Breaking the Cycle (16 page)

C
HAPTER
S
IX

I’m Edward Adelson and I was once the victim of abuse. After waking up in a hospital near death and being accused of attacking her, I decided I had to make a change. That’s when I found Men Against Abuse and realized I wasn’t alone. There were plenty of men who were going through the same thing as me. When I first started coming to these meetings the group was very small, but we have since grown into a family of over two hundred. As far as the numbers go, that is only a drop in the bucket.

“Men Against Abuse’s goal is to let other men know they are not alone and should never feel ashamed of their situation. Most importantly, we want them to know there is a place for them.

“Together we’ll expose this dark secret and get the help that is needed to those in need. Thank you.”

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause as I made my way from the podium. It had been two years since I put Candy out of my life. In doing so, I had to make drastic changes. I closed my practice and relocated to another state. I was even tempted to change my name.

Before I left, I wrote her a letter, again suggesting she get help. Whether she did or not, I’ll never know.

I finally realized she had to deal with her shortcomings, like I had to learn to deal with mine. By taking control of me, it gave her the sense of security she lacked in her relationship with her mother, the relationship Candy swore would never be hers.

I’m in a new relationship now with a wonderful woman who appreciates me, as I do her. While we’re taking things at a leisurely pace, I have a feeling this one may be the one to last a lifetime. Never again will I allow someone to make me feel unworthy.

Never compromise your happiness for someone else.

Shonda Cheekes is the author of
Another Man’s Wife
and the upcoming sequel
In the Midst of It All
coming in May from Strebor Books International. She is also the author of the novella “Lessons Learned” in
Blackgentlemen.com.
She resides in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband and children.

V
ICTORY
BEGINS WITH ME

D
YWANE
D. B
IRCH

How did it all begin? Well, I know the answer. Still, I’ve often asked myself that question over and over, trying to make some sense out of the craziness I allowed—yes, allowed being the operative word—myself to live through for almost three years of my life. You see, I had willingly given away my heart, body, and soul to a man who was controlling, verbally abusive, and physically combative. In other words, he beat the shit out of me. Excuse me for cursing. But I don’t know any other way to say it without sugarcoating it. In a nutshell, the bastard would beat me with his fists like I was a man on the block. He was a man who hated women. And I was, ironically, the woman who loved him.

You see, I spent those horrible years of my life covering up bruises, and telling many stories to explain my misery away. I was scared to tell anyone the truth—let alone face it—that I was a victim of domestic violence. Out of embarrassment. Out of fear. I closed the windows to my soul, losing myself in a kaleidoscope of emotions. I foolishly gave a man I loved—a man who knew nothing about loving me—the license to control, intimidate, and threaten my total being as a woman.

Why? Because I allowed myself to get sucked into a disturbing fantasy that he was the only man for me. I allowed myself to believe that without him in my life, I would be nothing. But the truth of the matter was: I was someone who allowed him to treat me like nothing. I didn’t demand he respect me. Instead of walking away the first time he raised his hand to me, I stayed, hoping it was an isolated incident. But it never was. And still I stayed.

For those of you who may not know, time clock statistics state that every nine seconds a woman is abused in the United States. It is also said that one-fourth of all women in the U.S. will be abused by a boyfriend or husband sometime in their lifetime. And that thirty percent of all women who die—by homicide—are killed by the men in their lives. It’s disheartening when I think back on how I was one of those women. Battered, frightened, alone, and on the brink of death. Stripped of my self-worth, and robbed of my dignity. But somehow, somewhere, I found the strength, and courage, to break free from the grips of abuse. And became a survivor.

And so here is where my personal journey through pain and abuse ends, and my humble road to self-discovery begins… hopefully, my story—the tears I shed, the hurt I felt—will free another life from the chains of domestic violence.

So, again, how did it all begin? It began with a dance: A rump-shaking, finger-popping, hip-grinding, sweat-it-all-out night on the dance floor at the Freehold Elks with one of the finest brothas in the place. Tyquan Arlington. Six-four, chiseled, dark-chocolate coated, with piercing brown eyes, and a smile that would melt the snow-capped Alps. But little did I know that beneath the surface of his playboy charm was the temperament of a rattlesnake. Dangerous.

One dance led to another, then another, and before I knew it, it was “last call for alcohol” and time for me to go. Ty, as he liked to be called, walked me out to the parking lot to my car where we stood for another half-hour talking and laughing.

“Damn, Girl,” he said, licking his lips. “I’m really feelin’ you. I dig your style.”

I smiled. “I’m feeling you, too,” I responded, looking him dead in his dreamy eyes. “But I’m not in the mood for no drama.”

“Nah, Baby. I don’t come with drama. Just a whole lot of good love.”

He smiled, flashing his pearly whites. He was sexy. And I definitely wanted to get to know him better. But I wasn’t going to press it. I had recently gotten out of a two-year relationship with an idiot who actually thought he could have me, along with his three babies’ mamas. Wrong answer. I was tired of wearing my heart on my sleeve and having it stomped on, then thrown in my face. A relationship with another man was definitely out of the question for me. Period. But here it was, almost two a.m., and I was standing outside flirting with a man I’d known for less than three hours.

Anyway, I already knew if he pushed up and wanted the digits, I’d hit him with them. If not, oh well. I’d catch him around some other time.

“Well, it was nice talking to you,” I said, pressing in the code for my car door.

He held it open, then closed it once I had slipped in behind the wheel, and rolled down the window. I started up the engine.

“Damn.” He sighed, leaning his body into the car. The crisp scent of his Dior cologne enticed me. He lowered his voice. “I can’t let you get away just like that. Let me get your number.”

I grabbed a pen from out of my glove compartment, then took his big, warm hands into mine and wrote my numbers—home phone and cell—down in his palm.

“Yo, that’s wassup,” he said, grinning. “I’ma holla at you.” He lifted my chin with his finger, then kissed me lightly on the mouth. “You gonna be mine,” he said, kissing me again before stepping away from the car.

I smiled, licking my lips, then slowly backed out of my space, pulling out of the driveway and heading down Throckmorton for Rt. 9 North.

The next day, he called and we talked on the phone for almost three hours. I learned he was originally from Brooklyn but had been living out here in Jersey for the last two years. He was single. Had a J-O-B. Had a car, and his own place. No children. Hmm. No woman, no baby mama drama. The more he talked, the more I liked.

By seven o’clock that night, I was sitting across from him at Freshwaters in Plainfield, having a delicious soul food dinner. By eight-thirty, we were off to a movie at Perth Amboy Cinemas and by midnight, I was back at his townhouse in Matawan being licked from head-to-toe, from front to back. He had loved—let me rephrase that—sexed—every inch of my body incredibly.

However, had I known my whirlwind beginning would have a tumultuous middle and a devastating ending, I would have run for cover without blinking an eye. But he was smooth. In a matter of weeks, I had gone from being single and free to being Ty’s girl. We were inseparable. He’d say all the right things, and do all the right things. He’d tell me how beautiful I was, how I was the only woman for him. He wined and dined me constantly, and bought me flowers “just because” almost every day. He held open doors for me, rubbed my back, massaged my feet, and continuously made love to my mind and body all night long. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me.

Then as the weeks collided into months, the flowers stopped, and all of his gentlemanly qualities seemed to slowly disappear. He became more demanding, and increasingly possessive. The signs—no matter how subtle—were definitely there. I just refused to see it for what it was. At first I thought his jealousy was cute. But then it became aggressive and began to border more on the crazy end of the spectrum.

He didn’t care where we were. In public, behind closed doors, it didn’t matter—he’d make a scene if he thought I gave another man eye contact or if a brotha spoke and I cordially smiled. He was really beginning to wear my nerves thin with his constant accusations. No matter how many times I tried to reassure him that I was committed, and faithful to him, he still questioned my trust. I was in a no-win situation.

But instead of leaving him, I proceeded with caution and kept giving him my all. I didn’t see his combative, and argumentative, nature as abusive. He hadn’t hit me, yet. But his habit of snatching me by the arm whenever I tried to walk away from an argument should have been a red flag for me. It wasn’t. I pressed on.

Then one night—about a year into our relationship—I was on the phone talking with one of my girlfriends, getting caught up on all the girl stuff we normally did on our girl’s night out. Since I didn’t go out now that I had a man in my life, there was a lot of gossiping and cackling to do. The call waiting beeped. I ignored it and kept on talking, since my call was to Maryland. Finally, after the tenth time the line buzzed through, I clicked over. “Hello.”

“Yo, what the fuck took you so long to answer the damn phone?” he asked in a tone that told me he was pissed.

“I’m on the phone long distance with my girl Velvetta,” I said, keeping my voice calm and steady, trying to keep my attitude in check. Ty and I had already had an argument three weeks prior about me being too “damn mouthy” as he kindly put it. So I was making a conscious effort to keep my attitude in check.

“Yeah right. You probably on the phone with some nigga,” he snapped. “Let me find out.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ty, please. Where are you?”

“Why?”

“’Cause I wanna call you back.”

“Fuck that. You tell that bitch you’ll call her back.”

My first instinct was to tell him to kiss my honey-dipped bottom, and hang up on him. But I didn’t feel like beefing with him for two days, then him giving me the silent treatment like I was the one who had done something wrong.

“Hold on,” I replied, clicking the phone over before he could say another word. “Hey, Vetta, let me call you back. Ty is bugging again.”

“Humph. What else is new?” she said. “Go do you, Girl. I got my own man drama to deal with. Call me when you can.”

“I will,” I said, then clicked back over. “I’m back.”

The phone line was dead. He had hung up. And I was pissed.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. It was Ty, standing there with his face all bunched up. His jaws were clamped tight. Just by his posture, I knew there were gonna be problems. I took a deep breath, opening the door.

“Don’t you ever do that shit again!” he shouted, pushing the door in. He took off his leather coat, tossing it across the leather ottoman. I shut the door, counting to ten.

“Do what, Ty?” I asked, scooping up his coat from off the chair and walking over to the closet to hang it up.

“Yeah, aiight. Play stupid if you want. But let me call here again, and you don’t answer and…”

The nerve of him, I thought. The last I checked, it was my name on the bill, and I was the one paying it.

“Look,” I said, feeling myself lose it. “Don’t come up in here with your bull. I’m not in the—”

Before I could get the rest of my words out, he was hovering over me and had slapped me. His hand burned a print into the side of my face. I couldn’t believe he had raised his hands to me. This couldn’t be happening to me. Not to Persia Monae Swanson. No man had ever hit me before. Not even my father. I didn’t grow up around men beating on women. I wasn’t raised in a home where there was violence. Or strings of expletives hurled at you. I had been fortunate throughout my life to not be a victim of abuse on any level, be it emotional, physical, or mental. But with the strike of a hand, I was now on the receiving end. I was hurt and in a state of shock.

“I don’t believe you just hit me,” I said, holding my face. It stung. I fought back my tears.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” he said, trying to touch the side of my face. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Get out!” I yelled, backing away from him. The wells of my eyes were beginning to open. I willed them shut.

“Come on, Baby. I didn’t mean to hit you. It just happened.”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” I snapped, snatching his coat off the hanger and throwing it at him.

“I’m sorry, Baby.”

“Just get the hell out!”

He reluctantly left, but kept calling me and calling me. And I kept hanging up on him until I got tired of it and turned the ringer off. I didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. He had crossed the line. And I had no intentions of putting up with it.

I crawled up in my queen-sized bed and cried myself to sleep, waking up in the middle of the night to someone stroking my face and hair. I screamed. Ty had found a way to break into my apartment, leading me to believe I didn’t know what else he was capable of. But little did I know, I’d find out, sooner rather than later.

Nevertheless, he apologized relentlessly, and after two weeks of giving him the cold shoulder, I ended up giving in. I missed him. Besides, he said he’d never do it again. And I wanted to believe him. I needed to.

Weeks slid by without any further aggression. And in the midst of us being the loving couple again, he somehow convinced me to give up my place and move in with him, saying he needed to wake up to me in his bed every night. He professed his undying love for me on bended knee, slipping a beautiful engagement ring on my finger, then making spectacular love to me. I was strung. And against my better judgment, I did just what he wanted. I gave up my own space. I didn’t realize how big of a mistake I had made until it was too late. Unfortunately, I was already playing housewife. I had already given him control.

Interestingly, he did everything he could to make me feel comfortable. He even went as far as getting rid of most of his furniture and allowing me to decorate the house the way I wanted. I had to admit, the first six months were wonderful. I was truly happy. Or so I thought. But when you’re blinded by what you think is love, you can only see as far as your heart will let you. Which, in my case, wasn’t very far. I was looking at life—my life—through cloudy, smudge-stained lenses.

You know. I realize now that Ty was a really disturbed man. But back then, I justified his behavior, believing he’d see how much I loved him once we were married. Once we made our vows to love each other til death did us part, he’d see that he was the only man for me. Silly me. Humph. I can vividly recall the first time he looked me in my eyes, after rocking my body for the third time that night, and whispered in his deep, delicious voice, “If you ever try to leave me, I’ll kill you.”

I nervously laughed. “Ty,” I said, slapping his arm, playfully, “you so silly.”

He didn’t crack a smile. His eyes bore into me, causing a chill to go up my spine. “Nah. Word is bond. I’ll kill you before I ever let you leave me.” He spoke deliberately. Purposefully. And it frightened me. But I let it pass the minute he climbed back on top of me, slipping his manhood back inside of me. I gasped. However, the look on his face told me he’d love me to death, or at least try to—figuratively and literally.