Domestic Abuse Screening
My Real Memoir
I awoke to the sound of screaming, pounding, and frantic footfalls in the entryway stairwell. And then, through my living room window, I saw a skinny guy streak naked across the grass. I pulled on my jeans, ran out of my apartment, and up the stairs. The door to the unit above mine was a pile of splinters; it looked like it had been struck by a cannon ball. Inside, a young woman was cowering on a threadbare couch as a hulk of a man stormed around the room hurling words like boulders. I took a few steps toward the opening, and asked if she was all right. She looked up, blood running from her nose, and said, “Oh…sure, hon…I’m OK.” Then the monster stepped into the doorway, and growled, “She’s fine, motherf—r. Now get the f–k out of here!”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid, but I looked again at the girl, and offered, “I could call the—” “No, hon. I’m fine, really.” The beast raised an arm thicker than my thigh. “Leave! Or I’ll f—ing throw you down the stairs!”
I left, and lay awake till morning, my throat thick with bile. The depression I’d felt the previous year after blanking on stage, the shame I’d felt after my own venal behavior at The River, and the anxiety I’d felt after my first encounter with drugs all bled together inside me, proving they’d never really left, but only been pushed into a dark corner. Did everyone have dark corners?
I got dressed and went upstairs again.
The girl was alone now in her doorless apartment, both of her eyes purpling, her nose and lips swollen. I apologized for not staying to protect her, for not calling the police. She smiled. “You’re sweet, but it’s OK, really. I mean, I’m the one did wrong, and he caught me, so I deserved it. Anyways, now I know he really loves me!” Stunned, I told her that what that monster did was not OK, and that whatever it was wasn’t love. She smiled and shrugged.
We all have a need, I began to realize, for community, people who care and watch out for us. The tribes I read about in my Anthropology class who had that, flourished; those who didn’t, lived short, brutal lives. There were so many broken, isolated people in the world. More than I’d ever realized.
I loved my little corner of paradise, yet at the same time felt lonely and isolated too. My previous ties were severed, and so was my support network. I thought of people like “Skeleton Girl” at the donut shop I frequented. How was she even still alive? Was there anyone to intervene, to stop what was happening to her? (I didn’t know about anorexia then, or that my fellow choir-member Karen Carpenter would eventually die from it.)
Not all beliefs, I’d started to discover, whether openly or secretly held, were constructive. Some, like the girl upstairs’ notion of “love,” could destroy their adherents. So, what did I believe? I wasn’t sure. But I knew I believed in people, however broken they might be. And that, at least…
Was a place to start.
My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.
Good 👍
Wow, powerful thinking. Good that you could see what should be.
Thanks, Belinda.
Believing in people, no matter their brokenness, is indeed a good place to start. Mitch, your life is an example of living and living–no matter what! Thank you for sharing these powerful true moments and experiences!
My privilege, dear friend.
🤍
Compelling, Mitch.
Holy Lion’s Den Batman!
Questioning our beliefs and worldview takes courage and faith .
Wow, what amazing insights. We all have our directions and they will lead us where we are supposed to arrive. And watching other people on their journeys has an impact on ours… as your story proves.
Thanks, Erika.
Well, you got my attention, Mitch. Such a powerful story. Your last words hit home: But I knew I believed in people, however broken they might be. And that at least… Was a place to start.Thank you for telling your story, revealing the truth, and showing that no matter how broken, we all need grace.
Everything you experienced, everyone you encountered, and all the mistakes you made were stepping stones to who you are today. So, you took the high road! 🙂
Thank you, Nancy.
Domestic violence is vile. The psychological abuse is as bad as the physical violence. There was someone I knew had her husband break her arm because he thought she had spent too much on Christmas presents. I hope that girl got help and didn’t end up dead.
Amen to that, Hazel.
🙏
It must break God’s heart to see such brokenness and sadness in the world, when he is SO ready to heal and uplift, provide calm and contentment. I hate to think where I would’ve ended up, if not for him.
Me too, Nancy.
This post sort of hit me in the gut. Twenty years ago, I WAS the girl upstairs 🙁
Sad that our childhoods can sometimes cause us to have warped views of love to that degree.
I remain ever grateful for learning differently and having survived to be who I am today! <3
What a testimony, Meg. I’m glad you survived to be who you are today too!
You’re such a great storyteller, Mitch, and what a rich catalogue of experiences you’ve had. It’s really entertaining to read through your crazy adventures!
Thank you so much, Johan!
mitch heard of the chicana service action center & the family violence prevention fund & films such as the godfather, goodfellas, duke of earl, right to slap, burning bed, battered, straight out of brooklyn, house of our own, family apart, family together, etc. the slapping films
“I believed in people, however broken they might be.” Beautiful and a place all of us should be. It begins with our compassion for others and compassion requires action… Great post and a call to action for us all!
So glad it spoke to you, Peggy.
Wow
This was very powerful, Mitch! All of us are broken, one way or another, but we really are called to help each other. I can relate to the way your beliefs shifted and changed as you grew up and experienced more life…I think that’s the way most of us figured out (finally) what we truly believe in!
Our experiences definitely shape how we think and act. Thanks for the reflection, Ann.
Mitch,
There are terrible things we have all seen. Lord, protect these hurting women.
Thank you, Gary
Gary Avants Forbear Productions * *garyavants66@gmail.com garyavants66@gmail.com
Amen, Gary.
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