Who's to Blame?

Wheeling into the office, Lynn had a skittish look, like a horse that knows it going to die. As the mahogany door clicked behind her, the room was sealed from the outside world. All sound seemed amplified as her wheelchair moved along with odd clicking noise, out of rhythm with her hands propelling her across the room. The wheelchair was filthy, with a tattered black backpack hanging loosely from the handles.

She was dressed neatly but with a desperate look, worried because she was just barely making her bills. The faint bluish bruise on her lower chin and the habitual way she hurriedly perused the room looking for other exits made the receptionist buzz the counselor.

It was a substantial room, with huge glass windows behind a glass desk accented with well-kept greenery. A set of massive bookcases stood importantly from floor to ceiling, brimming with legal books, paperbacks and videotapes. A small TV was tucked in the center of one with a VCR teetering on the top ready to tumble. The desk was sparse, with a large blotter edged in rich red leather matching a portly button-tufted chair.

A box of Kleenex housed in burnished brass was strategically placed near the edge of the desk. A small golden clock was facing the windows, chiming the hour. It was cool but comfortable; the faint soft whirl of superior air-conditioning fought the brutal heat outside. She could see the haze of pollution over the city, noting how nice it must be living seventeen floors above.

The Counselor nodded with a weary smile as he quietly entered the room from a door she hadn’t noticed, tucked behind a sweeping palm tree in the corner. He removed one of matching red leather club chairs in front of the desk—obviously for patients—nodding for her to take her assigned place.

She smiled weakly, wheeling cautiously up to the huge desk. He peered at her with owlish eyes, asking if she’d like a cup of coffee. She declined, wiping her hands on her jeans before she shook his hand with a grip of strength. He smiled, introduced himself and sat down on the sumptuous leather chair with a soft plop, groaning quietly under his breath. Slowly he opened a cream-colored file folder, clicked his pen and cleared his throat. She fidgeted, adjusting her sweatshirt of pale yellow, pulling the cuffs closer to her wrists, suddenly becoming chilled. Taking a deep breath she murmured a feeble “thank you for seeing me”. He smiled gently, nodding to signify permission to begin her diatribe.

LYNN(speaking quietly but distinctly):
My husband and I haven’t gotten along in years. Not that we didn’t love each other when we got married, but things change over the years—love doesn’t go very far when you’re sick of each other.

I guess you’re supposed to start at the beginning, eh? Okay. Well, we met at a party in my apartment. I shared it with another man and his girlfriend. I thought he looked just like a rock star I adored when I was 13. I couldn’t help watching his every move. He had the same long blond hair, toothy-white smile and muscular body.  He greeted everyone with a wonderful smile! …and I felt he would be different from the other assholes in the room. I wanted to meet him, but when he glanced at me he looked as if he was scared of me, ya know? He’d look away every time I tried to catch his eye.

I had to show him I was just like every other girl in the room!..ya know, the way guys want ya to act… eager, ya know? I was very aggressive back then. I was 19 and not afraid to tell people what I thought. I exaggerated to look tough—like a biker’s girlfriend.

When I wheeled up and parked next to him, he was telling a joke and I finished the punch line. He looked at me, smiled, and my stomach flip-flopped. I thought I’d better keep the laughter going or he would move on to another girl. I had him in my bed in 3 hours.

She smiled triumphantly, waiting for comments about her accomplishment. The Counselor just stared. Face flushed, she stammered on.

LYNN:
Our first blowout was 4 months later. I found out he had lost his job while I was in the hospital and had spent all our money! We opened a joint account 3 weeks after we met, and I had all my disability checks automatically deposited. He didn’t want me to know he was fired so every “payday” he would come up to the hospital with movie magazines, candy and sometimes flowers. When I was released I told him I needed him to withdraw my share of the rent. He told me there wasn’t any money in our account. I was in a panic thinking he spent my money on another girl. Every boyfriend I ever had fucked around on me. When he told me the truth, I was relieved! He took the money to buy drugs and party with his friends at the local park. Even when I called him a stupid fucking asshole about 10 times, he didn’t hit me. I forgave him. I was feeling stupid because I gave him access to the only money I had. (whiny, pleading tone ) He still lived with his mom, so I thought I could make him into a man…and asked him to move in with me.

She looked at the Counselor, silently begging for her heroic deed. He did nothing, looking relaxed. Frustrated at his lack of surprise, she took and deep breath and continued.

LYNN:
The first time he hit me I was 7 months pregnant. It was about a puppy he wanted to keep from a litter our German Sheppard had. I didn’t want a new dog with a baby due in a couple of months, and he did. This time when I called him a stupid fucking asshole, he punched me in the face with his fist. I got really pissed and threw everything I could get my hands on at him.

Lynn was jabbering a mile a minute, hoping to prove she was a victim. He scribbled something on a legal pad without looking at her. She strained to read his notes, hoping it was something like “battered wife needs husband killed”.

COUNSELOR:
Lynn? Are you okay? Do you need a glass of water?

LYNN:
No, I’m okay.

COUNSELOR:
Did your arguments become more violent after the first one?

LYNN:
Sometimes our fights would get out completely of control. I would scream, he’d scream back, and the next thing you know, he’s swinging at me or I’m throwing something at him.

By now she was on the defensive, determined to make this man her advocate. Cracking her knuckles, struggling for control, Lynn paused for a moment trying to control her breathing that was coming in short bursts. She nearly lost it, wanting him to say something—anything! But he just scribbled some more and nodded at her to continue.

LYNN:
Last Saturday I was cooking dinner, fried chicken with all the trimmings—which is hard work to feed five people. We started fighting about the kids again. We have three teenagers and we never can agree on how to handle them.

Our youngest, Tony, got in trouble at school again. I told him that we should let Tony suffer the consequences. Well, he got angry, complaining I didn’t control Tony right. One thing led to another, and suddenly he was in my face, grabbing my arm, twisting it, digging in his fingers! His face turned purple, and I kept yelling, “step back” and “let go of me”.

I guess he took that as a challenge and really went ballistic--he was ready to pound me. I grabbed my largest butcher knife from the kitchen counter and held it to his throat. I kept screaming “back off”, figuring he would stop. Instead, he let go of me and turned around, and started taunting me to stab him in the back, yelling it at the top of his lungs! I was sure the neighbors were going to call the cops.

I almost stabbed him…I wanted to so badly. But I thought of my kids, how crazy our marriage was, and I figured I’d probably go to jail instead of him. I felt trapped.

Lynn was nearly shouting now, her hands were trembling and she felt like her heart was going to explode. The receptionist came rushing in but the Counselor put up his hand and waved at her to get out of the room.

COUNSELOR:
Okay, Lynn. Settle down and have a glass of water. (He pours her a glass and sets it down gently in front of her.)
Would you like to take a break for a few minutes to gather your thoughts?

LYNN:
No, I’m okay. Sorry about that. I guess I’m still worked up over that scenario. I’d better finish my story before I lose my nerve.

The Counselor nods and hands her the Kleenex box. Lynn blows her nose, takes a long swallow of water, then a deep breath. She nods to him and continues.

LYNN:
Well, the kids are watching all of this, ya know, so I tell them to go to their rooms. I look at the knife and suddenly I threw it down, like it was on fire or something! I thought he would just walk out of the house, but he turned around and punched me in the arm, as hard as he could! I thought he broke my arm, it hurt so much! I yelled in pain. Tony was listening in the other room and picked up the phone to call the cops. Dickhead heard him and ran at him, ripping it out of his hands. I screamed at him not to hit Tony—and he suddenly stopped. I didn’t call the police. I guess should have. I thought I’d better get out of there so I put all the kids in the car and left.

She thought he would smile in approval at her courage. He quietly let out his breath and said smoothly:

COUNSELOR:
You should have called the police. Why didn’t you? You were very lucky the fight didn’t end in bloodshed.

The color drained from her face as she clasped her shaking hands, fighting for control.

LYNN: (very indignant)
Because of my kids. Putting their father in jail? With the kids and the neighbors watching? It’s too humiliating…

COUNSELOR:
Too humiliating for whom?

Lynn was really angry now. How dare he question her like this? It was as if he was accusing her of being responsible for her beatings!

LYNN:
For the kids—for me! Christ, we’ve been married for nearly 20 years. How am I going to explain  a divorce to my family and friends? They think he's nuts for staying with me for this long--like I’m responsible for his shit. At first I didn’t tell my family about this fight. But then I had to when our daughter told my sister, and she told my mother—big mouth! My father said my husband should’ve controlled himself. He’s a fine one to talk! He beat the crap out of us kids if we looked at him sideways. But my mother and sister said I was asking for it, said I provoked him! I just stuck up for myself. What was I supposed to do?

As she opened her mouth to continue, the Counselor put up his hand signaling her to stop talking. She clamped her lips tightly, fuming at his lack of compassion. Where were the usual comments of “You poor thing” or “Good for you!”?

COUNSELOR:
Domestic abuse takes two to occur. But the man is usually stronger, and the woman loses out in the defense department. To be able to walk away, to get out of the house before you lose your temper takes much more control. Being a martyr is no way to go through life. And I’m not talking about the people who get hit. The ones who do the hitting feel trapped too.

She struggled to regain her composure. Trying to take in his explanation, she cracked her knuckles again, breathing slowly. Looking at him, she suddenly felt compassion for her husband and immediately ignored it.

LYNN:
When I came back home later that day, he was crying, saying how sorry he was, the usual.

COUNSELOR:
So you came back out of habit?

LYNN:
No! I came back because it’s my house too. And I worked hard to buy that house.

COUNSELOR:
Do you think you came back because you still love him?

She smirked at him. He had no reaction. She was beginning to feel silly, as if she should know why she stayed with her husband.

LYNN:
20 years is a long time to be married, and to walk away is going to be pure hell for me—and my kids—everyone.

COUNSELOR:
Why?

LYNN: (now irritated to the point of hysteria)
Because he already told me if I ever left him, he’d make my life a living hell—and that scares me. It’s not like I can run away from him—he’s thrown me out of my wheelchair plenty of times—broke my leg once. He doesn’t care how he gets even—he just does somehow. If he isn’t hitting me he’s stealing money out of the checking account or going out with other women! One of them even called the house last month. I knew he was fooling around—he always had someone on the side—but I want my kids to be out of school when I divorce him. He’ll never pay child support—he’d kill me first. He’s said so before. The cops don’t give a crap. I’ve had a restraining order on the fucker for months. But unless I file for divorce they won’t throw him out of the house, and he won’t leave. He lives in the basement--it’s awful.

COUNSELOR:
Intimidation is the core of domestic violence. Without it—without fear—there is no reason to stay in an abusive relationship. Intimidation can come in many forms. It’s not always physical. It can be withholding of money, food, sex, not communicating, disappearing for days. Anything to make the other think they will be worse off without the other.

She stared at him, waiting for some consoling words like most of the blame was her husband’s. It never came.

COUNSELOR:
But love--love that gives as well as receives is non-existent in abusive relationships. You were in love at first, but what was that love based on? What made you want to be with your partner? Why did you stay after he abused you or you abused him? Those questions are the basis of our sessions, and my hope is we can answer some of them.

He abruptly stood up, walking over to the bookcases. He pulled out several paperbacks, instructing her to give two of them to her husband to read. She mumbled “thanks” and stuffed them in her backpack. He walked out of the office, leaving her in a quivering heap. He came back quickly telling her to come and see him again the following week. She wheeled out of the room confused, paying her bill in silence.

Driving home the counselor’s words swirled in her head until she realized that this man was different from every other marriage counselor she had before. For the first time she was told she had a significant part in the mayhem of her life. Up until now, she was always in the right. Now she had to be honest with herself. She hated the feeling of responsibility, but none of her old excuses held up to the notion that she went back to her husband because it made her feel better.

Lynn pulled into the driveway crying like a baby. She realized she had to own up to her end of the fighting. She didn’t want to save her marriage. She wanted to learn how to leave her husband without bloodshed.

With that thought she dug into her backpack and tossed one of the books the counselor wanted her to read in the glove box. She grimaced as she thought of some way to give her husband the books meant for him. She wasn’t ready to admit to him that she was partly responsible for 20 years of misery. Not yet.