Combat Zone
The effects of living in a combat zone within your own home can range from the obvious to the, "What? Are you kidding?"Back when my kids were about 9 and 10, not long after we moved to a little town in Massachusetts, I received permission (yes, that's right) to take my children to a symphonic concert especially for young people being presented at the local Memorial Auditorium.
At the time I was almost two years away from being able to break out of an increasingly terrifying marriage. The first major outbreak of violence had occurred two years earlier while we were living on an USAFbase. There'd been an all-day picnic for squadron personnel and their families.
When shadows began to lengthen, most families returned home, but some, the diehards (in retrospect, the abusive drinkers) wanted the party to keep on keeping on, and an invitation was passed along to go to so-and-so's quarters in base housing. My husband instructed my kids (his stepchildren) that they were to lie down on their beds in the back of the motor home and stay down, not to look out the windows at any time.
|
|
"You stay here!" he commanded and he marched back to the motor home. I chewed out the kid for being a tattletale. Evidently the kid tattled to my husband on me because when he returned, my husband spoke sharply to me under his breath so the party people wouldn't hear. When I started to walk away, he commanded me to return. My fear of him had yet to paralyze me and I kept on going.
I found my kids lying in their beds. Instead of my presence giving them comfort, they were frightened about what might happen to me. I was concerned but I wasn't afraid.
And then, from the light of a street light, I saw the blood on my son's face. My husband had done that. My son whimpered. "I'm all right, Mom," he said. Both children urged me to leave, to return to the party. "It'll go hard on you if he finds you here!"
"We're getting out of here!" I said. "Come on! Hurry!"
They were so afraid of what would happen to me that they refused to come with me! Finally my insistence prevailed and we fled the motor home and started running in what I hoped was the general direction of our quarters. We hid in shrubbery whenever we saw headlights or thought we heard my husband running after us.
We went to a neighbor's house, but they were out, so we hid in their bushes until they came home. They were shocked to see my son's bloodied and swollen face. I spent the night with them; my kids stayed with the base chaplain where we knew they'd be safe.
The following morning, our neighbor extracted a promise from my husband that none of us would be punished, that it was safe for us to return home. I went alone and was greeted with, "That was the first time." I knew he meant he would not tolerate my running away again.
Paranoia Intensifies
Some superficial counseling followed, one visit each. Whatever repercussions my husband might have faced had there been another incident were evidently enough for him to keep himself in check because I knew of no further physical outbursts while on base. However, the verbal onslaughts followed what today is recognized as the cycle of violence.Due to other problems stemming from his behavior, he retired. We became joint owners and managers of 100 acres of campground. His verbal abuse escalated, and physical abuse of all of us became commonplace, except that we never knew what would trigger it. His paranoia intensified to the point where he was the only one allowed to remove the mail from the mailbox.
So by the time I sat with my children in the Memorial Auditorium, expectantly awaiting the thrill of exposing my children to a special occasion there just as I had enjoyed many times while growing up, we were three shell shocked veterans from living with a crazy, mean man. "Domestic violence" had yet to be buzz words. I looked around that vast auditorium and smiled at memories and especially at being there with my children.
Gradually members of the symphony orchestra filed in from the wings, took their seats, and began practicing troublesome phrases -- each musician playing something different. Soon the first violinist gave the pitch, everyone tuned his instrument, and the conductor strode to the podium, acknowledged the applause, raised the baton, and the symphonic orchestra filled that great hall with music.
I had a vague recollection of the tune and thought how nice that the first selection was something familiar. Everyone around us rose. Why? I felt like a country bumpkin come into the city. I got to my feet, and the kids stood. People were singing but I couldn't make out the words.
The inside of my head was a honeycomb of fuzzy-lined compartments, all on overload. Not until half way through the music did I recognize our national anthem.
I'm not kidding.
More from Donna
Previous guest columns written by Donna Thompson for the Alcoholism site.
As always, your comments or questions are welcomed. If you would like to receive a very short and FREE newsletter about updates to this site and other news, just send a note to Buddy T.
