When I was 18, Santos (aka Fuckwad in The (First) Night I Almost Died post) actively pursued me for several months. We met through mutual friends who were in a rock band. One night we were all at the Whiskey A-Go-Go for one of their gigs. I was the band's sober roadie who drove them to and from their gigs, but I was also underage so we told the 21-and-over club owners that I was a back-up singer so they'd let me in. One time I flashed my breasts - the power of breasts is underrated, or men are just idiots. Anyway, I was backstage (I met two members of Guns and Roses - awesome!) when Santos approached me and said something crude. Whatever he said pissed me off so much that I splashed my full drink in his face and on his chest. He continued to pursue me. I continued to dodge his efforts. Meanwhile, I lost my virginity to someone else and had sex with another man twice - something that would cause many years of strife in my eventual relationship with Santos even though what I did before we got together was none of his business. Sometime in June 1988, Santos finally wore me down. I gave in. We had our first date. At Taco Bell. Seriously. Taco Bell. We had nachos. Sitting outside on a table off of a busy street with cars whizzing by. It was not a magical date, and there was nothing magical about Santos. Before we went on our non-magical first date, he continually repulsed me with his crude comments so I wasn't sure why I gave in. For example, I was hanging out with our mutual friends and he was there. I was working at Music Plus (a record and cassette store - CDs were just starting to come out) making $3.25 an hour. Santos asked me "How would you like to plant tulips for ten bucks an hour?" I contemplated and said "Sure!" Then he replied "Well, you can start right here." He grabbed my head and tried to shove my face in his crotch. Two lips, not tulips. Ugh. What an asshole. But I have to admit that it was funny. What was magical was the magnitude of my naivety - how could anyone be so damn naive as to not see any of the "danger ahead" warning signs? He pissed me off enough that I threw my drink in his face, and it takes a lot to make me mad.
I worked during the day and he worked swing shift so we started spending our weekends together. He usually picked me up at 11:30 pm on Friday and brought me home on Sunday afternoon or evening. That sounds lovely, but did I mention that during the week he demanded that I be at home every night to receive his phone calls during his work break? Yes, 7:30 on the dot. Heaven forbid if my parents were on the phone. I had hell to pay if he couldn't reach me at 7:30. The only way I was excused from the 7:30 phone call was if I was in class (I went to college at night). And this was just the beginning. I soon learned that he was controlling, possessive, jealous, over-protective, suspicious, accusatory, and an alcoholic. After about four months, he didn't show up one Friday night. I waited for a couple of hours. I worried. We didn't have cell phones back then, so I called his work and his home - no answer at either place. I finally reached him, drunk and at home at 6:30 am. He went to a party, got drunk, and acquired at least a dozen hickies on his neck and chest. I was crushed. He claimed that he "didn't know how the hickies got there." Yes, he thought I was that dumb. When I expressed my disappointment and frustration about his behavior, he blamed me for his cheating behavior because I wasn't available to him all the time. And apparently I was that dumb, because I moved in with him. That's when the physical abuse started. Yet, we were engaged two months later. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. Clearly. Santos and I were engaged for almost five years. While I accepted the engagement, I refused to marry him until he stopped drinking. He became sober in 1991, he didn't hit me while he was sober, we married in October 1993, he started drinking again the night of our wedding, we moved into our new house the next day, and things got really ugly again. I left him in August 1998, two months after he attempted to kill me.
Eight years of physical, sexual, and emotional abuse, and 150 more pounds later, I had an affair in December 1997 with his best friend Ray (see Drunken Nights: Prelude to an Affair - I'll share my first encounter with Ray soon - it's one of my favorite memories). When I'm in a committed relationship, I'm more loyal than a dog. In all the years I was with Santos, I never cheated on him despite his bad behavior. Santos accused me of cheating on him all the time (he wouldn't let me go to the grocery store alone, it was that bad) which was a major cause of the physical abuse I suffered during the first couple of years of our relationship. After I gained enough weight, the accusations of cheating stopped but he found other reasons to beat me. Like when I accidentally knocked over an engine piston in the garage. But little did he know that men still found me attractive regardless of my weight, and several of his friends hit on me several times over the years. That I actually cheated on him with Ray was an eyeopener for me. I knew I was done with my relationship with Santos. I was miserable, I'd been crossed and abused too many times, and there was no going back.
Two weeks after my first encounter with Ray, I asked Santos to carry a 40 pound bag of dog food from the car trunk to the garage. He yelled "Your fat lazy ass can move it yourself!" I'd been having difficulty with my hands and arms for a couple of years, to the point where it hurt to brush my teeth or hair, vacuum, wash dishes, etc., and he refused to help me with anything. (Incidentally, I was taken off work four months later for various repetitive-use upper body ailments and didn't return to my career as a paralegal.) And why would he help? I always did everything on my own because he'd either yell at me or beat me. I preferred to suffer in silence and avoid the beatings. Santos conditioned me well to be his servant. I left the dog food in the trunk, walked into the kitchen, looked at Santos, and said very calmly "I want a divorce." For the first time since we'd been together, he was speechless. Santos stared at me for a while, and then he went upstairs to watch television. While he often said he wanted a divorce when he was mad, I never did. He was probably in shock.
I wish I could say that I left immediately, but I didn't. I lived with him for eight more months, during which time he became increasingly violent as he lost control over me. I attempted to temper Santos' violent behavior by slowly withdrawing from our marriage and planning my exit. First, I started with separate sleeping areas. I slept in the master bedroom and he slept in one of the guest bedrooms. Next, I stopped making his meals and doing his laundry. Then I stopped contributing financially to the household - I wanted to make sure he would pay the mortgage on this own (I eventually forced sale of the house). In February, he started seeing Tammy, the woman who lived down the street who believed they were destined to be together because a fortune teller told her she'd marry someone with Santos' initials (by the way, Tammy was married and had been for 20 years, she left her husband for Santos, and the had a child together), which made it easier for me to withdraw from the marriage because he was distracted by her. I was taken off work at the end of March and I couldn't afford to live on my own with temporary disability and my dad wouldn't let me move home so I was sort of stuck until I could figure out where to move. I made do the best I could, and enjoyed my home while I still lived in it.
The last weekend in June 1998, Santos and Tammy went to Vegas. Since I had the house to myself, I invited the girls over for dinner and drinks on Saturday night. I was excited that I'd be moving out of the house eventually, about my upcoming month long trip to Europe, and about new beginnings in general. We were having a fabulous time - until Santos came home a day early. He and Tammy had a fight (surprise, surprise). He brought me food, so I thanked him for his thoughtfulness and asked him to put the food in the refrigerator because I wasn't hungry. That set him off and he started yelling at and berating me. The girls left one by one, and eventually Santos and I were the only ones in the house. I didn't expect to go anywhere that night, so I drank a few cocktails.
Santos was yelling as loud as he could. He didn't want a divorce nor did he want me to move out. I yelled that it wasn't his decision to make, I didn't want to be beaten or yelled at, I was miserable and unhappy, and I was done with him. I kept it to myself that I needed to move because I didn't want to go to jail for murder because I contemplated killing him in his sleep. He yelled "You're stupid and fat! No one will ever want you!" I told him calmly "I'd rather be alone than remain married to you. I don't want to do this anymore." He knew I was serious. He stormed up the stairs, but it was too quiet. Like an idiot in a horror movie who you know should run out the front door and never look back, I walked up the stairs. I heard some kind of a clicking or snapping noise, but couldn't place it. As I got near the landing, he met me there. He was on the landing and I was one step below. I stepped up to meet him on the landing; our chests were practically touching. His right arm was behind his back. I was guarded - I expected him to hit me or push me down the stairs. Wrong. He brought out his right arm; there was a gun in his hand. My gun, no less. A Glock 19. The clip was in. I kept my clips loaded, so I knew it was loaded. The noise? He inserted the clip and cocked the chamber. Santos put the mouth of the gun barrel on my left temple, his finger on the trigger. I was toast - paralyzed with anger and fear. Through gritted teeth, I looked him in the eyes and said slowly and as cold as ice, "Go ahead and shoot me, you motherfucking pussy. I dare you."
To be continued...
I worked during the day and he worked swing shift so we started spending our weekends together. He usually picked me up at 11:30 pm on Friday and brought me home on Sunday afternoon or evening. That sounds lovely, but did I mention that during the week he demanded that I be at home every night to receive his phone calls during his work break? Yes, 7:30 on the dot. Heaven forbid if my parents were on the phone. I had hell to pay if he couldn't reach me at 7:30. The only way I was excused from the 7:30 phone call was if I was in class (I went to college at night). And this was just the beginning. I soon learned that he was controlling, possessive, jealous, over-protective, suspicious, accusatory, and an alcoholic. After about four months, he didn't show up one Friday night. I waited for a couple of hours. I worried. We didn't have cell phones back then, so I called his work and his home - no answer at either place. I finally reached him, drunk and at home at 6:30 am. He went to a party, got drunk, and acquired at least a dozen hickies on his neck and chest. I was crushed. He claimed that he "didn't know how the hickies got there." Yes, he thought I was that dumb. When I expressed my disappointment and frustration about his behavior, he blamed me for his cheating behavior because I wasn't available to him all the time. And apparently I was that dumb, because I moved in with him. That's when the physical abuse started. Yet, we were engaged two months later. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. Clearly. Santos and I were engaged for almost five years. While I accepted the engagement, I refused to marry him until he stopped drinking. He became sober in 1991, he didn't hit me while he was sober, we married in October 1993, he started drinking again the night of our wedding, we moved into our new house the next day, and things got really ugly again. I left him in August 1998, two months after he attempted to kill me.
Eight years of physical, sexual, and emotional abuse, and 150 more pounds later, I had an affair in December 1997 with his best friend Ray (see Drunken Nights: Prelude to an Affair - I'll share my first encounter with Ray soon - it's one of my favorite memories). When I'm in a committed relationship, I'm more loyal than a dog. In all the years I was with Santos, I never cheated on him despite his bad behavior. Santos accused me of cheating on him all the time (he wouldn't let me go to the grocery store alone, it was that bad) which was a major cause of the physical abuse I suffered during the first couple of years of our relationship. After I gained enough weight, the accusations of cheating stopped but he found other reasons to beat me. Like when I accidentally knocked over an engine piston in the garage. But little did he know that men still found me attractive regardless of my weight, and several of his friends hit on me several times over the years. That I actually cheated on him with Ray was an eyeopener for me. I knew I was done with my relationship with Santos. I was miserable, I'd been crossed and abused too many times, and there was no going back.
Two weeks after my first encounter with Ray, I asked Santos to carry a 40 pound bag of dog food from the car trunk to the garage. He yelled "Your fat lazy ass can move it yourself!" I'd been having difficulty with my hands and arms for a couple of years, to the point where it hurt to brush my teeth or hair, vacuum, wash dishes, etc., and he refused to help me with anything. (Incidentally, I was taken off work four months later for various repetitive-use upper body ailments and didn't return to my career as a paralegal.) And why would he help? I always did everything on my own because he'd either yell at me or beat me. I preferred to suffer in silence and avoid the beatings. Santos conditioned me well to be his servant. I left the dog food in the trunk, walked into the kitchen, looked at Santos, and said very calmly "I want a divorce." For the first time since we'd been together, he was speechless. Santos stared at me for a while, and then he went upstairs to watch television. While he often said he wanted a divorce when he was mad, I never did. He was probably in shock.
I wish I could say that I left immediately, but I didn't. I lived with him for eight more months, during which time he became increasingly violent as he lost control over me. I attempted to temper Santos' violent behavior by slowly withdrawing from our marriage and planning my exit. First, I started with separate sleeping areas. I slept in the master bedroom and he slept in one of the guest bedrooms. Next, I stopped making his meals and doing his laundry. Then I stopped contributing financially to the household - I wanted to make sure he would pay the mortgage on this own (I eventually forced sale of the house). In February, he started seeing Tammy, the woman who lived down the street who believed they were destined to be together because a fortune teller told her she'd marry someone with Santos' initials (by the way, Tammy was married and had been for 20 years, she left her husband for Santos, and the had a child together), which made it easier for me to withdraw from the marriage because he was distracted by her. I was taken off work at the end of March and I couldn't afford to live on my own with temporary disability and my dad wouldn't let me move home so I was sort of stuck until I could figure out where to move. I made do the best I could, and enjoyed my home while I still lived in it.
The last weekend in June 1998, Santos and Tammy went to Vegas. Since I had the house to myself, I invited the girls over for dinner and drinks on Saturday night. I was excited that I'd be moving out of the house eventually, about my upcoming month long trip to Europe, and about new beginnings in general. We were having a fabulous time - until Santos came home a day early. He and Tammy had a fight (surprise, surprise). He brought me food, so I thanked him for his thoughtfulness and asked him to put the food in the refrigerator because I wasn't hungry. That set him off and he started yelling at and berating me. The girls left one by one, and eventually Santos and I were the only ones in the house. I didn't expect to go anywhere that night, so I drank a few cocktails.
Santos was yelling as loud as he could. He didn't want a divorce nor did he want me to move out. I yelled that it wasn't his decision to make, I didn't want to be beaten or yelled at, I was miserable and unhappy, and I was done with him. I kept it to myself that I needed to move because I didn't want to go to jail for murder because I contemplated killing him in his sleep. He yelled "You're stupid and fat! No one will ever want you!" I told him calmly "I'd rather be alone than remain married to you. I don't want to do this anymore." He knew I was serious. He stormed up the stairs, but it was too quiet. Like an idiot in a horror movie who you know should run out the front door and never look back, I walked up the stairs. I heard some kind of a clicking or snapping noise, but couldn't place it. As I got near the landing, he met me there. He was on the landing and I was one step below. I stepped up to meet him on the landing; our chests were practically touching. His right arm was behind his back. I was guarded - I expected him to hit me or push me down the stairs. Wrong. He brought out his right arm; there was a gun in his hand. My gun, no less. A Glock 19. The clip was in. I kept my clips loaded, so I knew it was loaded. The noise? He inserted the clip and cocked the chamber. Santos put the mouth of the gun barrel on my left temple, his finger on the trigger. I was toast - paralyzed with anger and fear. Through gritted teeth, I looked him in the eyes and said slowly and as cold as ice, "Go ahead and shoot me, you motherfucking pussy. I dare you."
To be continued...
I thought my experiences were intense, but boy, this is something else!
ReplyDeleteIt's all relative though. I've been stressing over my current dating situation and writing about this helped put things into perspective. Things could be a helluva lot worse! :)
ReplyDeleteI had no idea things where that bad for you. I heard some things but not all. I am glad you are still here with us and I think he needs to burn in hell!
ReplyDeleteI'm glad I'm still here too. This incident is why I left my Glock with you guys when I moved up here - didn't want it around anymore. Now all I have are my nonlethal fists. :)~
ReplyDeleteI think fists can be lethal.....especially if stairs are involved.
ReplyDeleteI like your writing. There is a balance when I read it where I feel sadness and hope at the same time. I guess both my hemispheres are zapping with electric fear and happiness.
Fists + stairs...so true.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much for your compliment. This particular experience was scary at the time, but in retrospect I feel proud for having such courage, perhaps with a side of stupidity.