Mirror, Mirror

December 2012:

A few weeks ago my friend Dalia visited me for a few days. We have been friends since our first semester at Bible college in Dallas, TX, Fall 1998. I was about to be 19, she was 23. In the fourteen years since we have followed each others lives and visited each other every few years despite not living in the same place at the same time since the three semesters we spent in Dallas together. We have adventured in Dallas, NYC (2000 & 2012), Charlotte, Boston, Montreal, Toronto, London, RAF Lakenheath, San Francisco, Lancaster, Abilene. This visit was nice since there were no partners, mutual friends or family members to negotiate around.

Having not seen each other in over three years, we spent the three days we had together talking. She had recently experienced a painful breakup. Intending to comfort her, I mentioned a detail from the last months of my marriage which ended almost five years ago. I did not realize how much she had not known and after telling her about these nearly forgotten events, I was left upset and restless. Pacing and sleepless and not knowing why.

September 2013:

My ex-husband was powerfully built. We were stationed together at RAF Lakenheath, England. We became friends around 9/11 and were dating withing a few months. He seemed like a gentle giant. Like myself, he made friends easily, loved to make people laugh, loved to dance. He was great with money and would plan fun vacations. We loved each other and I used to want us to die at 100 on the same day.

He was also incredibly passive-aggressive and bullied me. When we were alone he would ignore me, playing HOURS of video games. I was often the butt of his jokes when we were out with friends and he would bait me, setting me up to behave badly. He was a habitual liar and I could not trust him to be entirely truthful about benign subjects, let alone important ones.

Not understanding why the man I loved acted like a brick wall when I wanted a partnership, I would lose my temper. I threw tantrums and broke appliances and did other things I am not proud of. I didn't like this about myself and started going to therapy when he was in South Korea. In that year apart from my husband I learned to control my reactions...

October 2013:

In February 2008 Eric visited me in Lancaster, PA for two or three weeks after his assignment to South Korea was completed. He was en route to his new base in England. I was supposed to ship our belongings to England at the end of February and join him in England in May after I finished my sophomore year at Millersville University. I had been accepted as an exchange student at Metropolitan University in London and intended to do my junior year in England, commuting from our house near Eric's base while still working on bachelor's degree. We had been living apart for thirteen months due to his assignment in South Korea. I had gotten out of the military at the beginning of that timeframe and

September 2014:

Eric did not inform me of his flight information ahead of time. He called me at 3 am to tell me that he would be arriving the next day, right before he boarded his direct flight from Seoul, Korea to Baltimore. I had not awakened when he called so he called my parents and woke them up, relaying the flight information. Pretty typical behavior on his part. I had two classes including a quiz and no way to contact him to sit tight for a few hours. I booked a hotel at the airport and called him between classes to let him know the plan. He said that plan did not work and he would catch a ride.
Not wanting my husband to take a bus or some other bullshit after such a long flight, I think I skipped the second class and drove to Baltimore to pick him up, which was a strange start to a visit from my husband I had not seen in seven months. Had not lived with in a year. We were 28 years old.

September 2015:

Since I was a full time student a month into the semester, I was not able to give all of my time to Eric during the three weeks of his visit. I suggested things he could do around Lancaster. A few days into his visit I requested that he bring empty boxes up from the basement so that I could pack our belongings in preparation for the move to England. My right foot had a stress fracture, was in an air cast and I was trying to avoid using stairs whenever possible. I explained that the six boxes were to the left of the stairs.

January 2016:

When I returned from class that day, I shuffled down the hallway with my books. Eric was surfing the internet in the living room. I asked if he had brought up the boxes. Without turning, he replied that he looked and they had not been there. I took off the brace and hopped down the basement stairs. Ten feet to the left of the stairs, in the center of a large empty space where the boxes.
Pretty annoyed but not interested in an arguement about it, I called his name from the bottom of the stairs:
Eeericcc
He probably didn't hear me.
Aeeeyrrricccckkk
A little louder. He could have just told me he didn't look for the boxes.
Eric!
More insistent. I just wanted to hand the boxes up the stairs to him so I did not have to make more than one trip.
Eric!
pause
Eric!
He appeared at the top of the stairs: What?
Can I hand these boxes up to you?
pause
No, he said. Then my husband shut out the basement light. He shut the basement door and deadbolted it, locking me in the dark basement.

June 2016:

I climbed to the top of the stairs, turned the light back on and sat on the top step. Instinctively I knew to remain calm. If I shouted or pounded on the door I knew my time locked in the basement of my apartment would be prolonged. A glance around confirmed that I would not be able to climb through a window or get out another way.

In my memory the quiet wait feels longer than the five or ten minutes it was.

My cheek pressed on the door, I called out, "You are going to have to let me out. The sooner you let me out, the better it will be."

I waited. A few more minutes. Perhaps a few more pleas, on the tightrope of panic and peaceful persuation. Eric. Eric. Eric. Let me out of the basement.

The door suddenly unlocked and swung open. I stood up and entered the apartment. "Why did you turn out the light and lock me in the basement," I asked my husband. He ignored my question and gave me a hug. Suggested I get off my injured foot. Asked if I was hungry.

I said that I did not want to talk about anything but why he locked me in the basement. He suggested we talk in the bedroom, took my hand and led me to my bedroom.

We sat beside each other on the bed. I faced him and repeated the question.

July 2016:

Eric put his arms around me, an embrace I did not want.
I said that I did not want to hug, I wanted to talk.
I tried to squirm away and his grip tightened, keeping me on the bed.
I tried to stand or twist out of his arms and he held on,
repeating that this was a hug.
He had missed me.

I was getting weaker and screamed.
First at him in fury at being forcefully restrained.
Then in fear when I didn't know what was going to happen next.

August 9 2018:

His arms locked around my upper body, his mouth near my right ear, Eric said multiple times in between my shouts, pleas and screams "When you calm down I'll let you go." In my efforts to break free i was now laying on the bed

Focus on the family

I had never lived with children before my brother Ben and his children moved into a house share with my boyfriend and I. The kids were us three days a week.

Although I did not like the hand and foot-marks on the walls or the increased frequency counters, tubs and floors had to be cleaned again, I did like that the house was filled to the brim with the lively messiness of happy children.

Whoa: Parenting is hard. Ben is the first parent I ever lived with that wasn't my own mom and dad.

Parents need love, support, encouragement, company. When they invite you to their house for dinner: GO OVER! Bring a 6 pack. Smoke them up for crissakes! They are spending their money on winter coats and shoes for growing feet not on eighths....dubs.....dimes.

Ben: I suspected before and I know for sure now: you are a the BEST DAD EVER. Your children are the BEST. You are doing everything right.

Darkness revealed

After a tiny little woman friend was traumatically attacked and nearly killed by a stranger in Lancaster, I could not sleep for a month.

After weeks of insomnia, I had a panic attack that took me to the ER at four am. Straight to psych.

They released me and asked me to see my family doctor and therapist, which I did.

My therapist asked me to pay attention: during the panic attacks, which have continued, my hands won't work:

MY HANDS:

Won't open doors.
Won't turn on a faucet though I can move my hand to the sink.
Though I can feel the cool porcelain on the skin of my hand.
But not operate my hand to turn a faucet.

MY HANDS
Won't open the purse strapped to my body.
Won't operate the phone I can see in my purse.
Won't clutch at the cigarette.
Won't open the bottle of Xanax I have been keeping in my purse.

The therapist prompted me to trust my body. What are my hands asking me to remember?

I REMEMBERED!

I was drugged on a first date. I have been blaming myself for what happened.

July 2012, NYC:

I WAS DRUGGED AND RAPED ON A FIRST DATE AT 32 YEARS OLD.

It does not matter that I broke three single girl dating rules that night.

I forgive you, Regina, for getting into a taxi that he insisted I take when I had wanted to cancel because I had been hanging out with friends and it was too late for me to take a train.

I forgive you, Regina, for entering his house hesitantly at his invitation to be polite because he had just given the taxi driver the $40 fare.

I forgive you, Regina, for taking small, hesitant, polite sips of the cold white wine with his sickening words, "Drink up."

Maybe one day I will stop hearing his voice...............................

A letter to the abused

Three friends were abused by their boyfriends this summer. Two friends got the fuck out of that situation. The third did not. This is my written account of her story. 

Early in the summer of 2014, at five am on a Sunday, she was beaten so badly by her boyfriend Stephen that she had bleeding in her brain.

As a result of her injuries, she spent two days in the hospital and missed two weeks of work.

She was punched in the face, picked up and thrown on the ground. Stephen then kicked her in the head multiple times. I visited her three days after the attack. She cried about her son's future with a boot-print bruise on her neck.

She was with her son's father for six years when she missed two days of work in September 2013 after he gave her a black eye among other injuries. She ended their relationship and her family promised their help with childcare as a show of support and solidarity.

She worked as a cook, training under an internationally recognized chef after completing culinary school. She turned down the sous chef position due to her responsibilities as a mother. Her ex saw his son infrequently and contributed financially even less frequently. Her mother and sisters watched her son when she was at work. She made about $350 a week.

She met Stephen in November. He moved in with her over the winter. He potty-trained her son in the spring, a few months before beating her almost to death. Stephen has a five-year-old daughter that lives in Virginia.

 Her three-year-old son was sleeping in the one-bedroom apartment when Stephen started beating her. She was hoping he did not see any of the attack. Wishful thinking. I have been to her apartment. It is an open floor-plan. Most likely her son saw the entire thing.

She reconciled with Stephen by the 4th of July and moved to Virginia with him in August, leaving her son behind.

I wrote letters to her in July, when my fears for her future were unfolding.

July 20
On Friday, July 18 you didn't show up to work. Last night at four a.m. I awakened from a bad dream. I tried to look you up on Facebook but couldn't find your profile. I scanned the internet for over an hour, searching for proof of your presence or whereabouts.
I returned to bed as the birds began to sing their summer morning song.
I tried to return to sleep but kept wondering if you were OK.

July 22
Did you already move out of state?
Your boyfriend is skipping out on his court hearing concerning the early morning he beat you so badly he almost killed you, correct?
 Does your son's father know that his son is moving to Virginia with the man that repeatedly kicked you in the head while his three-year old son watched?
Has he noticed the speech-delays your son is experiencing as a result of the trauma he witnessed?
Have you noticed?

July 24
I get the bad boy thing.
I too have loved and fucked dangerous men.

I have never received a smack, let alone a brutal attack, from one of them.

Get rid of this guy.
I am afraid he is going to kill you.
I want you to leave him and enter into a women's shelter with your son.

Stephen is dangerous.
He does not deserve the trust is takes to move to another state with someone.

You have known him for less than a year. A year in which he beat you so badly you were unable to work for two weeks.

When a twenty-four year old single mother making  $23,000 a year misses two weeks of work, how will she be able to pay her rent? I asked you in June if you wanted friends to help with money, knowing you would be hurting financially. You said no.

Who is going to take care of your son if something happens to you?
Aren't you afraid he is going to kill you?
Do you want this guy to kill you?

I'm sorry, #mikebrown

Unarmed teenage shot six times this summer.

SIX TIMES!

WHERE ARE THE ANSWERS?
WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?

Well, he's black and dead so there won't be any.

We can't un-shoot him.

Shhh, America. Shhh. Go back to sleep.
Let's pretend this was all a strange dream. 
In the morning we will pump our veins with high fructose corn syrup and our bellies with ammonia-soaked dollar menu meats and catch up on trending dog-shit.

We will not concern ourselves with the grief or heartbreak of his mother.

We will talk about his shoplifting.
Two of my siblings were caught shoplifting when they were 18. They were given stern lectures. My mother never had to worry that one of her foolish teenagers might be shot by police. We are white. Of course she didn't have that fear. And even if one of my mother's teenager's had been shot by a police officer, can you imagine the public outrage? Shoplifting would have had NO place in the post-death dialogue. But Lesley McSpadden has to listen to the callous dialogue of strangers who wish to assign blame for his death to her son's age-appropriate rebellion.

I am so sorry, Mike Brown. You didn't deserve to die. Your death sucks. And exposed how scary things are right now. So scary that we can't walk down the street without sometimes getting shot six times. You shouldn't be dead. You should have had your chance to become a man and live out your life.

Since I still have the chance to live out my life, I have to keep raising my voice.

I want peace.



I want us to treat each other with respect and as equals. I propose a blessing, a toast, a moment of reflection:

Here's to the past, looking back to make sure mistakes are not repeated.

Here's to the present, working for change.

 Here's to the future, while we're still alive to look forward to it.

I stand against police brutality, and will not rest until #JusticeforMichael is served. Join us: http://naacp.org/ferguson #NAACP

http://oogeewoogee.com/since-you-already-forgot-about-ferguson-mikebrown-let-me-give-you-an-update/

Moving on

I am wide awake, eating ice cream at my kitchen table, in the middle of the night. I told myself I could stay up late if I cleaned. Instead I took a long, hot shower. My apartment is packed into neatly labeled boxes; a twenty-five times familiar task. This will be my sixth home in two years.

Tomorrow I am moving from this tiny apartment on East Walnut to a west end house with four bedrooms and a yellow door. It is a quiet street in a safe neighborhood. The couple next door have been living there for 58 years.

It is important to me that Chip, Ben, the kids, Sir Spencer Rooney and I are all moving into this space at the same time.

I'm excited.

Pin pricks

Ever feel so stressed, stretched so thin, you could not possibly bear for one more thing to go wrong? This is a story of the kind of stress that is too much for me right now:

I lost my keys yesterday. And the keys of a friend whose dog I was looking after.

Said keys were lost while walking aforementioned dog.

Also lost that day: what little remained of my calm.

Time: noon

Heat: 90 degrees

Dog: walked about a mile. No stops were made. Ok, a stop to bark at a squirrel. A stop to rub her face on the grass. A stop to confirm that she does not like playing in the fountain. A stop to rub her face in more grass.

Keys: discovered missing when walk is nearly finished.

Steps: retraced.

Dog: thirsty, confused.

Regina: thirsty, without phone or wallet.

Keys: never found.

Dog: tied to porch while Regina tries to get into the house.

7 foot high gate into friend's alley: climbed.

Back door to dog owner's house: open.

Baby Jesus: thanked.

Phone charging happily on counter: used to call mother.

Mother: agrees to pick up/rescue sweaty, dirty Regina.

Regina: peels back a section of the backyard fence; walks two blocks around to front of house where dog is secured. Walks two blocks back with dog to force dog through fence opening into yard.

Fence: re-secured.

Dog: hugged and watered, left to nap inside her home.

Belongings: gathered. Except for pesky missing keys.

7 foot high gate from alley into street: climbed.

Mother: picks up sweaty, dirty Regina.