Know the "Four Stages of Abuse"

“Release Me” Wilson Phillips

The Group – April 30, 1990

I'm clutching the tiny piece of paper I had hidden for weeks with the address I'd found written on a bathroom stall. I typically don't go anywhere alone and am nervous about being around a bunch of women I don’t know. A few minutes pass, and I finally gather the courage to turn off the engine of my little red Honda Accord. My palms are sweaty as I walk into the dark, quiet industrial building, typically used for offices during the day. He didn't even question where I was going. I just told him something that would not pique suspicion. Perhaps he felt bad about the night before. 

I pass several offices until I hear women murmuring down the hall. I slowly open the door with no sign and enter a sparsely furnished room. A small group of women is in a circle on metal folding chairs. Most of them appear to be in their thirties and forties. It's hard to tell because several appear tired and worn out, a look I immediately identify with. Store-bought cookies, a pot of coffee, and pamphlets are on a table. I sign the attendance sheet–no last name required–grab a few handouts, a cup of coffee, and sit next to a smartly dressed, African American woman with upswept hair, perfect posture, looking straight ahead. I need a calming and confident presence next to me.

The leader smiles, tells us her name, and asks us to introduce ourselves, adding we could share, but only if we wanted to. Thank goodness. I have no intention of saying anything. One by one, they tell their stories. I listen intently as each one speaks. A few have left their husbands and talk excitedly about their lives today. I’m amazed. These women left? As they continue, I start to piece together the similarities between their pasts and my present. But, like the others still with their husbands, I'm like a frightened deer immobilized by headlights, not knowing whether to turn and run back into the woods or leap in front of the car and hope for the best. 

She opens a pamphlet titled "The Four Stages of Abuse." As she reads each stage, I feel something unfamiliar stirring within me. I didn't realize it then, but I'm beginning to grieve. For my marriage, my family, and my kids, who deserve so much more.

Colorful Diagram of the Cycle of Abuse

• “Calm” As she reads, I imagine standing on a platform to board a roller coaster. I know what's coming as I wait expectantly.

•  “Tension” My car climbs the noisy track. “Where have you been? Who were you with? You should have been home hours ago!”

• “Incident” With lightning speed, my car careens down hills and jerks my body to the left and right, and I wonder when I’ll see the end. At last, I see the platform, and my car comes to a screeching halt. I wait until I’m permitted to climb out. I’m shaken, but at least it's over, this time.  

• “Reconciliation He tells me he's sorry and promises not to hurt me again. With a caveat: “If only you hadn’t provoked me.” I forgive him once again, not knowing his apologies are tickets with no expiration date.

• https://www.domesticshelters.org/articles/identifying-abuse/what-is-the-cycle-of-abuse”

The fog-like spell I'd been under for almost twenty years begins to lift as I realize I am living this vicious cycle. I’m relieved to know I'm not alone, but angry for letting it go on for so long; angry at my spouse for thinking it was okay to treat me like crap and not do anything to help himself; angry at counselors who told me I should try to understand his PTSD from Vietnam and his family background. A counselor at the Veterans Administration Hospital suggested antidepressants, for me, not him. I tell him, “Thank you, but my mother has been on antidepressants all her life and still needs to see a psychiatrist on a regular basis. So obviously, they don’t work for her.” I remind myself there is no way in hell I want to be anything like her, and that includes being a prescription drug addict. Devoid of emotion and locked up in her bedroom all day. “I continue, “I have six children to raise, and they need a stable mother at home. So, thanks, but no thanks,” and I never went back to counseling at the VA Hospital. I’m angry with my parents and in-laws who looked the other way, and most of all, society for not stepping up to help victims like me caught up in this nightmare called domestic violence.

I wait patiently for the meeting to end and watch the women begin to filter out of the room. I look at another handout in my lap, "We Have a Place for You.” I’m so nervous I can barely stand, sort of like an altar call when the pastor asks if anyone wants to come up front for prayer or to give their life to Jesus. I did have a significant Jesus experience in 1974, but I had drifted far away from my faith. “Get up, move your legs,” I tell myself. Finally, I gather the nerve to speak with the group leader and present the handout to her. She waited a few seconds while I try to put into words what I need to say. "Is there anything I can help you with?" she graciously asked. That was a loaded question; there are so many things I need help with. I raised the handout about shelters and blurted, "I think I need to leave. I mean, I know I need to leave this meeting. I need to leave my husband, but I have five children, well, six, but he moved out when he and his dad got into an argument about stereo equipment.” I take a breath and berate myself, 'Oh my God, I’m babbling, focus! “Is there anywhere we can go?”

I anticipate the dropped jaw and incredulous expression, expecting the usual response, "Wow, six kids! Bless your heart." Others cracked jokes. "You know what causes that, right? Don't you guys have a television? There is birth control now. Are you Catholic, Mormon?" Depending on my mood, I'd smile and come back with, "Yeah, we enjoy sex a lot," or "I'm a recovering Catholic," or a sarcastic, "I never heard that one before." When I was pregnant with my fifth baby, a co-worker flippantly told me, "Abortions are legal now, you know." My Catholic parents only had two of us, and we were seven years apart. I don’t know how they swung that, but I have a few ideas. Abortion wouldn’t be an option, although it did become legal in California in 1967, for “therapeutic reasons.”

Instead, the group leader tells me, "I think there are two shelters available for you. One is in Big Bear, the other is in... " I didn't hear the other one. "Big Bear? I have always wanted to live there," I tell her excitedly. "Wait here, and I'll make some calls," and she walked out of the room.

            I started to think about when I was twenty and had an abortion after my first son was born. Already into a few red flags with my husband, I did not want to bring another child into the mix. This abortion was so traumatizing that I swore I would never have another one. You know the old standby, “Lord, if you get me out of this mess, I promise I’ll never do this again,” prayer. Never say never. The second abortion at forty was easier since the guy was married and I knew I didn’t have a future with him. My marriage was over, and I had begun a new life as a single mom. This time, I had to march through a mob of angry protesters in front of the Planned Parenthood building, who were yelling at me about killing my unborn child. I wanted to shout back, “Talk to me when you get pregnant by a married dude, and you’re a single mom.” After the "procedure," a friend took me to my parents’ house. My mom, who had parenting issues of her own, was there to comfort me. There was no judgment as she sat by my side, and held my hand, as if she may have understood what I was going through. By this time, I’m a mother with six kids, two abortions, and a domestic violence victim. I’m not exactly the best role model of motherhood either, but all my energy has been focused on trying to survive.

The group leader returns after what seems like an eternity. "Well, I have some good news and some bad news."

"The Road to Big Bear: Safe Refuge" ––Liz Alley

Brown Road to Big Bear logo with mountain cabin and Volkswagen Van