Tag Archives: domestic violence

What The Fuck Is Wrong With Americans?

Straight off the jump: I am American, born & raised in Baltimore, Maryland. That’s irrelevant to my rant, but just in case some genius takes offense to my title, and gets his panties in a twist, it’s there. I can, and intend to rant about my fellow citizens.

Ray Rice. Number 27. Running Back. Ranked as the Ravens’ second all-time leading rusher behind Jamal Lewis (7,801) with 5,940 yards, and also second in attempts (1,273). He is ranked second all-time for rushing touchdowns (37) and third for combined touchdowns (43) in Ravens history. Woman beater. Suspended for the first two games of the 2014 season. Convicted of 3rd degree assault. Possible jail term of 3-5 years, and a fine of up to $15,000.

Public outcry, and backlash? Nil.

Michael Vick. Number 7. Quarter Back. In 2006, Vick became the first quarterback to ever rush for over 1,000 yards in a single season.[25] He also set a record by rushing for 8.4 yards per carry. Vick and teammate running back Warrick Dunn became the first quarterback-running back duo to each surpass 1,000 rushing yards in a single season. Dog fighting ring operator. Sentenced to serve 23 months in federal prison, transported to Virginia in November 2008 to face state charges. Received a 3-year prison sentence suspended on condition of good behavior, and a $2,500 fine.

Public outcry and backlash? Protests outside of the courthouse, and his home. Nationwide rants about how he was a horrible person, and should be buried under the jail. Loss of endorsement deals. Threats against his life. Just to name a few.

So, the media, the courts and the rest of the nation thinks that dogs are more important than women. Let that sink in, and percolate for a moment.

But, is that really a surprise? Look at the recent Supreme Court Hobby Lobby ruling. A business was deemed more important than women. Hell, a scary thing about that? There were some women cheering that ruling, too. Seriously.

I really don’t get this. I’m going to wax poetic a bit here: As a straight male, I love women. They are wonderfully fascinating. They are endlessly inventive, intelligent as hell. They are wise, kind, loving, warm and caring. They are also strong as hell. And, then there’s the other appealing aspects of them: They’re beautiful with soft skin, curvy bodies, and delightful… well, never mind. I’m a huge fan of women, is what I’m getting at.

I honestly am confused by how our nation insists on marginalizing, and oppressing them. I get that they do, I see it everywhere. But, I want to know why? Why insist that half of our species is unimportant, and lower than animals?! Why say to them (and brainwash some of them into saying), “Bronze Age superstition is more important than you?”

Does anyone even know? If not, why do it? Oh, and before commenters jump in with other countries, or “not all of us,” let me put it like this: Where is your protest about how lightly Ray Rice got off? Where is your on-air rant about Hobby Lobby? Where’s your service in a domestic violence shelter? Or anything of that nature?


Self Loathing

Is there anything more devastating to deal with? It’s bad when it’s a normal, day-to-day thing. It is worse still when it’s due to being in an abusive relationship. I mean, you hear from someone who is supposed to love you tell you how much you suck when you mess up – even if it’s in their eyes only -, you start to believe it. And then, if you’re lucky, you have other loved ones pointing out what the abuser is doing to you, and asking, “How can you not see this is bad?”


Hmm. First the person you are in love with is calling you dumb for screwing something up, then someone else is inadvertently doing the same thing by asking how can you not see the abuse.  Is it any wonder you begin to hate yourself, if you didn’t before you got into the abusive relationship to begin with?


My ex, Christine (who you may have read about before) had a particularly wonderful refrain: “Why the fuck do I continue to put up with your stupidity, Robert? I must be some kind of masochist, but damnit, I see so much potential in you, if you’d just do what the hell you’re told.” To which I could only hang my head in shame, and apologize. One of the toughest things about being in that situation was the knowledge I was completely alone. Folks readily recognize that males abuse females, but the opposite is not so true. If a guy hits a woman, he’s the lowest for of scum on earth that needs his nuts ripped off, be burned alive, ect. If a woman hits a guy, well, he must have done something wrong, or he deserved it in some fashion. I told one person what happened to me, the reason why I was in the hospital. I was asked if I had cheated on my girlfriend, or something stupid like that. I think due to that verbal slap, I ended up staying with Christine another fourteen months. It took catching her in the act of cheating on me, on our wedding day, to get me to leave.


So, back to the self loathing aspect. When I regained my freedom, the amount of self hatred I had prevented me from really having a normal relationship for years. Don’t get me wrong, I tried. I didn’t realize I was sabotaging myself, though. I met a wonderful woman named Victoria about six months after I left Christine. When the poor lady would try to compliment me, or tell me I was a good person, I couldn’t and didn’t, believe it. I had a little voice in my head (that sounded an awful lot like Christine) telling me how worthless I was, and that I was a terrible person. I was also telling myself there was no way I could be loved because of how messed up I was. I eventually drove Victoria away. Fortunately, it was to a man who treated her the right way.


I still find it hard to articulate the hatred I have for myself, if you haven’t noticed. How do you put into words how worthless you feel, and how stupid you must have been to allow yourself to end up in a situation where someone is allowed to beat you with things like golf clubs, baseball bats, cast iron skillets, ect? How can you not see while you’re in there how bad it is? Simple. They tell you each time they love you. They only want what’s best for you. And, it wouldn’t happen if you didn’t make them do it to you. Did I really deserve those things that were done to me? Most days, the answer is, “No.” Other days, though…



Last night, I had a conversation with a friend of mine who is in an abusive relationship. I, too, was in one. This friend – my best friend, by the way – mentioned something their abuser did that caused me to flashback to some events from my relationship with my abuser.  You may remember the name Christine if you’re a long time reader. If not, here is something I shared on another website, in the comments section.

During the 1999 to 2002, I was in a bad relationship. Domestic violence kind of bad. If you were to look at the two of us, and heard ours was a dv relationship, you’d swear I was the victimizer: I was a Navy man, she was a bartender. I was 6′, 220 lbs of solid muscle. She was 5′, 95 lbs of waif. I didn’t stand a feckin’ chance. I’m going to tell you about the first – and only – time I heard that I was a victim, and needed to get out.

Christine and I had a little game we’d play every weekend where I’d ask what she wanted for breakfast, she’d say eggs Benedict, and I’d give her scrambled. We both knew from the early days of the relationship I had no idea what eggs Benedict were, much less how to make them. This particular sunny Saturday afternoon, the radio was on KOGO AM, and the Padres were warming up.

She came into the kitchen wearing one of my work black shirts, and a smile. I wore jeans and a white t-shirt. I kissed her in greeting (I was up about 30 minutes prior to her), and pulled the eggs from the fridge. We did our little routine, and I served her her hot scrambled eggs and bacon. I slapped bacon into the skillet for myself, and started to whip up an omelet for myself. I heard a skillet scraping across the counter top – if you’ve ever owned a cast iron skillet, you know the sound I’m referring to – and, I think I started to turn to see what she was up to. I still don’t know. What I do know is I was suddenly looking under the stove at some dust bunnies. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why I was on the floor.

Christine ordered me to get up in this scary flat way she had that informed me I had screwed up again. I tried for several minutes to do so, but it was like my body wasn’t connected to me anymore. After a few sharp kicks in the ribs, which I barely noticed, I was able to pull myself to my feet by holding onto the oven door. I looked at the red-haired beauty in front of me, and did not know her name. Before I could say anything, I felt wetness rolling down the back of my neck. “Oh, I must have just gotten out of the shower and forgot to dry my hair,” I remember thinking, and I went to push some of the water out with my hand. Instead, I found a spongy mass on the back of my skull, and a handful of blood. I woke in the hospital a few hours later. Cracked the back of my skull.

The doc said it was a wonder I was still alive. That part of my cranium was fractured like an eggshell. Funny, huh? He asked me what happened, and I said to ask Christine. She said I fell. He asked her to step outside, and repeated his question. I said what she did. I knew better than to contradict her. Doc said it was bs because I had a mark on the side of my face from a maybe fall, but this was the back of my skull. He then told me I should contact a shelter and leave her. He said that she was abusing me. I got mad at him, then myself, then Christine, and then I cried. I did not, however, veer from the story of me falling.



In 1999, I was in the US Navy. I was in the best shape of my life. I was 220 lbs of well-developed muscle, full of piss & vinegar. I was in San Diego, on shore leave. I stumbled into a bar around 2230 (10:30PM) with a couple shipmates. We had spent most of the afternoon drinking our asses off. For some reason, I decided it was time to sober up, so I switched to drinking water. We sat at the bar and when I ordered booze for them and water for me, my companions decided to start razzing me. The bartender was a gorgeous redhead, 5 foot nothing, ninety pounds, took pity on me. She handed me a tall glass of water and told them to lay off as she’d given me the biggest drink. They laughed it off, calling bullshit. She said I had pure vodka, swear on her honor. They said that I should chug with them (the fuckers had Mai tais). I was still buzzed, so I said, “Sure.” and took a huge gulp. The shock of the ice-cold water caused me to gasp and choke. The idiots with me cheered. The rest of the night, I sobered up while they got more hammered. I ended up chatting with the bartender and asked her name. She said it was Christine.
We really hit it off and after the Garage (the bar’s name) closed at 0300, she invited me over to her place. Being a guy, 19 and her being an attractive woman who was interested in me, lead me to agreeing. I spent the night, and fell for her. The next morning, she woke me with breakfast in bed and we ended up staying in bed until 1500 when she had to get ready for work. She drove me back to the Navy Yard and I kissed her goodbye, promising to see her again during my next leave which was in six months. That shore leave turned into the end of my first deployment and I ended up living with her for the next six months.
Around the second month, while we were at a club, she started dancing with another guy. I got a bit pissed because he wouldn’t back off after that. Finally, I got pissed off, took the guy outside and kicked his ass. Christine got pissed off with me, telling me she wasn’t my property, slapping me and eventually took off with him. I went back to her place, packed my stuff and punched a hole in the wall when I realized that she had my wallet.
When she got back the next day, we had a huge fight. She told me she hadn’t done anything with the guy, just went to a couple other bars and went to her sister’s and passed out, and what was wrong with me, why didn’t I trust her, ect. After nearly an hour, she brought me around, I forgave her and we had make up sex. Two weeks later, the same thing happened with a different guy. The same thing happened when she came back the next day: an hour and a half of fighting, followed by make up sex and another promise to never do it again.
After the fourth time, I was really heated and called her a fucking whore. She abruptly went calm, and walked into the dining room. I dropped on the couch and held my head in my hands. I was feeling like shit for that because her mother actually had been one. She didn’t know who her father was. I learned Christine had come back into the room when she smashed a ceramic serving platter over the back of my head. I fell to the floor, pretty fucking dazed. She proceeded to kick my ass all over that house. I wound up with thirteen stitches in my head and two black eyes. After she stopped and saw how fucked up I was, she promptly became apologetic, saying she didn’t mean to do it, but I just made her so mad. She drove me to the hospital and I got fixed up, telling the ER staff I had gotten mugged.
She cried the way home, begging me not to leave her, she was sorry, it would never happen again, ect. I agreed to stay with her. That was the first time she beat my ass, but not the last. I was with her for three years. The only reason I left her was because I caught her in the act of cheating on me. But, that’s a story for another time.