Living With the Choices We Make (Domestic Violence / Abuse) ✔️

7 - The Day Mom Left

7 - The Day Mom Left  

"Was this was the first time he hit and violated you?" Doc asks.

I nod, my stomach still in knots from the memory. "Yep."

"But you didn't break up with him?"

What kind of stupid question is that? "We wouldn't be here if I did."

He looks at me thoughtfully but I can't find any sympathy. "Why did you stay?"

That's a tough one. There were many reasons, most of them none of his business. "He apologized the next day, promising never to do it again," I rattle down monotonously like I did many times before. "Brent was genuinely concerned about my wellbeing, making a big fuss about my swollen face. He swore he would make it up to me, bought me small gifts."

"What kind of gifts?"

"CDs, books, flowers. You know, the usual."

A small smile curls his lips. "I've never hit a woman in my life so I don't know what would be customary under those circumstances. You'll have to excuse if I seem ignorant at times."

His biting comment upsets me. "I thought as a shrink, you have seen it all."

"Battered Women Syndrome is still a rare defense in a murder case," he says. "Especially since Illinois enacted the Domestic Violence Act."

Why does everybody always imply that it is the victim's fault. "Are you blaming me for not removing myself from the situation?" I can't keep the accusatory tone from my voice.

"I didn't say that." His voice is sharp and there is an angry glint in his eyes. "All I meant is that a lot of women choose different methods to handle domestic abuse and do not resort to violence like you did."

For a moment, we glare at each other while I am trying to keep my angry tears bottled inside.

He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly while focusing on a spot on the wall behind me. "What other reasons were there for forgiving him?"

"None," I lie. "He said he was sorry and wouldn't do it again. I trusted him like the idiot I was and that was the end of it. Let's move on."

His eyes burn into my skull while he frowns at me. "I don't believe that was all. Why are you so evasive?"

I bite my thumb like I usually do when I am agitated. Over these last few weeks, I managed to tear deeply into the skin and there is a bloody crust surrounding the outline of my fingernail. He is getting too close for my taste. "I'm not sure what you want me to say, Doc."

"Were you scared he would abandon you like your mother?"

He got me with his question but I continue to play clueless. "My mother didn't abandon me. She died."

"She was killed in a car crash, wasn't she?"

"That's a matter of public record." I grin at him smugly, proud of my smooth comeback.

He stays persistent. "You were in the car with her. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

"I was five. I barely remember."

The wrinkle on his forehead deepens. "Did you know she was intoxicated?"

"No." It's another lie. My recollections of my mother are sketchy but the memories of the constant stench of alcohol surrounding her and her slurred speech have not faded over the years despite my efforts to forget that part of her.

He skims my file. "That's not what you told the psychologist you saw a year after your mother's death. You told her that you knew your mom was drunk and that you resented her for leaving you."