Pulling the Thread

Yes, I tend to write about abuse a lot. It is the only way I have dealt with it so far. I don't talk about it in detail with anyone. Although there are times when I would really like to talk about certain memories I can't shake. But I've found that it's better to write at these times. Understandably, those close to me don't like to hear stories about violence inflicted on me, particularly the vividly graphic tales that I keep reliving in my head lately.

They definitely don't want or need to hear about what I am thinking when I think of Chad. It's unfair of me to expect anyone who cares about me to want to listen to detailed accounts of the shit that I put myself through with him. I don't like to censor myself when I write so it's the best medium for me to expunge the flashbacks from my thoughts. My poetry writing rule since college has been that if my writing feels at all "inappropriate" or like it would make someone uncomfortable, I know that I've got something. I know that I need to pull the thread further to see what's there.

Real Abuse

People throw around the word abuse way too much in my opinion. A serious drama queen who is also a server at Morton’s actually told me that she felt like she was a victim of “domestic violence” after a fellow server screamed at her during a heated argument.

I bit my tongue hard, thankful that she expressed this thought in a text message and not in person. Her inflated claim stung me especially hard because she knows that I was involved in a very violent abusive relationship. A relationship that was so dangerous and destructive that it necessitated my relocation from DC to NY.

I was in a relationship with a man who once locked me in the kitchen for the evening because he was angry at me for something I can’t remember. I can’t remember the arguments that preceded the violence much anymore. I do remember that Chad had been pushing me while we were fighting in the kitchen. This morphed into a situation with him standing in the doorway, his square shoulders blocking the door frame verbally belittling me while telling me I couldn’t leave the room.

Each time I got up and tried to pass him, he would block me with his body and push me back out of the doorway. I was pretty hysterical after the 10th or so attempt at getting out failed. I resigned myself to the kitchen floor where I stayed for awhile. I was sitting on a small rug on the kitchen floor. I don’t even remember how or when I finally was allowed to leave the room. I was on the kitchen floor for awhile; until I had “calmed down.”

He would pull that on me quite often when we would argue. He would “restrain me” on the floor, push me out of his way, or confine me to a specific space – all intensely physical, until I had “calmed down.” He would always have a cool, eerily detached justification for his actions. No matter the circumstance, no matter what he did to me - to him I was responsible because I had pushed him to do it. My mistrust of him, my anger, my jealousy, my impoliteness on various occasions were all reason enough for him to verbally abuse me, repeatedly hit my head on the ground, push and punch me, give me a black eye and a fractured nose.

I know that I am one of the fortunate ones. I am out, away, free. The cycle has been broken - at least for now. But I can’t help but get angry when I hear people equating verbal arguments or uncomfortable, disagreeable situations to genuine abuse.

Contusions & Makeup Names

So I came across a dark purple nail polish today called Bruised. It bothered me, yet it did appeal to my creative/poetic side, not to mention my beauty product obsession. I love the unconventional sexy names given to makeup products. I think they're a fun bonus to wearing the colors. (My blush pigments are Deep Throat, Outlaw, and Tipsy...) I have promiscuous tendencies when it comes to colors; it's half the fun of wearing them. But back to the purple that got under my skin. The name Bruised still makes me think of the bruises I lived through with Chad. I was going through my cell phone the other day and I found a text that I sent to Joseph a few days after the final blowout with Chad. My text told Joseph that I was moving to NYC and that my bruises were still sore and my nose fractured. It was so strange to see that living in my phone this far down the road. It made me think of the light green eye shadow called Fern that I used to conceal my black eye. It still makes me feel queasy to look at it yet I can't throw it out. It's a weird reminder of the past sitting quietly in the bottom of my makeup bag. It's hard to understand and digest the fact that I was trying so hard to cover up the bruise on my eye while Chad was sitting in the next room of my apartment; that I didn't follow through with kicking him out until the crap hit the fan. I confronted his cheating and it turned into a brutal fight that changed the direction of my life.

Where Are you Neo-Cary Grant?

With all of the affection that I have for classic movies - particularly romantic comedies with lightening fast dialogue and wit, it's easy to get eagerly swept up in the respect and adoration for women in so many of these movies. But yet another vieiwng of one of my favorites, Pillow Talk, has reminded me of the double-edged sword as far as sexual politics goes. Yes, the women (and yes, I realize this entire conversation is in the context of "movie women and men") are treated with such reverence and there is an obvious level of respect that seems to be all but gone today. But at what cost were women treated in such a manner? Protection and fragility don't end with dating.

The Porterhouse

Tonight I decided to use "The Porterhouse" as the alias for the man in my stories that I am currently referring to as "N."

N is too easy, and not decriptive enough as aliases go.

Congratulations Goodbye N

Here come those famous words again. Dripping with excitement, guilt, sadness, security, and nostalgia, " I spoke to N tonight."

MY Silver Fox.

It was a big one for me. I was informed by my current GM that N was recently promoted to regional mgr. I knew that meant that soon I would no longer be able to give him a late night call whenever I felt like it. Despite the fact that I have had no desire to talk to him since our last encounter in January, it still feels significant that the option will soon be gone.

So I called. I sucked up the bad feelings lingering from January and thought about the fact that I couldn't bear never speaking to him again. I wanted to hear his voice. His deep voice and sexy laugh.

He kept harping on the fact that I hadn't called him since our tryst in January. I pointed out that he had not called me either. That's when he brought up the angry, inebriated texts that I sent him the night he left my hotel, and I ended up wasted in Morton's on Conn. Ave. and sad about him leaving so abruptly. I felt sick when he mentioned the texts. He said that they freaked him out and that he has wanted to talk to me since then but felt uncomfortable.

I told him that I was drunk and surprisingly hurt at how fast he booked. I was very frank and said that I felt like he "couldn't get away from me fast enough." He was quiet and then admitted that he didn't know what to say to that. Then he finally stated that he din't want to get away from me, ("that wasn't it at all") but that of course I know that he has to go home to someone, he felt awkward and didn't want to explain. I pointed out that he didn't need to explain; in the 4 years since we first started this whole thing, I never, EVER asked him about his personal business. He acknowledged this fact and told me that he was glad that I called

I told him that I was not asking for anything from him and he said "that is questionable." He said that he knows if he called me it would have "stirred up emotions." That is great, but I know that if he truly wanted to talk tome then he would have called. That is okay. I feel good about myself. I just will always have a place in my heart for him. He is very special to me and I know that I am special to him. Regardless of his lack of calls and his frantic paranoia and guilt, I know that he cares for me. I just love seeing him. I wish his arms and body were more confident, and not riddled with guilt when he was with me in January.

I told him that the texts were not indicative of me, that I am not an angry person - he interrupted to tell me "No, you are a terrific person- a fantastic person." I told him however, that I was surprised myself at how hurt I was by how he left. I know nothing can ever grow between us but the painful reality is that there are feelings between us already. I want the best for him and I know that he is sincere when he says that he wants the best for me. I know he wants me to be happy and knowing that makes me feel comforted.


I also know that he is not completely fair with me. He teases me and I let him. I told him I called him tonight because I didn't want to never talk to him again. He said he was really glad that I called. I told him that I felt better after talking to him and he told me that made him happy.

It was some sort of closure for me. I care about him and want to have his presence in my life be a positive one. You never know what will happen in life and I am happy that at least he knows how much I care for him and that I was thinking of him. He shied away from the talk veering toward feelings/sex. It is crazy to think that this started in the fall of '04 and that we are still in contact. That makes me happy. And at least I can always contact him through J. And I do have his cell, for a text perhaps in an emergency situation.

I feel like I have to bury him mentally like I had before- only now I can feel okay that I spoke to him. I feel good but also a little sad. Glad that I spent the time I have with him but sad when I think of what never will be. But I want to be friends like he suggested. This is the first time in my life that I can tuly say that I want what is best for him even if it is not me; I would rather be friends with him than not have him in my life at all.

Do you ever really forget the pain?

The advice I keep getting is that I can't dwell in the past, I need to move on, abolish my relationship frame of references because they are steeped in dysfunction.

Correct, but oh so difficult. My only real relationship cues are bad ones. Rotten and backward experiences that bring me memories of violence and control. How then, do I figure out my way ahead? Experience and knowledge based on experience are what traditonally inform judgement in the present. But for me now - I don't know. I want to do whatever I can to keep everything blooming for W and I. In certain situations my reactions are based upon negative conditioning. My emotional flinches are hiccups that don't help matters. W is a wonderful guy that deserves a clean, equally beautiful slate. I keep wondering if there is a part of the process - dealing with domestic violence- that I have overlooked. I feel like I skipped a needed step of recovery. My past is the past but I also can't forget how I was treated and what that did to me pysche. I let it happen so I must also, officially absolve any intrusion into my current relationship. Does talking about the violence help to disarm the bad memories? I need to know.

Me In an Astrological Nutshell

The Sagittarius bounds through life with the confidence and optimism of one who is blessed. There is no possibility of failure, because Sagittarius knows there is a good and just reason for everything that happens in life. The Sagittarius may seem naive - unable to perceive wrongdoing in herself or others. She possesses an innocence of spirit that allows her to see through the evils and into the goodness in the hearts of everyone. She is friend to all, lover of animals and children. To the Sag, all creatures possess the utmost goodness and beauty, and thus are worthy of her earnest appreciation.

They have both profound and widely ranging minds, equipped with foresight and good judgement, and they can be witty conversationalists. They love to initiate new projects (they make excellent researchers) and have an urge to understand conceptions that are new to them. they think rapidly, are intuitive and often original, but are better at adapting than inventing and are at their best when working with colleagues of other types of character that compliment their own. They are strong-willed and good at organizing, a combination that gives them the ability to bring any project they undertake to a successful conclusion. Their generosity can be balanced by their extreme care at handling their resources.

The Sagittarius will travel far and wide in search of more knowledge about her world. She loves to learn, teach, expand and find truth - thus her interest in philosophy, religion and other cultures. She moves quickly and independently as she is so sure of her own choices, which are always pure, honest and well-meaning.

Sagittarius thrives on action, motion, knowledge, progress and spirituality. She is known to be athletic, and sometimes clumsy - occasionally tripping over her feet, or tongue. Always looking ahead, she can tap into the future. She seems to know instinctively what's coming up next....

Sophistication Waning

Eating out isn't for everyone. Especially if you are extremely uptight, nasty, deaf, cheap, inclined to berate your server in an attempt to inject some confidence and self esteem into your own life. If it's your birthday and you are miserable.

And you really shouldn't be going out to pricey outfits like the one that I work out if you can't afford an appropriate tip, assuming of course that the service is satisfactory.

The truth may hurt but it's preferable to bending over and kissing the ass of people who don't have a clue. Case in point. My table last night that was rudely 'in communicato' all night grumbled an inquiry as to whether or not we had a kid's menu. After I discerned what they had indeed said, I proudly informed them that we did not have a children's menu. With a rather obnoxious smirk one of the men then asked me, rather bewildered at my announcement, "what then do kids eat in here?? Do they wolf down an entire steak?"

First of all you have to imagine that this is a restaurant for adults - it is not kid friendly - according to M's own corporate description it is a "cigar smoking, bustling saloon for the rich." That is the concept of the entire company, all 70-something restaurants in America and Asia.

Why is it rude to suggest a better match for guests' needs? Of course no one wants to "offend" anyone or encourage patrons to go elsewhere but there has to be a line drawn when we are talking about the very identity of an established restaurant. All of the special orders for kids, steak splitting, apple juice buying, and booster seating is really indicative of the particular crowd in this specific area. The rest of the company would fold if it followed suit. We would become nothing more than a high-priced Applebees.

I never thought I would have to answer the question "Do fries come with that" while working here but alas the new burger proved me wrong last night. As more and more of the sophistication and elegance seem to be slipping away (and I acknowledge that business is still very good) I can only hope I will not be around for the day that a menu for the wee ones is rolled out.

If New York and DC Were Classmates

I have been especially nostalgic lately. Being sick and home bound has intensified my retrospective journeys. This time it's DC. The city is truly fascinating. After moving there in August of 2002 I was in disbelief for quite some months that I actually lived in such a gorgeous and prominent city. The history and the architectural beauty of DC is pervasive, and I was overwhelmed not only that I had daily access to all of it's museums, monuments, and political institutions - but that I was a part of it.

When I first arrived in DC I was a little intimidated by the grandness of it all. Sure, New York is an even bigger city but DC is less anonymous and more grandiose in a "you had better behave yourself" sort of way.

The breathtakingly gorgeous streets of the city that made me feel like I was a little girl in a museum. I had a similar feeling when visiting colleges(Rory Gilmore at Harvard). The combination of the well manicured quads and distinct academic buildings, students toting copies of Kant, Herodotus, and Whitman the same feeling watching people in DC reading pages of pending legislation, Washington Post editorials, foreign policy research.

Not only because it it smaller, but because it has more conservative professionals (not necessarily in the Republican sense) who make time to read the Washington Post, the Hill, Roll Call, and the Wall Street Journal, before work. I was delighted that like me, most DC residents watched the Sunday morning talk shows, knew the name of the Secretary of Agrilcuture and the

James Carville and Mary Matlin
knew about pending legislation



If New York and DC were fellow school pupils


. it is brainier, bright-eyed, a rules city that does it's homework, is prepared for pop quizzes, works late and gets us early.



I lived just minutes from the Pentagon and the large windows in my living room faced out toward Reagan National Airport. I loved it, every part of living here. The elegant federal buildings, beautiful parks, monuments, and memorials. It was one thing to absorb the fact that had direct access to all of the amazing destinations in the city that so many tourists flock to throughout the year. But for me it was equally exciting to know that such and such political advisor lived in my neighborhood, that the gaggle of DC restaurants routinely served all of the city's political minds and strategists.


I would hear stories about a certain political reporter ate at a particular restaurant, political ad visors and aides frequented specific bars, some even according depending on their party affiliation.

June 25th

It was this day last year. I remember a lot very clearly. I was leaving work early due to my lack of computer access. He took the day off (and I did think it was odd that he he was bringing Nikki to camp even though he was going to be home).

I never could have guessed how much good/hope/strength/freedom would come as a result of that day.

It seems like I am dwelling alot on the past in this respect. And you know what? Maybe I am. But writing about my memories helps me. No one else wants to hear it, I don't want to rehash events verbally. I don't want to make anyone else upset or uncomfortable, or censor myself in any way. Thinking back and writing my thoughts down allow me to place things in their proper perspective and to really come to terms with them. I know it's been a year but I still have some chaotic feelings that haven't been soothed. SO many ignored signs that I let it get to a point where my face was being busted into the floor, broken nose and splattered blood. Being held captive and pummeled climaxed and ended on the same day...

A Summer Without Violence

It is hard to believe that I left DC nearly one year ago. I haven't had a truly enjoyable summer since 2005 when I left the Big M. Arlyne and I spent those toasty months taking roadtrips, touring wineries, enjoying DC after dark, and sharing post-date stories. Aside from the Morton's slump and how much I despise working there right now, I am happy and feel very blessed. I have a wonderful apartment, live so close to beaches, I have extraordinary flexibility in my jobs, and met an Ecuadorian (read, man) who I can be myself with.

I still want to move around- to change scenery and to find a writing job that challenges me.

Still a Jackass With a Napoleon Complex : Why Did I Feel The Need to Acquire More Supporting Evidence??

I was not drunk. It was Friday afternoon, around 130. I felt the need to text Honduras to see if he wanted to get a drink Friday night. I KNOW what kind of jerk that I am dealing with. I just wanted to experience our sexual chemistry one more time- sit and talk with him and have his attention. Wow. He doesn't ever even compliment me. Even Venezuela did that- did lots of it. He told me how beautiful I was and how intelligent and motivated. Honduras used to tell me that I should be really proud of my professional accomplishments and sounded genuinely impressed with what I have done. But never any other compliments. He just treats me like a plain sex object and what's worse is that I have allowed it. And again this time. But I guess I needed to have it pounded in my head. And some good ole' fashioned fun. It was fun but not enough to negate the way that he disrespects me. He is a blatant pig and its obvious that he only wants me for sex. I just wanted to have fun again. To laugh and feel our spark. MY MISTAKE. He doesn't even deserve to be in the same room with me. He in no way, shape, or form deserves my company at all. After Friday he didn't talk to me at all last night. And tonight he avoided any conversation and even avoided eye contact. Wow. Classy. He is 31. Once again reminded that age and maturity are just casual acquaintances. I am just glad that I see it now - I mean the full picture. I knew he was an ass for how he treated me before, but I was willing to overlook it for a fun night. But I realize that by spending any time with him at all I am telling him, "go ahead, do what you like- treat me like shit and I will be here when you feel like some late night amusement! Thanks for treating me like some trashy club chica that you meet on your Saturday night gallivants with the other Big M. losers that hang with!!"

THANK GOD that I am intelligent and that I am ME - even though it takes me awhile to get out of the mire- I have wonderful women in my life that are always looking out for me. They love me and know I deserve only the best. I am trying my best to TRULY believe that. Nothing will work until I do.

Thank you YSL Rouge Pur

I have been looking my entire adult life for the red lipstick I am currently wearing. I love it so much; it looks great on me if I do say so myself. Very seductive. It intimidates some people at work. I can tell. Some of the girls look at me with a snootiness and with a certain jealousy. I can't help the fact that I am fire engine red lips and they are clear gloss... don't hate me because I'm glamorous girls! I am never afraid to experiment with color. I love being bold and different. Staying safe, neutral, beige, clear gloss is not for me. Boring boring boring! My entire being screams passion, adventure, and boldness.

The Power of Coffee

I had eulogized my single life, mourned living alone and accepted morning coffee in its place. In all of the time we were together I never made my own coffee. That was his thing. From the very beginning when he gave me the coffee grinder, he took making coffee for us both in the morning as his thing. He owned it. He loved to add cinnamon, whipped cream, and other sugary items to surprise me with. Given our rocky relationship, whenever we would have a fight or breakup I would always get really sad about making my coffee. And that made me angry. I was the most independent girl I knew before I met him. I did so many things on my own and loved every second of it. But the way that he made coffee so special each morning - I ended up sentimentalizing inanimate objects and yes, even beverages. I didn't even want to use the glorious grinder during our breakups. I didn't even truly miss him. I missed "things," "places," and shared "objects."

I didn't recognize this fact for quite awhile.

After the first time he threw me to the ground I started to figure it out. I got a concussion that July '06 night when we fought over where he had been after I found the picture of him and Amanda. That was the first time that I got a taste of his temper turning physical. He looked like a robot, devoid of feeling. He kept pushing me out of rooms in the house, taking my stuff and throwing it downstairs and refusing to let me check for things left behind. He just kept knocking me down. I got so crazed when I thought about that picture I had found (with an incriminating date stamped on it) and all of the lies that I started flailing at him and scratched him up. He responded in kind. Threw me down and was "restraining" me with both hands pinning mine to the ground. When I tried to lift my head he pushed it back down - hard, hence the concussion. Not to mention the bruises all over my arms and legs.

I don't even know that I can convey how mortified and shocked I was. The cliche of it all smacked me in the face. All of my feelings felt so passe and predictable. I was WAY too smart and independent minded, stubborn even for this. I allowed him to treat me badly and make it up with sex and a morning cup of coffee, and subsequently the rose garden he planted on my balcony. It was humiliating but during that time I couldn't even imagine leaving him for good. I actually believed that I needed him, that I couldn't be happy without him. (Because concussions and black eyes are true bliss). Violence aside, assigning responsibility for my happiness to someone else was terribly misguided.

The humiliation was compounded when I was harassed by the cops when they arrived soon after I called 911. They separated us outside and assigned me to a piece of sidewalk while they spoke with him. As he was telling his story, I heard him painting a picture of some crazy banshee who just went nuts and attacked him! I lost my shit, left my part of the sidewalk and threw the picture at him (up until then he didn't know I had found it). Predictably the cops didn't take too kindly to this. The female officer pulled me back to the front of the house informed me that if anyone was going to get arrested that night it was going to be me. She asked for my license and asked me where I worked. I remember crying when I had to answer that question. I was embarrassed for myself that I had such a dignified position for such a high profile boss and employer. I got petrified thinking that our altercation would be made public in a blotter or such and it would be reported as "DHS aide to George XXXX." I finally admitted to where I worked and she looked at me with a softer face, glanced over to the front door and sternly demanded, "What are you thinking being with this guy??? You are so much better than this and you need to just stop it."

It took 11 more months, a great deal more pain and physical abuse but I finally did stop it. I stopped the madness.

Read My Lips...

" It was oh so surreal being in a different location. One where I knew no one. I had not participated in creating the cracks in the wooden furniture - I didn't know the stories behind the broken kitchen equipment. I had not kissed anyone in there and don't plan on it."

A blog entry that I drafted on September 13, 2007 upon my first night at the Great Neck Big M. Ahhh the innocence of that last line! My first thought is that I wish I had remained steadfast in my "all about business" attitude. My second is that if I hadn't "gone there" yet again I wouldn't have had the patterns in my decision-making significantly illuminated. So much so that I am making changes and progess in changing them as a result. My third thought is that I would have missed out on some nice entertainment, and much needed cheap thrills...

Inside the Fishbowl

Dealing with the drama at work requires discipline. And a hearty sense of humor. I realize as I write this that I want to be as lighthearted as possible about all of the crap that festers in the fishbowl. Lighthearted yet committed to avoiding any and all social mingling with these folks.

I have had recent success in going out of my way to avoid outside-of-work gatherings, staying out of group conversations, and being annoyingly vague about my post-work plans and my social life in general.

Going in to eat last night was fun. I felt great and did notice that with a few exceptions the guys were the ones gravitating to our table. I knew that Honduras would not come over. He was in the boards but sauntered around the dining room floor here and there. As soon as we left the bar to go to our table Steve saw me and said hello (was staring a bit). I am sure that he told H that I was there. Given the fact that Don Juan was one of our servers, he probably heard all about how good I looked, and that we were going into the city- clubbing at that. It made me smile that she told him that. DJ had this lame response that he wished he could go with us. When I pointed Honduras out from far away (he was lingering up at the front line talking to the chefs during a lull) she asked me what my fascination was with the "toad" up there. A perfectly reasonable question. One that I have been struggling to answer for myself. My best analysis has left me with the following:

The way that it ended with his poor treatment of me (unwillingness to walk in the club with me!) was so unexpected and hurtful that I want to prove to myself that I am "loveable" and have a sick and twisted need to once again be chased by him. The fact that I have to see him at work has obviously made this entire situation a way bigger deal than it should be. That and my own neuroses.

I KNOW that the minute that I go out on a date with a "good" guy Honduras will dissipate and be placed in his proper context of a classless, immature, insecure, and NOT GOOD ENOUGH fellow who also happens to work with me. This is going to take a bit longer because I am not in dating mode. I am in career mode. And for now the two need to be mututally exclusive. I have some choices to make, some planning to do in accordance with my goals, and some hard work ahead to get things going again. And you know what? I am really excited about taking some much needed action for myself. With the spring coming it brings change. I love that. I am looking forward to getting myself out of my winter funk and really getting busy out in this beautiful new place. A few months from now I am confident that I won't even be able to find Honduras on a map ...

I Heart DC

I am missing DC a lot lately. Probably more so because I haven't found my professional edge back here yet. In DC I have a clear identity in a professional sense. Also because of the presidential election, and my recent trip back to the District. I feel energized when I remind myself that I will go back - eventually. I know I will. I just need to devise a plan for getting my career back on track, in NY first, and then figure out how DC, and Delta will fit into it. My daunting task right now is visualizing the vision for my future and planning for it without a solid idea of what and where I want to be in oh, 5 years. I don't know if it's the 'Grass is Greener' phenomenon - always wanting for what you don't have - or if I can just really appreciate how much I love living and and working in DC now that I have the perspective of being away.

I do know one thing for certain- this is where I need to be for now. I have no doubt that I needed to go through the nonsense with Armando, Luis, and Jose and company to be where I am now, to learn important lessons, and to have a healthier future. The whole experience of going back to Morton's has been a lesson in itself - a smack in the face reminding me just how special and unique I am, and how I have come too far and overcome too much to allow such small minded collateral crap to sideline me.

Giving the Bullshit Some Perspective

I was close to death on June 25 of 2007. My life changed so much in just a few short hours. So much regret, relief, pain, and fear that I want to capture as much of it as possible. It helps me to write as fragments reenter my mind - to serve as a reminder for how far I have come, capitalizing on what intitially seemed like a colossal roadblock. I also need to reimerse myself in the pain so that I will never, ever subject myself to someone like that again.

I had a flash just a few minutes ago. He was suffocating me on the couch, with a blanket and his hands. Up until then, all of the physicial violence - although serious (bruises, scratches, a concussion, and a black eye) - had seemed like they were only to scare me. I had made the typical excuses to myself but had never, EVER entertained even a thought that he could possibly kill me. I was screaming my head off every chance I got after our altercation moved from the office into the living room. I was battered and a mess. I had scratches, cuts, and blood on my arms and face. It took all that I had to fight him in the office. He kept knocking me down and pushing me with such force that I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe his extreme violent behavior. Knocking me to the ground was what I wanted to avoid- the longer it went on the more I understood that my life was in jeopdardy - that he wasn't going to stop until I was subdued.

It took me 3 times to get results from calling 911. As soon as he heard me he disconnected it and tried to steal the phone. Little did he know that I had been using his phone since mine had died earlier. Thank God we got those new phones in January - the same phone model.

Return to the District of Columbia

I don't know exactly what to think about this weekend. It was exciting, comforting, and lots of fun but also a little confusing and left me with A LOT to think about. It's a crazy thing that I have done so much time in both NY and DC that my life in both places have now started to meld together a bit. NY has always been home base but going back to DC for the first time after leaving was important, dramatic. It made me think long and hard about what I treasure about each city - in different but equally passionate ways. I was reinforced and invigorated by the reflection of the "professional DC woman" that was shown to me all weekend long.

Preying on the Ignorant.. She is SAD

I'm find it extremely difficult to digest this bulls$*t. Watching Hillary on Meet the Press - watching her not explain any of her attacks on Obama, soften her attacks and passive agressively state that she will be ready on day one in the Oval Office, but won't even say that Obama won't be. Instead she says that is for the voters to decide - she trusts the voters- and they use whatever factors are important for them. She makes me sick. It just means wayyy too much for her. She oooozes entitlement and orchestrated behavior and talk. I am no real fan of Obama but am increasingly becoming one when compared to this nonsense.

She is embarrasing! Now she says that her vote TO AUTHORIZE THE WAR was a vote to reinstate inspectors back into Iraq! She slams Obama, meanwhile his position has been consistent and he did not vote for the war. She wants it both ways - she is SO politically motivated it is sick.

She rests her arguements to Tim on lack of context (Tim is not showing her ENTIRE speech on the Senate floor or Bill's ENTIRE campaign speech calling Obama's campaign a "fairy tale") and that he has alot of paper in front of him and is able to quote all sorts of different people- he is "good" at what he does.

Taking the Reins

It's all about the control. About the fact that I booted him out, watched calmly as he packed up his things with the two police officers present and NEVER looked back. Never once did I entertain replying to a text, email, or phone call from him. It's pretty crazy to think about the fact that he has probably been with someone else ever since we broke up (can't be alone) and has been sending me a flood of "I still love you texts" and phone calls without her knowing. Oh how wise and tall I feel.

It is wonderful to be be on my own once again. Not only to be independent, but to not know where my next adventure lies. Who knows what the future holds for me. DC may call me back but for now I am where I am supposed to be.

Despite the antics at this big M, it was all supposed to happen this way - I am convinced. If I hadn't relapsed with N before leaving DC and had my entertainment with El Salvador, Honduras, and Columbia - I wouldn't be thinking the thoughts that I am now, nor had the fabulous experiences that they brought me, er... laughs at least- fun and laughs and lots of creative material!

Black Eye Shame and Flower Shopping

I woke up around 530 this morning because I wasn't feeling well. I have been watching Fox and Friends. It is eerie just how much it reminds me of C. Most of the time that we were together, when we both worked for the Navy, and then when we lived together and both worked at the Pentagon, we watched it religiously with our coffee. He watched it at work at the Pentagon and would email me topics from the show. I feel so free watching it without his presence in my life.

The early months of last summer, that lead up to our final split were miserable for me. Almost worse than when our relationship finally imploded. I knew it had to end but was scared about kicking him out and being alone once again. C gave me a black eye right after Easter. I was mortified, depressed, and flailing. I cried every time I looked at my sad reflection. And was SO angry with myself that I didn't kick him out then. Instead we went flower shopping the next day. I let him quietly sneak back in to an everyday routine. We wandered separately around the garden departments of Walmart and Lowe's. I felt the heat of my darkened and swollen eye. I had tried to conceal the blackness with a dense, MAC green shadow that I have not used since. Fern. I wince when I see it. I had so much rage in me that it was difficult to look at him that day. I kept thinking, "Now he really knows he has me - now he knows that I will never leave him, that he is free to cheat, lie, and continue physical abuse. How do I live with myself?? I am flower shopping with him the day after he gave me a black eye!!" It was so absurd that I almost vomited the entire day. Instead I was quietly bubbling with rage at his very appearance. I spontaneously cried all day. I ducked in and out of aisles between petunias and tulips not wanting him to see my breakdowns.

Later that day I googled abusive terms online and found an eerily familiar list of traits belonging to the abusive personality. That is when I knew that I had to get out, no matter how ugly and difficult it would be. I was desperate for him to leave me.

After the last police intervention in June and it was finally over, I was afraid that everyone would ask me the question that I had been asking myself repeatedly, "Why would I stay with him given the earlier incidents and his abusive personality?" How could I let it happen? Stay so long? The only person who asked me that was N. He could not fathom that I was with him for 2 years. I wish I had expressed my disbelief to him at how long he has been living in a loveless marriage. I did not because I felt that in his own screwy, tactless way he was so horrified by my pain and concerned for my well being that he was in disbelief at my "tolerance."

The abuse was a blessing in disguise for me. Truly. Finding out what I knew and feared all along, that he had been cheating on me and then having him unleash violence on me when I caught him was the best thing that could have happened. I am in NY. That is what I had wanted for awhile but wasn't sure how to do it and would never have walked away from the Pentagon without a serious reason. I am so glad now, that I had one. I would never have met Columbia or Honduras. It's funny to think about how such a horrendous time in my life gave me new people to be with, and new friends to confide in.

Overcoming But Not Forgetting My Beatings

I am committed to making sure that I do not forget the brutality of why I left DC. It is pretty much summed up by the following:

June 25, 2007- I will never, ever forget his rage.

As soon as he saw how much blood there was he freaked. Like when he blackened my eye a few months earlier, he became obsessed with cleaning me up and applying ice to my face. I was in so much pain and so completely crazed that I screamed at the top of my lungs for him not to touch me with my grandmother's old washcloth. I loved that pattern because it is covered with roses. He kept coming at me insisting on cleaning the blood from my face and body. I have a vague recollection of going ape and then telling him that he was an abuser, just like his father and that he can't beat me and then fix it two seconds later with a damp washcloth. This flung him into an even deeper rage that still gives me chills when I think about it. He pushed me to the ground. He then proceeded to kick me in the face and head while yelling, "You want abuse, I'll give you abuse!!"

I only recall parts of the remaining events - hysterical crying and disbelief that he was literally kicking me in the head when I was laying on the ground; the head with the nose that he had broken minutes earlier. He wrestled the scissors from my hand earlier and I had no fight left in me. But he was enraged at how hard I had fought back and let me have it. The nothingness that filled my body when he cracked my head down for the last time stays with me, it's behind my usually friendly and inquisitive eyes. And it is the reason that I jumped so heartily on the Latin connection these past few months.


This is the scene that I want fresh in my mind whenever I see his "Happy Birthday!," or "I still love you" text messages...

Bad Girls Come and Good Girls Go

Preoccupation with the electra complex as it relates to my poor choices in men. I have been knee deep in understanding why I have made the choices that I have and, more importantly, making the changes necessary to avoid future lapses.

The recent Latin brigade has been nothing if not entertaining. It has brought me back to my Syracuse days of conducting my freshman ethnography. I chose the coffee shop on Marshall Street (don't even remember it's name despite all of the time I spent there). I spent many an afternoon overcaffeinating myself and spying on several familiar faces from the philosophy and poetry graduate departments. My critical observations on genre-specific words and references related to studies of Kant and Carolyn Forche mirror my recent "tour" of Latin America. I just replaced noteworthy philosophers and poets with shared treatment of bedded women, cultural gender roles, and a certain exclusive swagger. I visited El Salvador, Honduras, Columbia, (and Honduras again)- noting the commonalities between each in different areas.

Conclusions abound that I am too much woman for all - was told by all 3 amazingly enough (Honduras was exceptionally stubborn but 'fessed up through his actions). I was the last one to see just how right they were. I was slumming my way through the worst "neighborhoods" so to speak, and clung to each one at some point when the journey was ending, despite knowing I should never have been there in the first place. Loneliness and the desire to forget the last disaster/adventure can really do some damage.

I have officially stopped the madness with the these guys that have served as my re- introduction to NY over the past 4 months. Yesterday was Day One of Ending the Bullshit and not caring about collateral affects - only getting back to the top of MY game.