I mentioned earlier that my mother married an abusive man and chose him over me.
So being I didn’t want to live at home anyway and I certainly didn’t want to get beat for every damn thing I found a boyfriend with a car and got pregnant as soon as I could. I wasn’t quite 16 when I got pregnant. I promptly dropped out of school and we got married.
He turned out to have issues of his own and was abusive on and off. We were married for a long 6 & 1/2 years. Most of the time he was just a louse at least.
The first beating happened when I was still pregnant with my oldest son. We lived in a teeny travel trailer behind the bar that was next to the radiator shop his parents owned. I have no idea what set him off that time. For that matter I don’t think I ever really knew what set him off.
I remember one time when I was pregnant with my second son having morning sickness and him kicking me while I threw up in the toilet. Yeah, special memories.
There were numerous other beatings. I have mostly just blocked them from my memory.
I don’t specifically remember the last time he hit me but I do remember the last time he hit anybody. We had been to a christening party for a friend of our’s baby and everybody had a whole lot to drink. They had a 3 foot tall bottle of wine. Since I wasn’t drinking at the time and he was trashed I drove. I don’t know why but he forced me to drive out to his parent’s house where his younger brother lived. He made me wait in the car and went in the house and beat his little brother. While he was in the house he ripped out the phone and when he came out he ripped all the wiring out of his brother’s car. The next day his parents arrived at our house and took him to alcohol treatment. They seemed to be okay with him beating me but beating someone big enough to stand up for themselves was unacceptable. The alcohol treatment center he was in was on the same grounds as the state mental hospital. He claimed he got beat up by the inmates. He didn’t really stay sober after that but he wasn’t drunk and high all the time either. Our youngest son was about 6 months old when he went to treatment. The 30 days he was gone were the best 30 days of our whole marriage. I stayed with him a little less than 2 more years after he went to treatment.
I stayed because I had two kids under 4, no education and no where to go. I damn sure wasn’t going to go back home. I had spent the last 6 months we were together trying to figure out how to extricate myself gracefully, with both of my kids and be able to support us.
I remember we were driving down the street in the van the day he told me he wanted a divorce. I said “okay” and moved out 3 days later.
The things that happened next are a story unto themselves. Next time.