I haven’t written about it for a long time.
When I wrote about it, it was still oddly fresh, even though it had happened so many years before. That’s what the first telling is always like. After the first time I wrote about my illegal abortion, I walked down the street to Lake Michigan feeling like layers of old wet wool sweaters were being stripped from my shoulders. I marveled at this. Had I been walking around for decades with all those thick, scratchy sweaters buttoned up to my neck? It had been so long, I scarcely noticed how damp and heavy and burdened I had become by what had happened when I was just a young woman.
The first telling of my experience with domestic violence had a similar effect. I had never put what had happened to me into words on a page. When I did, I made it a quick story, almost like a graphic novel without the pictures. Shorthand. Because, you know, it wasn’t all that serious what happened. Although it could have been.
Basically, for several years I had a boyfriend who had periods of psychotic depression. These episodes had occurred long before we met although I didn’t know that until a former girlfriend called me one night to fill me in. She told me that when he had these breaks, he became very threatening to himself and to others. There was a long history, she said, “you don’t know what he’s really like.” With me, his threatening behavior was rare and indirect but terrifying. I managed these episodes in strangely calm ways that even now make me feel I could talk someone down from committing mayhem. Maybe not. But let’s say I have experience.
There were several years of his threatening, dangerous behavior interspersed with the kind of companionship and regard that keep people attached to one another. I thought I could help him get his illness under control and then he could be his easy-going, funny self all the time. I tolerated his breaks as a mental health issue, deciding that because he hadn’t put his hands on me, the situation was still manageable. Until it wasn’t. And that’s a whole story by itself. The gist of which is this.
He didn’t have a gun.
Everytown for Gun Safety posted this yesterday on Facebook: “In states that require background checks for all handgun sales, 47 percent fewer women are shot to death by their intimate partners.”
It stopped me in my tracks.
It would have been so easy for him to shoot me, to keep me from screaming for help, running away, getting into my car and speeding away on the night that he finally did put his hands around my neck. Because, you see, in his frame of mind, he wouldn’t have cared about killing me, he just wanted to keep me from leaving. He wouldn’t have cared about being arrested or going to jail, he couldn’t think about that. There was no space in his head for those things. He just didn’t want me to leave and shooting me would have made sure of that.
But he didn’t shoot me because he didn’t have a gun.
He did, however, shoot himself many years later. I went to his funeral and talked to his sisters. They were angry at him for having ended his life. I wasn’t. I was surprised he’d lived as long as he had, the suffering I’d witnessed having been so acute. And I was grateful, deeply grateful, that I had decided to leave him, to give up on him, before he got a gun. It sounds heartless but it’s true.