What would I tell this young lady today?
This piece is not written for any sympathy or ‘whoa is me’ thoughts. It is a celebration. A celebration of me who has endured experiences that led me to learning, and loving and doing and working and becoming better. However, in order for love and doing and working and becoming better to happen, you first have to have the experiences. Then, you have to choose to decide if the experiences will imprison you or school you.
My first jump into the real world began when I decided to join the Air Force in the early 80s, mostly to get out of my house, and away from the town I grew up in. I graduated from college with a degree in English, not because someone told me it would help me or that it was a decent degree to make money with someday, but because it was my fav subject in high school and I was always writing something as a kid. I left home without any significant emotional foundation, with no one in particular to reach back to once I joined. I was flying off into this vast, vast world, feeling naked and alone, desperately seeking someone or something to say I was beautiful, noticed and wanted. I suppose I could blame my mother for abandoning me and my sister when we were adolescents, seeking her own way to self worth; blame my family for saying awful things to me, essentially disrepecting me, further dirtying the water that rested my heart, leading me to drink, baseless sex and suicidal ideations. But the blame game is a wasted energy. One realizes much later in life that those who were supposed to love you, support you, and want you were not loved, supported and wanted themselves. They could not give what they did not have. Nevertheless, ‘I left home searching for me in all the wrong men.’
While there have been others, this story is about two of those wrong men.
I did my time in Germany, maybe two-three years. Then, I got orders for the President’s base, they called it, in Suitland Maryland, not too far from Washington, DC. This is where I met the first wrong man. We will call him Mr R. I like tall men. Mr R was that. Tall. Maybe a little over six feet. Sun-kissed skin, with short hair. Lean. He worked on the base with pest control, a bug-killer. Maybe that’s how we met. I don’t remember. What I do remember, however, he was the type of man who got what he wanted via emotional manipulation. I was the perfect candidate.
I had always struggled with my weight. Thin, thinner. Big. Bigger. Wash. Rinse. And repeat. I met Mr R during the big, bigger phase. Wow! he liked me even though I was fat. I always wanted to be with him. I lived on campus in a single room. And guys in the girls dormitory after hours was frowned upon. Consequently, we talked about moving in together. Even went apartment hunting. I remember during one apartment look, see, he said, ‘this apartment is too small. where are you going to put your stuff? my clothes would fill up one closet.’ With that simple sentence, I remember feeling displaced. I didn’t say anything. This was my way at the time. I kept everything bottled up-all the disrespect, the hurt, afraid of getting into a confrontation, afraid of being yelled at or even worse, hit. The classic people pleaser. The perfect candidate to be emotionally abused. Domestic violent situations do not have to be physically violent. I might add the worst kind of violence is the emotional kind. The physical kind, at least happens and then it’s done until the next time. But emotionally, that hangs on like residue, like gum on a shoe, tainting its heel for decades.
I don’t remember how long Mr R and I were together. I do remember the night I asked him if we go together. How pathetic is that? Like asking a parent could I go out for the night. I remember him saying ‘yes we go together.’ I remember smiling with glee. On another occasion, we were riding in my car, going somewhere on campus, and I turned to him as he was driving asking him ‘am I too skinny?’ At this point I had lost a lot of weight, through diet, and basically running everyday. Being overweight in the military could force one out on a dishonorable discharge. And I wasn’t having that. I was so thin, back then, my whole hand could wrap around one thigh. He turned to me saying ‘no, you are not too thin.’ I smiled again, pleased my man was pleased with me. Pathetic. Like a daughter asking a parent, ‘am I pretty?’ I was in the perfect position to be mishandled, disrespected and forgotten about. Mr R was probably thinking ‘this chick is so stupid. she needs me to tell her about herself.’ I wanted to be liked and loved so badly.
Despite, my not having any great examples, except for what I saw on tv or read in books, I tried to be the best girlfriend I knew how to be. A good girlfriend was nice, kind, loving, supportive, smiling, there for him. So, I could not understand when he started to stand me up, not calling to explain why, leaving me crying on my computer at work, busting that whole in my gut wider and wider. I could not understand when one day he saw me driving on campus and completely ignored me. Looked me in my face, and ignored me. I stopped thinking he would say something. But no. He drove a brown van then, casually turning the corner. What in the hell is wrong with this man? More importantly, what in the hell is wrong with me that this man is treating me this way? I don’t remember doing anything specifically to hurt him. I was trying to be a good girlfriend.
I don’t know if he said it was over, or I, but as we were breaking up, he refused to give me back some of the things I had brought to the relationship. Now why would you want to keep things that belonged to a person you stood up and ignored? I can only guess to express his domination, his narcissism. I remember telling my father that I was breaking up with this guy and he would not give me back my stuff. I also remember Mr R’s boss getting involved. After my father spoke to him via telephone, I promptly got my stuff back. Maybe Mr R thought it was better to just give me my stuff back vs potentially getting in trouble with his boss. I don’t know. But if further proves that guys like him are weak in front of men, but bullies in front of women they know they can manipulate. Essentially, guys like Mr R are cowards.
After we broke up, I think I saw him once or twice around the campus and one time in the church I was attending at the time. I don’t remember if I said anything to him. Once discharged, I stayed in Maryland a couple years or so. Then found my way to Augusta Georgia. There, I met wrong man number two.
In 1992, by far one of the most difficult years of my life, I found myself, once again, in an emotionally and physically abusive relationship with a guy we will call Mr V.
Once I realized this guy was off emotionally and had a triggered-haired temper, I wanted desperately to get out of it. I forget how we actually met each other, but there must have been something about the guy that attracted me to him. He was starkly different than Mr. R. Perhaps it was his lean build. I like lean guys. Perhaps it was his dark skin. I like dark skin. Perhaps it was the glasses he wore. I like studious-looking guys. Perhaps it was the way I saw him interact with a child. I like guys who show empathy. These were all qualities, at the time, I liked in a guy. Initially, like most relationships, similarly to the one I had with Mr. R, it started out simple, casual conversation and nightly phone calls. The honeymoon phase, I call it. During this phase, I remember he checked us into a a local hotel. To me, I saw this as an opportunity for us to get to know each other better. I don’t why we didn’t go to my apartment. But. The next morning when no sex occurred (I did not want to have sex with him), his whole attitude changed. I remember him being very upset, not wanting to talk to me or letting me touch him. I think he even talked about breaking up with me. I should have taken him up on it, but I begged him not to leave me. THIS incident should have been the red flag that waved me from him. But no. When you are looking for someone, anyone, to complete you, make you feel good about you and you think you have found that person, you stay. From that point on, Mr. V’s character and personality eventually began to show themselves. And I began to feel suffocated and exhausted. While I was at work as a copyeditor for a local newspaper, he would call me incessantly. Once a week, I would have to stay late to put the paper to bed, as they call it. He would wait for me in my car in the paper’s parking lot until I got off. For hours. I remember during one of these late nights, my boss asked me ‘what’s up with this guy?’ I jokingly retorted, ‘he loves his woman.’ Apparently, my boss could see something was incredibly wrong before I wanted to realize he was right.
After about six months together, I don’t remember exactly when I said to myself I needed to break up with this guy, but I knew that I needed to do it easily, subtle-like. I knew enough to know you can’t just break up with guys like this. I decided I needed a plan. I didn’t want to be killed. I didn’t want to become one of those ladies talked about on the 11 oclock news. I decided to tell him on the way back from visiting my maternal grandmother in Florence SC. We decided to make the two-three hour drive. Why I thought a drive would be a cool way to have a ‘we need to break up’ conversation, I don’t know. We got there fine. But before we left, something told me to have a backup plan. Once again, my father was that plan. I told him that on the way back to Augusta, I was going to end it with Mr V. My father was very matteroffact, saying ‘he’s harmless. he won’t do anything.’ Somehow, I knew differently.
The time had come for us to leave . We bid our goodbyes to my grandmother. He drove my car. As we entered the highway, I decided it was time to tell him. I told him ‘I’m breaking up with you,’ or something to that effect. I remember him crying loudly. And saying I couldn’t break up with him. I just looked at him. When he realized I was serious, he stopped crying on a dime, as if he never cried at all. A sociopath, psychopath, narcissist. I don’t know which one, but clearly he was one of them. I just looked at him. Then, suddenly he became dark, foreboding and scary. Just at this moment, I realized he had passed the exit to take me to my apartment in Augusta. I told him, if he takes me out of the state, that would be considered kidnapping. I didn’t know if that were true. I just wanted to get out of the car, get in my apartment, go to sleep and forget he and this disastrous relationship ever happened.
As we were driving down the highway, it was getting darker and darker. And if you’ve ever driven in the dark in Augusta, you know some of those roads can be lightless with ditches on each side. I remember looking outside the window, hoping to see any people that I could alert I was in trouble. But I saw no one. I was becoming more and more scared in this car with this crazy man. I even, on two occasions, attempted to jump out of the car, but he grabbed onto me. He was a very skinny guy. It wasn’t until then that I realized how strong he was. All I remember thinking was I gotta get out of this car. I have to survive this, I cannot be a statistic. I cannot die at the hands of this man. How did I get here AGAIN?
During the time, Mr V and I were together, I never had long conversations about him to anyone in my family. As the days wore on with him, I could sense there was something off. And apparently, my parents did too. One day, we went to my parents’ house, which wasn’t too far from my apartment. I think I had the notion that they should meet Mr V. But when we got to the house, he didn’t want to come in. I asked him why. I don’t remember him saying anything that made sense. So, I went in alone and he sat in my car. When I told my parents, he didn’t want to come in, they were like ‘no, that is not normal.’ I was perplexed. I just figured the guy didn’t want to come in. Now, I realized he was so ashamed of himself, so broken, so traumatized by his past, so shy, he couldn’t face anyone. Perhaps, he feared, my parents, unlike me, would see him for who he really was. People, like Mr V, I realize now, are socially awkward. The way they impress themselves is by being a bully to those who allow them that stance. That was me.
I remember feeling embarrassed I was with this type of man. To me, a boyfriend was someone who supported you, guided you, held you up in the highest of esteems. A boyfriend, to me, was someone you could be proud of and he be proud of you. Someone you didn’t mind representing you when you and he weren’t together. Mr V was none of those things. I forget what kind of work he did. I think he worked with kids. He had two daughters of his own. Lovely girls.
Once again, judi was in another failed relationship. UUUgh. I couldn’t tell anyone, except maybe a friend girl. I might have whispered something to my brother, telling him if something happened to me, it was this dude. But never my parents. Too embarrassed. Just like with Mr R. I kept it all inside. All the miserable days at work not wanting to go home to my own apartment. I knew he’d be there with delusional thoughts and comments. There were many restless, sleepness nights with him always wanting sex or something in that regard. One night he pushed me up against a wall and bruised my ankle or foot, I forget which one now, so badly we had to go to the ER. There, with the doctor, when she asked what happened, I think I said I fell. He was right there with me when she asked me. I didn’t dare tell the truth. I felt pathetic. I was stressed out. Unhappy. Losing weight.
Riding in this car, as the night wore on, my thoughts went to my father. I am glad I spoke to him when I was in Florence. Based on how this guy behaved in the prior months, although my father was skeptical, I knew something like this would happen. I also knew if I wasn’t back at my apartment when my Father drove over there looking for me, this guy would be in trouble. My Father was my backup. This was 1992. Back then, cell phones weren’t in vogue like they are now. One had to leave voice mail messages. Keep calling and calling, hoping the person would pick up.
Some of the details of how the night went on are sketchy now. But, eventually, we changed places. I became the driver and drove him to his house. I guess despite all the antics that went on from the time we left my grandmother’s, somewhere in his mind, he figured the relationship was over. But that didn’t stop him from threatening me. I remember him saying ‘if I ever catch you with another guy, I’m gonna kill you or hurt you. Or kill him or hurt him.’ Crazy talk. When he finally let me go, I drove to my apartment. My father was there with the son of a friend of his. They both decided I shouldn’t stay at my place that night, just in case Mr V came back. I spent the night at my parents. I don’t think I slept.
I remember trying to sleep that night, but all the while scared Mr V might return and carry out what he threatened to do earlier. We all hear stories of women finally getting the courage to leave these guys and just when they think peace and freedom have arrived, stalking and eventually murder occur. I did NOT want to be apart of that club. I did NOT. Sleep must have found me because daybreak finally came. I cannot recall all the minute details that occurred following that horrible day and night. I do remember, however, the feeling of relief I felt managing to escape this lunatic. A lunatic I let in my life. Relief and embarrassment played with me for a long time threading themselves amongst other doomed relationships prior and subsequent to this one. With each failed relationship, I felt miserable, alone and needy. A perfect combination to attract losers such as the ones I was attracting.
I’ve read stories of men and women who undergo horrible relationships and then eventually they find THE ONE. The one they described as loving, caring, supportive. Why not me? Everyone who gets into relationships are NOT a hundred percent together when they get married. Yet, it appears their relationships work out. Why not me? What was wrong with me?
I stayed with my parents until I found another apartment not too far from them. Maybe a couple of months. I didn’t want to stay longer than that. They probably wouldn’t have minded, but then as well as now, I like my independence. I couldn’t help shake the feeling that to themselves and to each other, my parents were saying “poor judi. can’t find a man. once again.” A clean break is what I needed and wanted. A fresh start to make new memories. But in all the chaos from that night, moving out of my old apartment, still having to work, trying to avoid Mr V (Augusta, when I lived there, was a smaller town), I realized my period hadn’t come. FUDGE.
My stomach was bothering me for a few days to the point where I thought I had acid reflux. I took antacids. I got out a calendar and began trying to remember when my last period was. GERD wasn’t the problem. I was pregnant. I was pregnant with a child by a man I didn’t like, less more love. A man who had threatened to kill me. I did go to a doctor for confirmation. I remember sitting in the doctor’s office as he spun the pregnancy wheel. He told me how many weeks I was. I asked him am I too late for the other thing. The thing being an abortion. He said no. I felt relief, but pitiful. The doctor never asked ‘ how do you feel about this?’ He didn’t say congratulations. I’m glad he didn’t. I remember him being very stoic. Just another patient. A pregnant patient, alone, lonely, not happy with the father of the baby. That was me. No congratulations needed. I had to wait a couple of weeks before I could get an appointment. Therefore, I was pregnant and working. I remember feeling good about being pregnant. I was talking to the baby. At one point, I thought about keeping the baby. I didn’t have to tell Mr V. Everyday, women keep their babies without father involvement. But, that wasn’t me. I did not want to raise a baby alone. I did not want that life. I have ALWAYS wanted to be with a good, solid man. I ALWAYS wanted to do life with good, solid man. And there was nothing good nor solid about Mr V. Plus, I would have to tell my parents.
I don’t remember who went with me to Planned Parenthood, but it wasn’t a family member. Too embarrassed. It might have been my friendgirl, Tina. Someone had to pick me up because Planned Parenthood would not let you drive home alone after anesthesia. After it was over, I felt empty. Flat. I remember going to the grocery store and buying some fried chicken. Food always made me feel better.
The days following the visit to planned parenthood found me getting back to myself. I’ve always been that way. Get back to it. No sense in wallowing in the mud. Along with the help from my parents, I managed to move out of my old apartment. While moving, I realized Mr V had been in my apartment, with my keys, I found out later, he copied. It wasn’t that he stole some of my clothes, it was how he stole them. He left the tops of my suits and stole either the skirts or the pants. To this day, I cannot understand why he just didn’t take the whole outfit. I guess to further frustrate and make me feel more stupid than I already had been.
I found a new place, a few miles from where I was. I remember the first night I slept in my new bed. I felt free. Liberated. No more tipping around, wondering what mood he was going to be in when I get home. No more taking off my glasses while in public so I would not be accused of staring at other men. Back then, without my glasses, my vision was very blurry. I also got a new position working in a doctor’s office as his office manager. Not too long after getting that position, I resigned and moved back to New York. This was in 1996. I was 28.
At 28, I had already lived a lifetime, in my opinion. I graduated from college. Did about four years in the Air Force. Lived in the Maryland/DC area for about four-five years. Moved to Georgia. Then back to New York. In all this little time, I had not learned a lesson. I kept attracting trash. From the time I could remember that I liked boys, I ALWAYS attracted the broken, unambitious, noncommitted, passive, aggressive, easily offended, married but not happy, broke, emotionally abusive boys. And the ones who might have been good, I eventually stopped liking them. Lost interest in them. There were maybe one or two of those. My whole life.
My whole adult life, I have wanted, truly wanted ONE THING-a good, solid, loyal, hard working, authentic MAN. I didn’t want an education. I didn’t want a job. I didn’t want any children. I wanted a good, solid, loyal, hardworking authentic MAN. We would be each other’s partners. We would raise good children together. We would have a nice home, in a good part of a town, with pleasant neighbors. We would have our families over for meals we would laugh and talk over. We would thoroughly enjoy each others’ company. I would be his honey. He would be my sweets. Fantasy? No. Millions of people live this way. Why. Not. Me. There are couples who are happily married, happily together, who once dated trash and frogs and eventually find their honey and their sweets. Why. Not. Me. There are people, who admittedly, were jacked up and broken, and eventually met their husband. Their wife. and somehow managed to get through the trauma, the emotional entanglement and pave a way for each other that led to longevity and joy. Why. Not. Me.
In the years since Mr. V, and Mr. R I was still fighting my internal self. Inside I was dead. I was still attempting to fill that hole in my gut with someone else. Two wrongs don’t make a right. Two halves don’t make a whole. But at the time I was going through these and other mishapened relationships, I didn’t know I was a half.