An Anchor In The Storm

Most assume only a woman is victimized by an abuser. Perhaps a more astute reader would assume the children are abused by virtue of their mother being abused. This post is from the unique perspective of intimate partner homicide survivor’s mother, who thought she might lose both her daughter and her husband when they were attacked by Kate’s ex husband in the presence of their 4 year old son.

Kate writes “She was not present at my apartment the night my estranged husband appeared and shot my father (her husband) and me (her daughter) in front of my son (her grandson). But she has been the rock for our entire family. She received the call no mother and wife should ever receive: her husband yelling into the phone that her ex-son-in-law had done what we’d long feared. Here are her words. I love you, Mom. You’re the strongest woman I know.”

“I am Kate’s mother, Susan, and want to address how domestic violence affects the whole family beyond its victim(s). We, her parents, had a favorable first impression of TM, who became her abuser. He is tall, handsome, blonde and blue-eyed, an officer in the Air Force who turned out to be no gentleman after all. His demeanor is even charismatic. His manners are nice and he speaks well. His townhouse was beautiful. They seemed much in love with each other, so much that they began to live together in his townhouse several months after having met.

They married eight months later with a new baby on the way. Although rushed, things seemed fine initially. But questions evolved. His behavior seemed quirky at first but then became ever more controlling. There were constant texts that interfered with events, notoriously when my 90 year old father passed away. Astonishingly, there were almost 200 of them in one day. How we struggled to deal with this bewildering behavior at a heart-wrenching time! Conversations would routinely be interrupted to our increasing annoyance. Katie could do nothing in the kitchen or do any other household chores. It became increasingly evident that he felt only he could do it right. He’d always find a flaw so that he could maintain control.Even when we’d visit he never even allowed me to boil water!

Her social life became restricted, again we now know to gain more control and work toward isolation, making her ever more dependent on him. Such demands made us a bit uneasy. But her paycheck was most appreciated! He had no real interest in the children, H and W, always putting their books and toys well out of their reach. Again, we felt uneasy but were reluctant to upset the apple cart by asking questions. But we began to notice something seriously wrong when they moved to Florida and joined us.

TM had retired from the Air Force then, and was seriously agitated upon arrival. He paid lip service to finding a job but would disappear for hours without a sensible reason. He would create an upsetting situation to every family event and celebration causing untold drama, jangled nerves, tears, and unanswered questions. Even a trip to the pumpkin patch was not exempt much to our utter exasperation. We did not know what to do anymore. We had never encountered someone like this! Katie has described in previous accountings the steps leading up to a divorce, which were horrific and took two years and tens of thousands of dollars to accomplish.

The culmination was the night of the shooting on November 2012 at her brand new apartment. Never in our wildest dreams did we ever think that anything of this magnitude could happen to us. In our case, three generations of my family were victimized that night: my husband and my daughter were both shot and my grandson William, age 4 at the time, was uninjured but witnessed it all. Imagine my hysteria when my husband managed to get a call to me on his cell phone!

Katie was helicoptered out and my husband taken by ambulance to a trauma hospital. On my way to the hospital with my son Matt, we did not know if they would live or not. We found out in transit that William was safe in police custody. Sheer relief with that news! My son’s wife then drove to the police station to get William, take him to their house, and embrace him with love and safety. The hospital staff was magnificent, calm and professional. The police had TM in custody at the police station, alleviating the real fear that he could still be on the loose! Matt and I put our hysteria aside when we were allowed in to see them, so grievously wounded and in great shock. Our hearts and minds were heavy trying to come to grips with the unimaginable!

They both underwent major surgery early the next morning. Their doctors performed miracles putting them back together again! And there is much to be applauded in their efforts to recover after surgery with great pain and much occupational therapy. William, uninjured, received child counseling the entire first weekend provided by the state of Florida. Katie and William still receive counseling regularly.

Our attitude is to prevail, not allowing TM to take away from us any more than he already has! I became the secondary victim, not at the scene and not injured, but the three of them would depend on me for their survival. Such shattering and so many pieces to pick up! Not only did I have their physical recovery at stake, but also their mental and emotional stability. I became the rock for them, their fountain of love and deep concern.

I did everything possible to keep William’s routine the same and keep him on an even keel so he would know how much we love him and so he would feel safe. His preschool deserves great credit for lovingly guiding him through this ordeal too. Katie and William lived with us for a good year until she could maintain some sense of independence on her own, especially with limited use of her right hand. My husband’s left arm and hand has extensive nerve damage and will never be the same. So, yes, domestic violence affects entire families, not just individual victims.

My three loved ones are well on the road to recovery now, though this trauma will never leave us. We did not know words like sociopath, hollow point bullets, and restraining order. TM’s volatile behavior left us bewildered. For future reference, note that these behaviors are red flags to be taken seriously and can lead to untold trauma. Talk to your family members about these behaviors and warning signs. Offer an exit plan and safe haven. Emotional, psychological and financial abuse are just as dangerous as the obvious physical abuse. We need to band together as families and organizations to make the USA a safer place to live. We love you, Katie, and your boys always and forever!”

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Cupid’s Hidden Arrow

The lure of a romantic weekend, a second honeymoon, a trip to make things right again, ending with ‘falling’ off a cruise ship, ‘slipping’ off a mountain, a ‘missed stepping’ into the grand canyon. How creepy it is to be the ‘almost’.

The weekend he had planned for us to go away, insisting it was what we needed to get back on track, to rekindle our relationship, was not as it seemed at the time. I’d agreed to go on the condition he made arrangements for the children and the pets to be taken care of, but somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach I felt an uneasiness. I felt like he was luring me back in, and to go was to concede, to go backwards, and that I would then never escape. After all the work I had done to get on steady emotional ground after years of relentless emotional and verbal battering, it seemed too risky.

It is chilling that my life was saved only by the divine intervention of my sister pointing out I was in the ‘honeymoon’ cycle of abuse; a period when there is a lull before the next act of violence. When she made me aware of the pattern, I called my therapist who helped me find the strength and conviction at the last minute not to go away. I realized that by then, the cycle had spun out with such force it was beyond retrievable. The only way to stop it was to stay my course of leaving the marriage.

The hotel reservation he made for that weekend was never cancelled. The charges appeared as the only outstanding balance on his final unpaid credit card statement. Was he taking me to Washington DC or Baltimore? A romantic inn on the Eastern Shore? The beach, the mountains? No.

The hotel he’d booked was a $69 budget hotel in Richmond, twenty minutes from where we live. It was nothing like the deluxe hotels we’d stayed in over the years, not even an Omni or Hyatt, not a romantic setting, not his style at all. I suspect he knew whatever the room was like wouldn’t be important. Knowing now what I do about intimate partner murder, a shiver still runs down my spine. The decision to kill me had been made and all evidence points to that weekend.

Earlier that summer I walked in on him one night in a dark room putting bullets in the gun. I immediately assumed he was suicidal since it was after I’d told him I wanted to end our marriage. After the incident I demanded he get rid of all his shotguns and handguns. The words of my best friend, just days before the shooting, hang heavy as I recall she asked “Have you searched the entire house to be sure he has removed all the guns?” Still quite naïve and believing him to be someone with whom I could reason, I responded “No, but I trust him”.

The police report noted his Dopp kit was found unzipped and opened the day of the shooting. He apparently retrieved the gun from amidst his travel toiletries where he’d stored it for travel the day we were to ‘go away’.

My fellow travelers on this path from abuse, beware the lure, beware the suddenly changed dynamic, pay attention to the quiet, question the calm. Because evil is not transformed, it is simply paused for recalibration before it is finally perpetuated.

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The Mastery of Dissonance

I dreamed of him again last night. I awoke as I was packing the children’s and my things in a panic, desperate to get out the short time he was gone because in the dream I knew what lay ahead for us.

It began with seeing him in the middle of a large grassy park, boxed in by buildings. He wore his navy blue wool sweater, the collar of his white oxford cotton shirt slightly above the sweater’s neckline, his perfectly pressed khakis and brown Weejun loafers. We came towards one another and I felt enormous love for him before remembering why I was there.

I told him I loved him, but I couldn’t do it anymore. In my heart knowing that I had to stay strong and leave him, there was no other choice. He drew me in close and held me. The feel of his body, how we fit together, elicited deep familiar feelings of loving him.

He put his cheek against mine as he whispered into my ear, so no one could hear him, “I won’t let you leave.” then tightened his hold until it became painful. I knew exactly what his words meant. His friend appeared and I pushed away to break the embrace. As they went off together he stopped and turned, saying “I’ll be back, don’t worry.” I hurried into the house and frantically began throwing things into suitcases, telling the children to get their stuffed animals and blankets, fearing we’d run out of time before he came back.

Drowsily awakening to the silence of the early morning I tell myself over and over it was just a bad dream. It is not the panic or fear in the dream, it is the tender love I felt for him in that brief second that is soul crushing. He destroyed us. It isn’t just a bad dream.

I suspect the dream is a result of a doctor visit yesterday for a tendon injury that is resistant to therapy. Once again, I had to disclose the inadvisability of a recommended MRI. He asked how I came to have a bullet in my liver and I explained.

By now I should be accustomed to the one on one inquiry, but I am not. He was very empathetic, saying when I first told it he hoped it had been an accident then went on to note he was certain that my husband had a nervous breakdown, which I corrected.

Still trying to make it tidy, or logical in some way, he asked was my husband in prison. I told him of the suicide to which he immediately responded “Oh, he had a psychotic break then. I am so sorry it must have been terrible for you.”

I explained the calmness with which it was all carried out, the thwarted earlier attempts, and that likely the failure to actually kill me led to his awareness he had no other choice given his need to be seen as a good guy. Though the doctor seems terribly insensitive as I write it, I understood that he needed to understand it. Some people process silently to themselves; many grasp details to have it make sense aloud, as though I will affirm their hypothesis so they can store it in the corresponding file in their brain.

The dreams still come. I can’t stop these mournful tears that remind me of such extraordinary loss, so I just sit with them until it’s over. I am keenly aware this numbered day is a gift I do not have the luxury of squandering and wait it out so as to get on with living.

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Finding Jenn’s Voice: Ave Maria

As Tracy Schott-Wagner prepares to enter the final cut of the documentary in film festivals, she is adding an epilogue, the rest of our story. Each of us has chosen a path to reach back in to help others find their way out. Some of our paths have taken us to political and public activism, others reach back in more quiet ways, one person at a time. All of us, transformed by our experiences for better or for worse and bonded by a sisterhood of surviving, share our stories in the hopes we will change the outcomes for others.

For those who do not fully understand, this blog seeks to help you see beyond; offering a glimpse into the lives affected by intimate violence. It is this. Invisible, destructive, yet powerful. This.

I never took him seriously. I thought he was harmless. He was much younger than me. There’s no way he could hurt me. He was immature, he acted like a kid sometimes. I was older, I knew more, I could outsmart him.

From the outside, we appeared to have the perfect thing going. There are smiles in every photo. He was young, good looking, funny, and charming. He had this appeal to him. And to me, he looked harmless. All I wanted was to meet someone who wasn’t going to treat me like me ex abusive partner did.

I thought I was safe with him. It took him seven months to say I love you. I almost thought he wouldn’t. I was on the brink of calling it quits because if it. How could we make such a connection and he not want to say those words. We were inseparable from the start. Passion. Feeling meant to be. Or was it?

As I now ponder a deafening question and statements made by him. As a storyline to our relationship from beginning to middle to end. “Do I remind you of him?” (Referring to my ex) “I hate your fucking guts.” (Yelled at the top of his lungs outside my door for my neighbors to hear) “I don’t know what I would do if I see you with another guy.” And, “you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”

And just like that on December 18, 2009, he took his life. Right under our nose as we lay in another room. But not before he tried to hurt me in front of the kids. Someone told me angels protected me. Because usually when this happens, he takes the whole family first, then himself. But I remained in guilt and confusion because he didn’t take us out. I bypassed all those red flagged questions and statements made by him. I had kept myself locked in a cell of guilt for all this time.

Breaking the silence helps. Documentaries help. Support groups help. Advocacy helps. Because it took a counselor to say I was in a domestic violence relationship. It took a housing authority supervisor to say I’m lucky, they usually take the family out first; speaking from experience as her ex husband tried killing them overnight leaving the gas on, ultimately later committing suicide. It took a coroner to say you were a hostage. And it took a director to say he hurt himself, but he meant that hurt for you, added with a photographers words, it isn’t your fault.

For me to break out of that cell of guilt. For me to breathe in and exhale. For me to let go, look up and step out into a free life. And as today marks 5 years, it makes me aware of emotional abuse and the impact it has had on my life. It’s the silent violence. The one you can’t readily see. But it is as lethal as physical.

He had the power to control me even after death. That’s crazy to me. I’m grateful for the people that whispered in my ear over all this time, that helped me see the picture clear. I was a victim of his cruel game of covert manipulation. I am no longer his victim. My mission is to help the next person, to be there for my survivor sisters and to help make changes that can aid future victims.”

On the eve of this Christmas when we gather around a mother who sought safe shelter in which to bring her child, our light, into the world…we dream of a world of peace; where children are safe inside the walls of homes as well beyond them. Peace.

From the voice of a child….Ave Maria…

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Finding Jenn’s Voice: Debra’s Story

The final writing and editing are taking place on the Finding Jenn’s Voice as this publishes. The documentary is about Jenn Snyder, a 27 year old vet tech who fell in love with, became pregnant, and was killed by a veterinarian. He went to a cocktail party with his wife later the evening of the day he brutally murdered her. Sensational headlines? Sadly, no.

What the media fails to convey and help the public understand is that abusive and homicidal men are not rejects from society; sketchy people who can’t get along with anyone, who are always losing their jobs, who have mental illnesses. They are veterinarians, they are sales managers, they are military officers, they are computer programmers. They can even be your child’s trusted soccer coach. Their ability to meld in seamlessly and have their behavior go unnoticed among peers tips the scales of credibility towards them, leaving their victims unbelievable. That is until finally the headlines shout what is true.

Debra’s Story
As I was sitting alone, blood running down my face. I had to face the beginning of a very harsh reality…that we were over.

Almost seven years with my abuser and this was my final day. Sitting in my car, after ending our relationship for the 100th time, but this time something was different. Not with him, but with me. I felt it. I felt more afraid to stay then to leave. I felt so frustrated, like a caged animal would feel waiting to be let out to go to the bathroom or maybe even to get a few bites of kibble. Always at his mercy. Always his rules.

This was my decision and I knew there was going to be a price for my freedom. Both my girls were out of my house and I knew if he was going to kill me, it would at least just be my life. The cat was leaving that morning to go live with my ex-husband and the only one left to worry about was my beloved Izabelle. My dog, my buddy, who through this tumultuous relationship brought me such love and peace. I would keep her close with me and guard her with my life.

I broke up with him. He came to my home and refused to leave so I grabbed Izabelle and I left. I couldn’t go far because I was expecting my ex-husband and my youngest daughter to come by and pick up the cat. My abuser sent me a text….. “I left your door unlocked”. I thought he left. He was a soccer coach and I knew he had a tournament that weekend, I was sure he had to get back.

I relaxed and drove to a church nearby my home so that I could watch my house and see when my ex-husband would be leaving. It always seemed to be less stressful on our daughter for us not to be in the same room. But then a car pulled up and blocked the church entrance. It was him, my abusive boyfriend. He had come back.

He walked up to the car and started yelling, I remained seated and as he told me that “everyone ends up leaving you”, “no one wants you” I remember looking up at him and saying “and that’s ok.” That’s when he punched me in the face and knocked the phone out of my hand so that I could not call 911. He kept trying to pull me out of the car by my neck and I remember thinking that Izabelle was in the car and I prayed that she wouldn’t growl. She was already afraid of him, she didn’t move. He told me he would kill me and it would be worth it. “I’m going to give you one more chance to make this right”.

Right after that I heard my ex-husband’s voice calling from the distance. I looked up and there they were, my ex-husband and my daughter. As soon as my ex-husband approached him, he cowered and backed up, swearing he didn’t put his hands on me. That he just pushed me. My ex saw it all and my daughter called the police. That was the very last time I ever spoke to my abuser.

All my prayers, and dreams, but most of all my hope; had to come to an end. As I began the very long and emotionally draining process for my “freedom and safety”; I watched every move every person involved made. From the police, rescue squad, to the very first advocate I met from Providence House at the police station, to the doctor at the emergency room; the very first meeting with my attorney, where his paralegal shouted “Oh Frank, I hope you get a permanent restraining order because I can tell she will go back to him.

I began writing in my journal; it was the only way to keep my sanity. It was like I was moving but I was somehow above my body and watching how I responded to everyone and to everything. I remember a conversation I had with one of The Pastors at my church. I told him that I believe if a complete stranger had broken into my home and assaulted me; the world would be on my side. The sympathy and the outpouring of meals and prayers would be all so encompassing. Unfortunately, that was not the case. My assault came from a man that I not only invited into my home, but one who I loved and defended for years. Some in my immediate circle knew this was not the first time and probably shook their heads in complete dismay (the times) they would hear that I was giving our relationship “one more try”.

Even though (he) didn’t love me or want any type of normalcy that would include me feeling trust, safe, secure in the things (he) said and the way (he) behaved, (he) didn’t want to let me go.

I will continue to live my life in freedom. Free to love without limit, to forgive, to be merciful, to be generous, to be compassionate, to be humble, and to continue to practice humility. I firmly believe that our circumstances don’t define us, our characters do.

I am changed from this experience but now know clearer than ever before that I must continue to walk with my head held high in truth. There, I believe, lies true freedom. I will be more from my comeback than from my fall.

Debra

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