When I was sixteen, I couldn't wait until I was an adult and on my own. My father was more than strict; the word totalitarian comes to mind. Having an opinion was not highly favored, especially if it came in the package of a strong-willed teenage girl, and usually resulted in a smack across the face or a belt across the back. This did nothing to foster my compliance; it simply taught me to lie without getting caught and feign respect when necessary. It gave me a problem with authority. It also ingrained in me that I would never be good enough, creating a perfectionist attitude that I have struggled to reshape.
Don't get me wrong, I was not a trouble maker. In fact, I was too busy to get into trouble: Varisty cheerleader, Youth Group President, lead of the high school play, taking 7 music classes along with all of my advanced (french, english, math) courses, first chair flute, part time job, vocalist and flautist for our high school jazz band. I remember the first time that I sang with the band. I had to sing Chuck Mangione's "Land of Make Believe" and the song has about a billion words. I was nervous that I would forget something. I had had solos before, but I had never been the center of attention in front of a band for twelve and 1/2 minutes. My friends sat in the front row, cheering me on as I stepped out from behind my music stand, placed my flute down and picked up the mic. I can recall the memory of two of my friends catcalling, as I stared down at them from above, as if it had happened yesterday. I smiled at them, fueled by their reassurance. I didn't forget one word. On the way home from the concert, my father chided me for smiling at my friends, telling me that it wasn't "professional".
My adulthood kind-of crashed into me at 18, when I left home three days after graduation after being given an ultimatum to break up with my boyfriend or get out. I had to be out by noon. Yes, there was even a set time. We lived five miles away from anything, off of a busy highway. I had to work at 3:00. I still had my high school job as a cashier in a pharmacy and, though I was being kicked out of my home, I was still a responsible employee. I asked if I could stay until 2:00, when my friend E got out of work and could pick me up. The answer was no. I began walking towards my job and, 2 miles in, was offered a ride. I actually took it. Fortunately, I arrived alive. The next time that I accepted a ride, I was almost not so lucky. I had to jump out of the car at a red light as the man's hand was sliding up my thigh. I never accepted a ride again.
The two and 1/2 years following my graduation are some of the worst hell that I have ever endured. If there was ever evil personified on this earth, it was J. He was the antithesis of everything that I was. He was an athiest. He was a rebellion. He was cocky. Devious. Anarchy. And I was fascinated. I moved in with he and his family and instantly became a housecleaner, laundress, babysitter and breadwinner. I never said a word because, after all, I was living with a family that was not mine. All of my money went to their household. J was abusive in every way possible. I felt like I had nowhere else to go (where does one go when your own family turns you out?), so I became submissive out of fear. I cannot explain how helpless you feel when you are in an abusive situation. You are told that it is your fault. You are told that you can't do better. You are told what you can and cannot do. You are told that you are worthless. And, you begin to believe it.
J stole his mother's car one too many times and she kicked him out. I went with him and we landed in a small, 500 square foot apartment. John decided that he was going to go back to school. Not college, high school. He had never graduated; he had gotten expelled. He managed to get himself into the "last chance" school in the city, Fowler High School. He got himself on public assistance and I continued to work. I was a nurse's aide at a local nursing home on a skilled care unit. Because I was the low man on the totem pole, I worked the 11 am to 7 pm shift. We had no car, so I took the bus. I had to catch the bus by 9:30 am in order to get to work in time and I wouldn't arrive back home until almost 9:00 at night. Again, all of my money went into the household. And, J lived the life of parent-less high school kid.
One New Years Eve night, it got really bad. He said things not worth repeating. He hit me and told me how worthless I was. I took a chance and called my parents. I hadn't spoken to them in a year and 1/2. My parents still like to remind me how they came all the way out to get me (30 minutes) with my sick brother (who was 16, not a child) and that I wouldn't get in the car. What they have never done is bothered to ask why. I stood on that sidewalk, crying my eyes out as my parents yelled at me to get in the car "now or never." J yelled from behind me that, if I left, he was going to burn everything I owned. I barely had anything to begin with. But, what I did have was in that piece of shit apartment. The notes that I cherished from my former life. My clothes. My jewelry. My parents kept telling me that we would come back for it another night. I just wanted someone to save me. Instead, they drove off and left me sobbing on the sidewalk. I was 19.
I went back into that apartment, defeated. J acted as if nothing had ever happened and tried to console me. I went numb. For days, I went through the motions. I began to accept that this was just the way it was. I tried to find something to look towards and discovered that the local theatre was doing a casting call for a musical. I had done the show in my sophomore year of high school and begged J for a chance to be in the show. He agreed, but went to every rehearsal to keep me on a leash. I made a friend. She took me aside one night and asked me if everything was okay. Typical abuse victim, I lied. She told me that, if I ever needed a place to go, she was willing to help me. Not long afterwards, I found out that J had not only slept with 20 different women while I was with him (and proudly named them all) but that he had molested his sisters. I confronted him and he hit me over the head with a beer bottle and took off. I called my new friend. While he was gone, I managed to pack up what little I owned and she met me downtown. He actually tracked me down at work and I ended up filing a restraining order against him. I never heard from him again. Ironically, the day that I left the state (two years later), I saw him walking down the street. That image still haunts me.
