayes.
The officer came and was jovial with Nate. With me, he was firm and authoritative. “Mrs. Newton, I’ve been told his name is on the deed, same as yours. He
has every right to be here. You need to calm down.” I stared at him in shock. It was just as I imagined it would be if I ever found the nerve to call the police.
T. Hayes arrived, and I ran over to him. “Do you see how the officer is treating me? Look at him with Nate. He’s over there laughing and talking about football. It’s always like this when I need help!” Bad memories flooded my mind, and I fought to regain control.
Being divorced was supposed to keep this from happening again. Nate was supposed to be out of my life, unable to harass or threaten me any longer. Even my divorce was a disappointment.
PART 5
Moving On
CHAPTER 25
Working Things Out
Disappointment to a noble soul is what cold water is to burning metal; it strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys it.
Eliza Tabor
In 2001, I rented an apartment closer to Tré’s school in North Richland Hills, but it didn’t keep Nate out of our lives. It was like he was a demonic force, always oppressing me. He bothered us constantly and seemed to enjoy making me miserable. He told me he wanted to see the kids more. I had begun graduate school two nights a week and told him he could be with the boys on those two nights — which lasted for one semester before he grew tired of the responsibility.
When he decided to move to Georgia, I was glad to see him go, but he continued to call and harass me. “I can’t believe you divorced me!” he’d say. “You’re gonna pay for this, and I can’t afford no $2,000 a month child support, so you’re gonna have to figure out something else.”
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