There was nothing to cushion the blow when I slammed into a bank of hand-crafted wooden cabinets in his kitchen. Wrapped in bandages, attached to a pump which incrementally dripped medication to alleviate the pain caused by my surgery, the man I was involved with for more than two years grabbed me and threw me across the room. His grip was as fierce as an adolescent dog which refuses to release a child’s stuffed toy from its saliva dripping mouth.

Dudes-Rafael Espitia

Masked Man

It was two o’clock in the morning. Unable to drive, and too embarrassed to call anyone I slowly and silently crawled into the bedroom, locked the door, and waited for daylight before calling a friend to come get me. The woman I called was the same person that introduced us. Believing wholeheartedly that  our common interests and similar tastes would suppress his temper, she hoped I would bring out the best in him. Nothing could or would do that. Nothing could squelch his rage. He had done this before to another woman. Nothing could make him happy, least of all me.

Safe Inside

I wasn’t able to care for myself.  After a day or two on my friends couch her live-in boyfriend demanded his privacy. He and the man whose house I fled were good friends. She drove me home and stayed with me, and made sure I was comfortable. She insisted I call if I needed anything, anytime. I slept on my own couch for days.

Hold On

It was dark in my living room, with only a blue-white light from the television casting a faint glow, and only voices from the TV to puncture the silence. The women that loved me came to care for me daily. They brought me food. Peeled oranges for me and made sure I ate every day. They washed my hair, and my body. They sat and listened to my silence. They cried when I cried. They drove me to my surgeon’s office to check the progress of my healing, and they took me to physical therapy. But I was alone at night, and I was alone in my broken heart. His anger, and subsequent violence leached the comfort from my soul. I was drowning in shame and despair.

Not A Moving Target

Women just like me, and women that I had nothing in common with became the people who inspired me to change my life. The location of the support group was kept secret, and we only used our first names. For the first three or four meetings I wore a hat pulled down to cover my face, and never looked up or spoke. A sweater draped over my cast, and I wore large dark sunglasses inside at night.

The Index

Seated around six laminated wood tables that formed a large rectangle twenty or so women took turns speaking. When it was my turn I could only cry. Other women did the same. Eventually thinking, and re-thinking about my broken down life was exhausting. I wasn’t strong enough to work, but I could drive with one hand, and I could listen. I became a student at a local college, taking all the courses not  offered to me during my art school education.

Mean It

In each of my classes the other students asked me if I was the teacher. Old enough to be the mother of every student, I was even sometimes old enough to be the parent of some of my professors. My injury prevented me from writing. As a disabled student I was given a note taker for every class.

Biology, English, Math, and Speech. If I was awake I was studying. Math required going to the math lab to be tutored, and biology would have seemed completely incomprehensible if not for my study partners. I rehearsed my speeches countless times before standing at the front of the class to orate. I killed it in English. My professor asked me to become a tutor. I won a scholarship for writing, and my advisor encouraged me to transfer to UCLA or USC.

Finish Line

There were no tests in art school. But I had been a good student in high school, and I remembered how to study. I absorb facts through through the act of physically writing. As I got stronger I was able to write what I needed to know, what needed to be regurgitated to pass a test. First I read, next I write everything on index cards – longhand. I underline. I memorize. I highlight. Different colors indicate different categories and subcategories. I excelled. I achieved a  4.0 GPA. I know how to take a test. And damn the ladies around the secret table were so proud of me.

Don’t Hang On Me

Several months ago I got a call from a man I had met only briefly at an event. Shortly thereafter he called to ask if I would be interested in being part of a project he was developing. “Send me an email with the details.” I never received that email, but there were more calls. His hello became more familiar. I became suspicious of his invitation.

Toe to Tail

Recently my phone began to ring. Repeatedly. Continually, almost constantly for days. Each time the conversation was aborted. Sometimes his voice was barely audible, and I asked him to speak louder, but then a click and silence. Multiple calls would begin again the next day, and continue into the night, with only minutes separating what became an unwanted intrusion.

Stand Up

I stopped answering the calls. He left a message telling me that it had been a test. He was testing me, in his estimation I had passed. He would now let me in. I would have the privilege of being included in his world.

Just Like Helen Reddy…I Am Woman

I played his message twice. Disbelief. Utter disbelief. Sadness that a man like this was attracted to me. A man only thinking of himself. A man who wanted control. Not anymore. Not ever again. We ran into each other recently. I made it emphatically clear to him in the instant that he lightheartedly greeted me –  “DON’T TEST ME.” I’m sure he’ll never call me again. I’m free.

My Favorite

Women In Distress | Broward County, providing victims of domestic …

http://www,womenindistress.org/

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