by Stacey Dash
“I’ve changed,” he purred into my ear after we—yes—made love. And I believed him. It was like he cast a spell over me, one of security and, believe it or not, even affection. Suddenly, Axel and I were a couple again. He took me out on dates and wooed me. I felt like he was trying to show me that he was a changed man, that things would be different. After all, it had been a year. Surely he had grown up a bit. Eventually we rented a cute house in Los Angeles. As soon as I unpacked my bags, I took a step back and looked at that adorable house. Finally, I thought. I’ve got it. A man, a home, and enough money to stop worrying about the landlord. That feeling of domestic tranquility lasted two weeks.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked one morning after he hadn’t come home the night before.
Immediately, he started hitting me, and the cycle began, once again.
After he beat me, I realized I’d made a grave mistake. I went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, holding my ribs. I felt like he’d broken one, but maybe it was just bruised. Worse than the physical pain was the growing sense of dread. What had I done?
Correction: I didn’t feel like I’d made a mistake; I felt like I was a mistake . . . that something fundamental about me as a person had shifted. I’d gone back to my abuser. I had no job. I had no options.
I sunk myself deeper into drugs. Pot, pills, coke.
I no longer recognized myself in the mirror. I had fleeting thoughts about throwing myself in front of a train, and wondered what would happen if I went off a bridge. Would I die on impact with the water, or drown?
Finally, one day, I left. I just walked out of the house, got in a cab, and said, “I’ve got twenty dollars. Take me as far as you can go away from here.”
I knew I needed to go, but I wasn’t sure where I’d end up. I certainly didn’t think I’d end up where I am now—with television appearances, a blog, and over half a million followers on Twitter, where I’m able to share my thoughts on the news of the day. Thankfully, as hard as my personal life has been in the past, it has given me a unique perspective on current events and political issues.
For example, the Ray Rice scandal broke right before the 2014 midterms. As you remember, a video published on TMZ showed the former Ravens running back dragging his fiancée out of an elevator at an Atlantic City casino. People originally speculated that she’d perhaps had too much to drink, but later TMZ published another video showing that Rice’s fiancée—now his wife—was not drunk. He had punched her so hard in the elevator that it knocked her out.
Because this was the campaign season, the scandal got political really quick. Democrats doubled down on their “war on women” shtick, insinuating that Republicans condone sexual assault, glass ceilings, and the unfair treatment of women at work. National Republican Senatorial Committee spokeswoman Brook Hougesen responded by saying, “Democrats across the country—mostly men, by the way—have sunk to new lows, exploiting deeply personal issues and crimes, ranging from birth control to sexual assault, domestic violence to discrimination in the workforce for their own political gain.”
As a survivor of intimate partner abuse, this infuriates me. You know what else makes me mad? Many of the statistics frequently trotted out by liberals about domestic partner abuse are simply wrong. Have you ever heard that one in five college women will be sexually assaulted? The new mantra of the Left is that “the most dangerous place to be in America for women is a college campus.” Newspaper reporters, elected politicians, and even President Obama frequently cite this “fact.” Thankfully, it’s a hoax.
Two prominent criminologists (Northeastern University’s James Alan Fox and Mount Holyoke College’s Richard Moran) set the numbers straight: “The estimated 19% sexual assault rate among college women is based on a survey at two large four-year universities, which might not accurately reflect our nation’s colleges overall. In addition, the survey had a large non-response rate, with the clear possibility that those who had been victimized were more apt to have completed the questionnaire, resulting in an inflated prevalence figure.”2
Plus, liberals have changed the definition of “sexual assault.” The “1 in 5” hoax is based on such a loose definition that it sometimes even encompasses simply sexual experiences that are later regretted. (Who hasn’t regretted a sexual experience?) Fox and Moran say respondents were classified as sexual assault victims if they’d experienced “forced kissing” or had intimate encounters while drunk.
Have you heard that 22 to 35 percent of women who visit emergency rooms are being treated for domestic violence? That’s also a hoax. This statistic is one that appears everywhere, including leading textbooks on family violence and law. One book uses this bogus figure to say that on domestic violence the United States is comparable to places like Uganda and Haiti.3 So where did this number originate? Apparently the Justice Department and the Centers for Disease Control have done studies, but they weren’t of all women who visit emergency rooms. (By the way, that number is about 40 million annually.) They were referring only to the women who come to the ER “for violence-related injuries.” According to Christina Hoff Sommers, this number is around 550,000. Of this much smaller number, about 37 percent were attacked by intimate partners.4
That 203,500 women is 203,500 too many, because no woman deserves to be hit or abused. But can we just be honest about the facts? Approximately one half of 1 percent of all women who go to the ER are being treated for domestic abuse.
One more myth liberals are fond of citing relates to domestic abuse and football. Activists trotted out this claim two decades ago based on research from Old Dominion University: more women get abused on Super Bowl Sunday than any other day.
This was repeated on college campuses, printed in newspapers and academic journals, and discussed around the water coolers of America for years. A couple of autumns ago, Morning Joe host Mika Brzezinski said, “You look at Super Bowl Sunday. Super Bowl Sunday has the highest rate of domestic violence. There’s something about the game! This is a violent game. And domestic violence on Super Bowl Sunday. We’ve seen the numbers. Why is that?”
What Brzezinski failed to note was that a Washington Post reporter had already dug more deeply into the actual claim and realized—oops!—this too is a lie. Even the Old Dominion researchers cited as evidence of the claim agreed their research was misquoted and misused.5
So let’s get this straight. Intimate partner abuse is evil and its victims should be treated with respect and care. But it does no one any good to lie about it, to make it seem more prevalent than it is, or to try to lay blame at the feet of one political party.
The problem is too serious to play statistical games with. As a woman who has been through the hell of abuse, I implore America to stop making this a partisan issue.
Let’s work together to find real solutions. The real “war on women” is the abuse itself—and the blame, political posturing, and finger pointing that politicians do in order to score points at the polls isn’t helping. It’s got to stop.
NINE
LIFE AND DEATH
We are never defeated unless we give up on God.
—Ronald Reagan
I paid the driver my $20, got out of the cab, and looked around. I couldn’t believe I’d finally gotten the courage to ditch Axel, but it felt good. It felt liberating. It felt scary.
“You look lost,” a tall man said to me. He was trailed by a couple of guys who looked amused by me standing there with one suitcase and a confused look on my face.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said.
“What can I do to help?”
I didn’t answer. Why should I talk to this man on the street? I mean, other than the fact that he was sexy as hell?
“It looks like you might need some coffee,” he suggested.
That, I could do. His friends left us and we went to a nearby café. Timothy was a New Yorker—in fact, it turned out he came from the same part of the city as I did and we knew some of the same people. But even more inte
resting? He was a singer. I’d heard some of his songs on the radio.
We chatted for hours, and then—finally—it was time to go.
“Can I drop you off somewhere?” he asked, laying down some cash on the table. I was relieved when I saw him pay for our food, because I didn’t want to admit I had no money to my name. When he saw the blank look on my face, he smiled.
“Wanna come back to my place?”
I did.
This began a love affair that would change my life forever . . . but not because it lasted.
I moved in with him and tried to forget about Axel. I loved Timothy’s music, and it was fun seeing his career take off. He was half Sicilian and half black—he walked around like he was the toughest guy in town. At least it felt that way to me. My newfound luck in love, however, didn’t solve everything
“I heard Axel’s been asking for you,” my friend said to me. “Looking for you,” she added, emphasizing the word looking.
My heart dropped.
“He’s pissed that you disappeared.”
“Tell him to go get a punching bag,” I said. “It’ll be like I never left.”
But underneath my bravado, my blood chilled. I delved more deeply into my drug use to dull the fear.
One day I lay on the couch, trying not to vomit. The drugs, depression, and fear had created a horrible nausea.
But then I began calculating. When was my last period? A lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t even remember. Definitely more than one month. Could it have been three? Four? I didn’t quite keep track.
Don’t jump to conclusions, I thought. I got myself off the couch and went straight to my gynecologist, a kind man who really seemed to care about me.
“You are, indeed, pregnant,” the doctor said. “Four months, to be precise.”
I looked at him, stone-faced.
“I’m pregnant,” I said to Timothy that evening. I was bracing myself for his disappointment. To my surprise, he immediately broke into tears, leaned over, and kissed me.
“This is great!” he said, squeezing me. “We’re having a baby!”
“You can cancel the celebration,” I said.
“Why?” he asked, his eyes wide in disbelief. “We can handle a kid.” Plus, he already had a baby from a previous relationship. His son was a little toddler already, and I could tell he adored him.
“Not like this.”
“You can’t have an abortion,” he begged.
If I had this baby, I’d be tied to Timothy in a way that could never be broken. As much as I longed for a family and a “normal life,” I’d never actually seen a normal relationship and just assumed this one wouldn’t last. Especially since he was a musician who was always on the road. One thing’s for sure: I couldn’t easily leave while toting a diaper bag.
“Please,” he begged.
“It’s not up to you,” I said.
He wasn’t angry with me and seemed to handle me with even more care. Would a baby actually be a good thing? And so I decided to wait and think, but the next few weeks didn’t instill much confidence. Timothy stopped coming home at the right time and started staying out all night. I lay in bed for a couple of weeks and wondered what I was going to do. After turning it over and over in my head, I realized that I only had one option.
Timothy was sitting in the waiting room, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
“Please, please, please don’t do this,” he sobbed. Tears were falling down his face.
“I’m gonna get this abortion,” I said. A mother is supposed to protect her children. So, in a way, this abortion would be my first maternal act. I was protecting my child from an unstable relationship and a drug-using parent (me). I was surprised that Timothy had volunteered to drive me to the clinic, but I realize that he figured he’d use the drive as one last and final opportunity to try to change my mind.
The problem he had was that I was onto his game. He was still cheating on me, with probably several women. No matter how much he begged and pleaded with me during the entire drive, I knew I was alone and I’d always be alone.
“Stacey?” the nurse called my name, and Timothy let out a heave. He grabbed my hand, “Please! I’m begging you.”
He was standing next to a wall. When I turned to leave, he slid down to the floor and put his head in his hands and cried like a baby. Then I walked in to get the procedure, facing it all alone. I changed into the little white gown, and a tear fell down my face. Then I began crying. Really crying. When I lay down on the abortion table, the nurse put an IV in my arm and left the room. Probably she wanted to get away from what had become heaving sobs. Because I was already in my second trimester, they would have to put me under to take the baby.
I felt misery to the core of my being. I was sobbing so loudly that I figured the nurses would come in to see what was wrong, to see if the IV had shifted to cause me such pain. But the pain was in my heart, in my soul. That searing pain caused me to do something I’d never done before in my life. I called out to God.
Please, God. You’ve got to tell me what to do. I don’t want a sign, I don’t want a feeling, I need you to tell me.
And He did.
“Keep your son.”
I heard His voice just as clearly as I’d heard it when I was a toddler with my finger stuck in the television. I recognized the warmth, the tenor, the sobriety of it.
My son? It was a boy?
I reached over and ripped the IV out of my arm, causing blood to spurt everywhere.
“Calm down!” a nurse instructed. “Wait a minute.”
“No! No!” I screamed. The fact that I didn’t know how much time I had to make my wishes known seized me with horror. What if I suddenly realized I wanted to keep my baby—my son—only to wake up and find out that they’d already taken him? “I’m keeping my baby! Stop! Stop! Stop!”
The nurses ran over to me to put pressure on my arm and clean up the site.
“Okay, calm down,” my doctor said. “Let’s just take a look and see if everything’s okay and then we’ll decide.”
When he did a sonogram, I heard a faint little heartbeat, and that was it. I was overcome with love for this tiny being. And, yes, it was a boy. Many times, Democratic politicians preach the gospel of abortion as if it’s one of the sacred rituals of their party. But the fact that abortion gives a permanent solution to what’s really a “temporary problem” (though I don’t even think you can accurately call a baby a “problem”) is one of the biggest travesties of their party. They claim with a straight face that Republicans wage a “war on women,” but they are the ones with policies that literally rip females from limb to limb in the womb . . . the one place that should be the most protective place on earth. I am so glad that I didn’t exercise my so-called “right” to kill the baby inside of me. It would’ve been the biggest mistake of my life, and I’m not sure how I would’ve emotionally recovered.
That’s one thing liberals don’t want to talk about. Abortion causes severe regret in many women, regret that’s not easily shaken.
Also, I realize how awful this must’ve been for Timothy. Many times liberals say that men shouldn’t have an opinion on abortion—it’s the woman’s body, after all. But that’s exactly wrong. I didn’t make a baby by myself. It takes two, and one of them has to be a man. The fact that I was so callous toward Timothy’s feelings about his baby shames me. Abortion is not a “women’s issue.” It’s a human rights issue that affects both sexes. After all, probably about half of the babies killed in abortions in America are boys. Doesn’t that give men the right to speak on the issue?
Just because a man can’t give birth to a baby doesn’t mean he can’t powerfully defend a baby. And that’s what Timothy did that day. The fact that he was so upset about the abortion really affected me. I would keep the baby.
It didn’t mean it was going to be easy.
How am I going to take care of him? My mind reeled. How am I going to change my life to make it worthy of
a child?
I went out to Timothy, who was still in the waiting room, his face splotchy with frustration and grief.
“I didn’t do it.”
His eyes grew large and he stood to his feet and grabbed me. This time, he embraced me with such relief I felt he might never let me go. I stood there with his big arms around me and allowed myself to feel his comfort. From that day forward during my pregnancy, I never touched another drug or sipped another drink.
Finally.
A reason to live.
“Hello?” I fumbled for the phone. It was dark, and I had no idea who could be calling at that hour. I cleared my throat and tried to push the sleep out of my voice.
“I hope you lose your baby,” a woman said, then giggles in the background. Timothy was on tour, and his fans somehow got our number and called. Were they jealous that he was connected to me? Were they more than just fans? How would they know our personal number? But when he came home, he dismissed the late-night calls, looked at me with those big eyes, and said, “I’ll always be there for you, baby.” He talked like he was in one of his romantic songs, which—by the way—had become hits.
“Maybe you should come on tour with me,” he said. “It might make you feel better, and I don’t want to be separated when you’re so close to your due date.” I thought it was a brilliant idea. Not only would it show all of the hangers-on that this man had a real life and real family, it would let me spend time with Timothy while he was working. I loved how his career was taking off, and it would be invigorating to see it firsthand.
When I was eight months pregnant, he was invited to perform on a nationally prominent late night show.
“Are you going to help me figure out what to wear?” he asked, smiling. We went shopping together and pulled together a good look for Timothy—a gold hoop earring in one ear, jeans, a black tee shirt, a white leather jacket with red sleeves and an upturned collar. This was the early nineties, after all. Even though he was touring, he wanted to take advantage of the television opportunity, so he caught a flight to Los Angeles. I stayed in New York and waited for him to come back the next day. It was weird being in a hotel in what used to be my hometown. I whiled away the day wondering about the baby in my body, daydreaming about Timothy’s success, and wondering what next amazing job my agent might bring me. Things were suddenly taking off for us. When it came time for the show, I opened a KitKat from the minibar and turned on the television set.