Santos anticipated I'd go to Julie's. Before we arrived at Julie's place, he left several threatening messages on her answering machine. Julie wouldn't let me hear the messages, but he demanded that I come home immediately or else he would hurt the dogs, kill himself, destroy our belongings, and other awful things. Distraught and panicked, I resolved to go home. Fuck. I repeatedly attempted to leave, but Julie wouldn't let me. The phone rang. Julie answered. It was Santos. Hate seethed through his voice as he said "If you don't get home in 30 minutes, I'm going to hurt the dogs." I panicked and replied "Santos, there's no way I can make it home in 30 minutes. It's a 45 minute drive." He was being his usual unreasonable self. What a fucking asshole. "If you don't get home in 30 minutes, I'm going to kill myself" he stated matter-of-factly. I panicked and cried. "I can't make it home in 30 minutes," I pleaded. Realizing he lost control over me, Santos' anger escalated and he destroyed most of the furniture and fixtures in our home. He told me what he destroyed as I heard the accompanying sounds. Crash! Thud! Crack! Smash! He threatened to overturn my china cabinet that contained items I valued and cherished. It's just stuff, right? I continued to listen and talk to him, trying to convince him not to kill himself (even though I was secretly hoping he would - how horrible am I?). He said he loved me and didn't want me to leave him. Boo fucking hoo, psycho. I told him I loved him too, that I didn't want him to kill himself, and that I'd be home as soon as I could. My words were sort of like hostage negotiation lies, but I still contemplated going home.
Julie knew I was distraught, scared, and confused. She also knew I couldn't go home; I'd likely end up dead. Before we were married, I left Santos several times but he either threatened to kill me or promised to change his ways. I always went back. He had yet to kill me, but he changed his ways only temporarily. Julie wasn't having any of it. "You're not going home!" Julie said firmly. She took the phone from me, hung up on Santos, and called the non-emergency police for my neighborhood. Julie explained my situation to the police and stayed on the phone with them until two cop cars arrived at my house a few minutes later. Julie passed the phone to me. I listened as the officers handcuffed Santos and put him in the back seat of one of the cop cars. Then they asked me where the guns were located, so I verbally guided them through my house - several in my bedroom closet, several in the guest bedroom where Santos slept, and one under Santos' pillow. Oops, almost forgot the one in his truck but they snagged that one too. I don't remember why they didn't arrest him, but they confiscated all the guns for two months.
I stayed at Julie's and didn't go home until Monday. Santos worked during the day, but I was afraid to go there alone. Accompanied by Alan (who eventually set my classic car on fire - see Burnin' Bonnie BBQ post), I returned home. Thankful that Santos wasn't there, I assessed the damage. The first floor of the house was thrashed. The glass dining room table was shattered on the back patio, the dining table chairs were lying on the backyard lawn with their legs and backs broken. Curtain rods were torn off walls. Several kitchen appliances were smashed on the back patio. Boxes of items I packed from the master and two guest bedrooms were scattered on the living room floor - most of the contents destroyed. But the china cabinet remained in tack.
I returned home on Tuesday and stayed there for another two months. Santos was filled with remorse, and I felt relatively safe because the guns were gone. In retrospect, he could have gotten another gun somewhere but he didn't. By that time, he and Tammy had made up so it was easier for me to continue my exit. I cleaned up the mess he made and packed up the rest of the items I wanted to take with me. Sometime in August, I finally told my mom about this incident and I moved home within a couple weeks, and three days before my 28th birthday. It was the best birthday present ever. While I was waiting for my parents to arrive with the moving van, Santos sat on the living room floor and watched television. I laid down on the floor next to him, put my head on his thigh, and he stroked my hair gently. "I'm sorry I was such a horrible husband," he said sincerely. "I'm sorry you were such a horrible husband too," I replied. After my parents arrived, we packed up the van. Bear was clearly my dog, so I kept him and Santos kept Riggs and Riley. As Bear, my parents, and I drove off, I finally felt like the victor of the Wild West showdown and I never moved back.
A few months later, I traveled through Europe alone for a month to decompress. I visited Germany, Holland, and Italy, passing through Switzerland and Austria. The first time I was in Amsterdam, I met a man named Jerron on February 13. We hit it off and had a lovely evening in a fancy hotel, then spent Valentine's Day together. We exchanged contact information, then I returned to Germany to meet my dear friend Joerg for a post Valentine's Day celebration. Then I traveled to Italy, but wanted to see Jerron again so I traveled from Venice to Amsterdam - a train ride from hell. I spent four more days in Amsterdam, and hoped to catch Jerron in the illegitimate Hard Rock Cafe where we met, but he wasn't there. I left a message for him with Mark, his bartender friend who I met when I was there before. After finally exiting an awful and abusive marriage, I felt like a bat out of hell. I wanted a tattoo of a bat to signify my transition. Mark suggested Hanky Panky, only a few blocks away and famous for their tattoos. After knocking back two Amstel's, I walked to Hanky Panky and left with a small tattoo of a bat on the top of my left foot. I've had the tattoo for over 14 years. I don't really notice it anymore, but when I stop to look at it, I'm reminded of the strength, bravery, and courage it took to survive and exit my first marriage.
Most people think women who stay in abusive marriages are weak, and that it's easy to just leave. I wasn't weak and it's not easy to leave - it's not so black and white. There are too many factors involved, and for someone like me who tends to see the good in everyone and who's kind, forgiving, compassionate, optimistic, trusting, hopeful, etc., I always wanted to give Santos another chance to change like he said he would. But he never changed for long and it took my having an affair with Ray to realize I had enough and that it was finally time for me to go. In retrospect, I would prefer to not have been in an abusive relationship for 9 years, and I'm still overcoming some of the damage stemming from that marriage - particularly surrounding my sexuality - but I don't know any different. Had I not had this experience, maybe my life would have been better, or maybe it would have been worse. I'll never know. But what I do know is that I wouldn't be who I am today if my life took a different course, and I quite like the woman I've become.
When I returned from Europe, a lovely letter from Jerron was waiting for me. Our bartender friend passed on my message as promised. Jerron wanted to visit me. About a month later, we were galavanting around Los Angeles for a couple weeks and fell in love. I visited him in Amsterdam a couple months after that - lots of funny mishaps and adventures. We attempted a long distance relationship for a while, but he was on break from university and traveled through Australia with his buddies for six months. Technology wasn't like it is today, so we couldn't communicate very well. We drifted apart, and then I met Mark (see Burnin Bonnie BBQ and Gilligan's (Cock) Island posts). I've never had a shortage of men in my life, that's for sure.
Julie knew I was distraught, scared, and confused. She also knew I couldn't go home; I'd likely end up dead. Before we were married, I left Santos several times but he either threatened to kill me or promised to change his ways. I always went back. He had yet to kill me, but he changed his ways only temporarily. Julie wasn't having any of it. "You're not going home!" Julie said firmly. She took the phone from me, hung up on Santos, and called the non-emergency police for my neighborhood. Julie explained my situation to the police and stayed on the phone with them until two cop cars arrived at my house a few minutes later. Julie passed the phone to me. I listened as the officers handcuffed Santos and put him in the back seat of one of the cop cars. Then they asked me where the guns were located, so I verbally guided them through my house - several in my bedroom closet, several in the guest bedroom where Santos slept, and one under Santos' pillow. Oops, almost forgot the one in his truck but they snagged that one too. I don't remember why they didn't arrest him, but they confiscated all the guns for two months.
I stayed at Julie's and didn't go home until Monday. Santos worked during the day, but I was afraid to go there alone. Accompanied by Alan (who eventually set my classic car on fire - see Burnin' Bonnie BBQ post), I returned home. Thankful that Santos wasn't there, I assessed the damage. The first floor of the house was thrashed. The glass dining room table was shattered on the back patio, the dining table chairs were lying on the backyard lawn with their legs and backs broken. Curtain rods were torn off walls. Several kitchen appliances were smashed on the back patio. Boxes of items I packed from the master and two guest bedrooms were scattered on the living room floor - most of the contents destroyed. But the china cabinet remained in tack.
I returned home on Tuesday and stayed there for another two months. Santos was filled with remorse, and I felt relatively safe because the guns were gone. In retrospect, he could have gotten another gun somewhere but he didn't. By that time, he and Tammy had made up so it was easier for me to continue my exit. I cleaned up the mess he made and packed up the rest of the items I wanted to take with me. Sometime in August, I finally told my mom about this incident and I moved home within a couple weeks, and three days before my 28th birthday. It was the best birthday present ever. While I was waiting for my parents to arrive with the moving van, Santos sat on the living room floor and watched television. I laid down on the floor next to him, put my head on his thigh, and he stroked my hair gently. "I'm sorry I was such a horrible husband," he said sincerely. "I'm sorry you were such a horrible husband too," I replied. After my parents arrived, we packed up the van. Bear was clearly my dog, so I kept him and Santos kept Riggs and Riley. As Bear, my parents, and I drove off, I finally felt like the victor of the Wild West showdown and I never moved back.
A few months later, I traveled through Europe alone for a month to decompress. I visited Germany, Holland, and Italy, passing through Switzerland and Austria. The first time I was in Amsterdam, I met a man named Jerron on February 13. We hit it off and had a lovely evening in a fancy hotel, then spent Valentine's Day together. We exchanged contact information, then I returned to Germany to meet my dear friend Joerg for a post Valentine's Day celebration. Then I traveled to Italy, but wanted to see Jerron again so I traveled from Venice to Amsterdam - a train ride from hell. I spent four more days in Amsterdam, and hoped to catch Jerron in the illegitimate Hard Rock Cafe where we met, but he wasn't there. I left a message for him with Mark, his bartender friend who I met when I was there before. After finally exiting an awful and abusive marriage, I felt like a bat out of hell. I wanted a tattoo of a bat to signify my transition. Mark suggested Hanky Panky, only a few blocks away and famous for their tattoos. After knocking back two Amstel's, I walked to Hanky Panky and left with a small tattoo of a bat on the top of my left foot. I've had the tattoo for over 14 years. I don't really notice it anymore, but when I stop to look at it, I'm reminded of the strength, bravery, and courage it took to survive and exit my first marriage.
Most people think women who stay in abusive marriages are weak, and that it's easy to just leave. I wasn't weak and it's not easy to leave - it's not so black and white. There are too many factors involved, and for someone like me who tends to see the good in everyone and who's kind, forgiving, compassionate, optimistic, trusting, hopeful, etc., I always wanted to give Santos another chance to change like he said he would. But he never changed for long and it took my having an affair with Ray to realize I had enough and that it was finally time for me to go. In retrospect, I would prefer to not have been in an abusive relationship for 9 years, and I'm still overcoming some of the damage stemming from that marriage - particularly surrounding my sexuality - but I don't know any different. Had I not had this experience, maybe my life would have been better, or maybe it would have been worse. I'll never know. But what I do know is that I wouldn't be who I am today if my life took a different course, and I quite like the woman I've become.
When I returned from Europe, a lovely letter from Jerron was waiting for me. Our bartender friend passed on my message as promised. Jerron wanted to visit me. About a month later, we were galavanting around Los Angeles for a couple weeks and fell in love. I visited him in Amsterdam a couple months after that - lots of funny mishaps and adventures. We attempted a long distance relationship for a while, but he was on break from university and traveled through Australia with his buddies for six months. Technology wasn't like it is today, so we couldn't communicate very well. We drifted apart, and then I met Mark (see Burnin Bonnie BBQ and Gilligan's (Cock) Island posts). I've never had a shortage of men in my life, that's for sure.
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