Over half of female homicide victims in the U.S. are killed by a male intimate partner. On average more than 1 in 3 women in the US will experience rape, physical violence, and/or stalking by an intimate partner. 1 in 10 high school students has experienced physical violence from a partner in the last year. An average of 24 women per minute are victims of rape, physical violence or stalking by an intimate partner in the United States. 72% of all murder-suicides involve an intimate partner; 94% of the victims of these murder suicides are female.
I went to Spread Creek to express my grief and say a prayer for Gabby. I also prayed for so many other women in our country. This was a hate crime. I believe that Domestic Violence is a hate crime against women.
When I was 17 years old I had a boyfriend who regularly hit me. I was frightened of him. He was 6'0 and 220 pounds. He could knock me down with one push. And regularly did. He was jealous, angry, controlling, and manipulative. And he convinced me that everything that happened was my fault.
We were driving home from Redmond Oregon to Bend Oregon. I was driving his truck and he was in the passenger seat. He was angry at me and jealous because we had run into a friend of mine, a guy. The interaction with my old friend lasted less than 30 seconds. But the 20 minute car ride to his house was excruciating. At one point he hit me and I pulled over. We both jumped out of the truck. I no longer wanted to drive. As we crossed paths behind the vehicle he slapped at me and I slapped back. A car horn honked.
We were back at his house for about an hour, and he had hit me several more times, when the police showed up. Two male officers. My boyfriend stood in front of me in the doorway and I peered out from behind him at the officers, my face was red and swollen from being slapped and crying. This was in 1994 and I cannot remember what he said to the officers. What I do remember is one of the officers angling around my boyfriend to get a better look at me. He leaned forward and put his finger in my face...
"You had better stop causing trouble before you get your boyfriend in trouble."
And they left. Within an hour my boyfriend had gotten his mother's gun out of her nightstand. First he pointed it at my head. And I begged him not to hurt me and cried. Then he put the gun to his own head and I begged him not to hurt himself. I told him that it wasn't his fault. He put the gun away.
Our relationship lasted for only four months. 27 years later and my body is shaking just typing this. The effects were long-term. I had therapy many times in my 20's and was diagnosed with PTSD. I am much better today. But those four months left scars that will never fully heal.
How different would my life have turned out if those officers would have at MINIMUM contacted my parents and told them what was happening? Or if his mother, who was fully aware of the situation, had done something, anything?
I didn't end my relationship with him because he beat me, I ended it because he cheated on me. He married the woman that he cheated on me with and had children. I tried to warn her friends, who were mutual friends, but was told the he would never do such a thing and that I was just jealous. Those same friends later told me that she divorced him after five years because he was beating her and the children. I also later found out that he had choked his girlfriend before me and was caught by her dad. Her dad made them breakup but never reported it.
I fully understand the #MeToo movement. Because I have so many female friends with similar stories. Stories of abuse, sexual assault, incest, rape, domestic violence... stories that should be told, heard, and believed. As a society we need to stop enabling abusers and blaming victims. And we need to train our first responders to not only recognize the signs of domestic violence but to actually do something about it.
I volunteered for years as crisis counselor and victims advocate at a domestic violence shelter. I received my bachelor of science in women's and gender studies. I watched the police body cam video of Laundrie. The second he apologized for letting it "get so public" I knew. Watching her tears and apologies I knew. Which leads me to believe that those officers knew too. How could they not? They have so much more experience than I have and so much more training. I believe that they chose to ignore it. And I believe that this happens every day all across our country.
When will it stop? When will we stop allowing this to happen to ourselves, to our friends, to our sisters, to our mothers, to our daughters, or to any woman? When.
The room was spinning. My eyes fluttered as I attempted to open them. I tried to figure out how I had gotten on the floor. It felt as though I had just been on a wild roller coaster ride. My head was throbbing, and I couldn’t remember anything. Could this be a hangover? That would explain the bed spins. Flashes of light and his face began running through my head. I took a deep breath and held perfectly still.
* * *
We had gone to the supermarket that morning to pick up a few things. It was the end of the week, and his mom had asked us to pick up the basics. Mike playfully began searching through the apples, pulling one from the bottom so they all rolled down. I laughed loudly as I tried to catch the dropping apples. He grabbed me around the waist and let two or three apples fall. “I love you.” I smiled up at him and gently kissed the creases of his eyes.
“Hi, Tanya.” I moved myself out of Mike’s embrace to look squarely at the young man who had said my name. I knew the face very well. He had been one of my best friends in high school, one of the many friends I had given up for Mike. I half-smiled and choked on my hello. That’s when I felt Mike’s body step closer to mine. I knew without turning exactly the expression he was wearing. “Well, it was nice seeing you, Brian.” I spun around, grabbed the basket off the floor, and, dropping the one apple I still clung to into the basket, I took Mike’s hand. “Wait up,” Brian called, but we were already turning into the next aisle.
At the checkout counter, I knew it was too late. I started to unload the groceries and began to ask Mike if he wanted to get a movie. I was harshly interrupted. “I’ll meet you in the truck.” Mike left. I hoped my instant panic was not obvious to the clerk or the other customers. Appearances had to be kept up. His mother worked at this store. Desperately, I tried to delay the checker with questions about product prices and whether there were any sales. I began reading a label and asked an older woman in line behind me what “carrageenan” was. The woman shrugged and patted my shoulder. I wanted to reach out and fall sobbing into this woman’s arms. I wanted to tell her about all of my pain. I wanted this woman to tell me that it was okay to leave. Sadly, I smiled and looked away. She was a stranger in a supermarket, not a priest in a confessional.
I paid the clerk and began walking toward the firing squad. I put the groceries in the back and climbed in beside him. I tried to give him a kiss, but he just pushed my head away.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, the questions and accusations began to knock me against the door. “Who was he?” “Why did you talk to him?” “Was he your old boyfriend?” “You whore!” I tried to answer Mike and explain that Brian was just an old friend. As usual, he wasn’t really interested in my answers; he would rather make up his own.
We pulled into the driveway at home, and I tried once again to kiss him. Mike pushed me away even harder. I was relieved. He had promised he wouldn’t hit me anymore, and technically a push was not a hit.
I thought back to all the broken promises of the past. Why did I continue to believe him? I was not ignorant; I knew how it worked. Something trivial, like this, would happen. He would get pissed off. Then, WHAM, I would get hit. And, of course, right after would follow the period of being ignored. Then the “I love you’s.” And the promises of change would consume us. And we would experience a brief period of perfection. Total bliss and euphoria. Until something else happened, and it would all begin again. And again. And again.
I carried the groceries inside and methodically began putting them away. I took the last item out of the bag—it was the apple I had absent-mindedly chosen. Fondling the apple in my hand, I noticed one side was bruised and rotten. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?” I mumbled despondently. I looked up from the apple, and his eyes caught mine, staying fixed upon me as he descended down the stairs into the game room.
I began to hyperventilate.
“Please no, not again, God make this stop.”
Piercing the silence of the room, Mike bellowed,
“Get your ass in here!”
I paused only briefly before running out the back door. I ran across the yard and was halfway over the fence when I stopped. It was pointless to run. I came down from the fence. I bent over and grabbed my knees; my breath came in large gulps. “Breathe slowly; calm down.” My eyes began scanning my surroundings. I couldn’t recall being here before. I drifted back toward the house in a haze.
As I entered the back door, I could hear Mike screaming for me to “hurry up.” I paused for a drink of water. I thought back to our first date. We were sitting next to the river. He reached over and put his hand on my cheek, “I love you.” I should have known right then that he was nuts. How could you love somebody you had just met? But instead, I thought of my own loneliness and I let him love me.
I crept toward the room, cautiously positioning myself at the top of the stairs. I inhaled deeply as I stepped through the entryway. Mike charged at me with his fists clenched. I cowered. He smiled. My fear was his pleasure and his power. I was watching his arms. His fists. His face. I was flinching with his every move. And that’s when he got me. Mike’s head came flying down and smashed into mine. I crumpled to the floor and immediately passed out.
* * *
I remained motionless for only a moment longer. I strained to stop my eyes from fluttering. There was something in them. Blood. I sat up quickly, making the room rock back and forth from the effort. I used my shirt to wipe the blood from my eyes. I finally got my eyes open and gazed up at Mike; he was looming over me. And he was pointing a gun at my head.
My brain froze.
I started crying. With every sob, my body heaved in pain. I felt tears and blood running down my throat, choking me. I turned my head slightly and looked up. Without a word, I pleaded into the barrel of the gun.
His face broke, and a single tear trickled down his cheek. In an instant, the gun was in his mouth. I could hear the hollow sound of metal clanking against his teeth. All of my pain was suddenly gone; only the blinding rush of adrenaline was left. I sprang to my feet. “I’m okay. It didn’t hurt. You didn’t do anything wrong. No one will ever know.” I pleaded with him, repeating my vow over and over again.
He set down the gun and, like a light switch, turned off. He walked over to the couch, turned on his video game, and began to play.
I stood there trembling.
“Go get cleaned up, you look like hell.”
