Nothing New
Domestic abuse, patterns that don't change, problems that don't end, until somebody wakes the victim up to reality and the victim refuses to be victimized any longer. I am a survivor of more than one type of abuse. As a child I was sexually abused by my ex-stepmother and her boyfriend, as a young adult I was battered by a man who I insisted on loving even though he was a brutal ba5tard. I met Scott the summer that my father died, when I was nearly 18. He was just what I thought that I wanted and needed. A big gorgeous Viking of a man, he played guitar in a rock band, he was amazing in bed and he rode English iron (translation: he was a biker, not a Kawasaki rider, a biker, jeans, leather, beard, chains, attitude, and all). This was my idea of the perfect guy. We moved in together in late September of 1982, and proceeded to play the domestic bliss game. It was like a honeymoon. He would come home from his graveyard shift job, wake me up for some loving, and I would go off to work. When I got home, we would go out riding or to rehearsal. I auditioned for the band and won the much sought after lead singer spot. Life was great. For my 18th birthday, Scott took me to the bar we hung out in with the rest of the band and a bunch of our biker brothers and sisters. The party went on until closing time, booze flowing freely, lines of cocaine being laid out on the edge of the pool table, LSD handed out to everybody by Bandana Ana, it was a wild and raucous night, the best birthday I could ever remember having. We rode home in a light dusting of snow, went upstairs, did the wild thing, and passed out cold. Some time later, I was woken up with a terrific pain in my head. Scott had me by the hair and he was pounding my head into the wall over and over and over again. I was so totally disoriented and confused that I couldn't even scream. I just covered my face the best I could with my hands and lay there and took it. After an eternity of this (probably only five or ten minutes), Scott let go, yelled at me that I was a useless c*nt, and passed out again. I lay beside him all night, afraid to cry, afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe. Morning dawned and Scott woke up. He looked over at me and his face turned as white as a sheet. "Oh my God, Jenny, what the hell did I do to you?" And the honeymoon began anew. He swore that it would never happen again, he cried, he bathed the cuts in my face, soothed the spots where the hair had been ripped out of my scalp, and of course, he made love to me. And of course, I wanted to believe him, so I let myself be calmed. Everything was bliss until late March, when one day my co-worker and friend, Laura, said to me "Jenny, you need to know this. My friend Monty used to know Scott when he was married to his ex. Monty says that Scott used to beat the hell out of Jan." I told Laura that Monty had to be lying, that the Scott I lived with would never hurt a woman, he was tender, loving, blah blah woof. Laura just looked at me and said, "Well, okay. But just be aware, and if you ever need any help, you can call me." Scott picked me up that afternoon, and I told him what Laura had said. His ears grew red and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the handlebars. "Get on the bike." I climbed on, and home we went. As soon as we walked in the door and dropped our helmets by the coat rack, he was on top of me. Immense meaty fist pounding into my stomach, into my face. Screaming voice howling at me "WHY DID YOU TELL THAT B*TCH THAT I HIT YOU IN DECEMBER YOU HAD TO HAVE TOLD HER OR SHE WOULDN'T BE TELLING YOU THESE LIES ABOUT JAN NOW GOD DAMN YOU YOU SL*T!" and other similar things. After beating on me for about five minutes, he knocked one of my teeth out. This had an immediate effect on him, calming him, and again with the soothing, the comforting, the promises. He called work and told my manager that we had been in a bike wreck and that I wouldn't be in for a few days, and he took good care of me and treated me like a princess. "Oh Jenny I'm so sorry, I was just so angry, why did you have to go and tell her, Sweets? Why couldn't you have just kept it between us? Oh baby, I'll never do this again, I swear" And heaven help me, I started thinking that I deserved this. That maybe I had somehow hinted to Laura about my birthday night, and so I had earned this beating. Of course this was nonsense, but this is the mindset of the battered woman. We begin to believe that it is our fault. If we would only try harder, do better, be less annoying, then he wouldn't have to hit us. If we were smarter, prettier, more perfect, then he wouldn't need to hurt us. Bosh, yes. But bosh that battered women for some reason believe. As the months progressed, the beatings became more and more frequent. The next beating was a month later, then a week, then almost daily. Scott learned a new trick. He would take a wire coat hanger, stretch it into a loop, wrap it with cotton wadding, and beat me with that. It had the benefit of leaving no welts or bruises, but hurting like blazes. I would go to work and wait on tables, barely able to move without gasping from the pain, but afraid to stay home. And I never told anybody, because, after all, it was my fault. I wasn't perfect enough, any woman would do anything to have a man like Scott, I just needed to try harder. Scott's six-year-old daughter, Mary, came to visit that summer. She lived in Pennsylvania with her mother, and spent summers in Boston with Scott. Jan would call to talk to Mary every day, and slowly Jan began to feel me out. "He can be a rough guy sometimes, can't he, Jenny?" "Scott? Nah, he's sweet!" I would lie. But as time progressed, I found myself revealing more and more to Jan in these brief daily phone calls. "You need to get out of there before he kills you, Jenny." "Jan, he hasn't hit me once since Mary arrived, I think he's really changing." "Yeah, right. Just like he did after she was born - until he broke my thigh with a baseball bat because Mary's first birthday cake wasn't chocolate." And I stayed. Mary went home to her mother, and I stayed. And the beatings began again. We moved from the house we were living in to an apartment in Cambridge. Now we had neighbors on the other side of the wall. Now he would stuff a sock into my mouth before he began my now daily punishments. Then it all came to a head. One afternoon my Gramma Mary called me from Chicago while I was in the middle of folding the wash. I sat down for a gab, and as we talked, Scott came in. He began screaming at me for being lazy, why wasn't the wash folded and put away, didn't I know he hated to see a mess when he came in? He grabbed the phone and told my grandmother that I would call her back after I finished my work, and he hung up on her. Then he put his fist into my face and broke my nose. The next thing that happened shows just how crazy I was by this time. Scott had been threatening to kill my cat for a few weeks. He had told me that the next time I didn't get my housework done before he came home, he would cut the cat's throat. So I grabbed my cat and ran down the hall to my neighbor Anne, pounded on the door, and thrust Mallory into her arms. "Can you take care of him for a day, I've got major problems at the apartment." Anne took one look at my broken nose and the blood pouring down from it and told me to get into her apartment NOW. I said "I can't, I have to get back to Scott." And I ran back into hell. The beating was the worst he'd ever given me. He punched me, he ripped half my hair out, he broke my nose and my jaw, then threw me to the floor and kicked me, breaking five of my ribs and rupturing my spleen. He aimed his boot at my face and the pounding on the door started. "Open up, it's the police!" This chilled him out fast. He opened the door and the cops came in. They took one look at me and asked what had happened. I told them I had fallen. This was 1983, when there were no serious domestic violence laws. Unless the abused party made a complaint, the cops couldn't do anything. I said I had fallen, they had to accept that. But first they demanded Scott's identification and called it in. Then they arrested him for several warrants on unpaid traffic fines. As they led him away in cuffs, he looked over his shoulder at me, and said "Be here when I get home." The cops said, "Lady, get the hell out of here, go anywhere, but get out. We can only keep him 24 hours maximum on traffic warrants. He could be out in as little as two hours. Get out of here." I didn't know what to do. The cops had come, taken Scott, but I could barely move. I was bleeding and I was broken in both body and spirit. They hadn't thought to get me an ambulance, they hadn't asked if I needed one. Anne came to my open door and said, "I'm sorry, I had to call them," and I cursed her for "butting in". Anne then called an ambulance, packed me a bag, and came to the hospital with me. I guess it was Anne who got my belongings out of the apartment. I guess she found my sister's phone number in my address book and called her. I guess she brought my cat and my stuff to Gwyn's apartment in the Back Bay and told her what had happened. My sister showed up at the hospital and told me that I was staying with her now, and that my stuff and my kitty were safe there. I never saw Anne again, but this neighbor with whom I had shared two cups of coffee and one interesting afternoon is probably the best friend that I ever had. In with my belongings, I found a note from her. I read it so many times that I memorized it. "Dear Jenny, I want you to know that I was not trying to ruin your life. My ex husband used to beat me too, and I thought it was me. Jenny, it wasn't me and it wasn't you. It is them. They're sick and they pass their sickness on to us. There's no reason why an intelligent and attractive young woman like yourself has to put up with that. Decide not to be a victim any more. Be a human being and if somebody tries to beat you again you stand up and refuse to take it. Fight back. If you don't fight back, you will someday die at the hands of another sick man, maybe Scott himself. You deserve better than that. I wish you a long and peaceful life, Anne" When I read that, something inside of me shifted. I became angry. I became enraged. I remembered all of the times during the many honeymoon periods when Scott told me about how he used to watch his father beating his mother into a pulp and how he didn't want to be like that so he was going to get help. I remembered how he never went for help. I realized that he was repeating the abuse he had seen, that he actually for some sick and twisted reason considered it to be a normal thing for a man to do to the woman he "loves". I realized that I didn't want love like that. Not ever again. A few months after I left Scott, I met Koji. And when our marriage came to an end, I met Isaac. Both good men. Both warm and caring men. Neither one named Scott. I'd like to end this with the lyrics to a song written by my friend, Anna Rundall. Anna is also a survivor of domestic abuse, and her song "Nothing New" really says it all. I've been growing old somehow Same old flame is colder now Weaker bond that ties no more Here to stay, but not so sure Rings are round without an end This is nothing new my friend And there is nothing new, nothing new There is nothing new Seek ye first and you will find God forgives and love is blind Bruises heal and hearts do too Baby, ain't he good to you? Sticks and stones will break my bones I'd rather die than be alone And there is nothing new, nothing new There is nothing new Stories change like people do Sometimes even dreams come true Fairytales and nightmares too Baby, ain't he good to you? And there is nothing new, nothing new There is nothing new Promises like flowers fade Hate to love and love to hate Back and forth from grief to great Is this love or just too late? Sticks and stones may break my bones I'd rather die than be alone And there is nothing new, nothing new He ain't good to you Nothing new... (Lyrics to Nothing New by Anna Rundall, used with permission. Please do not re-post to any forum without Anna's consent.)
Copyright © 2000 Jenn Thomas-Orr |