Since I’m one of those who believes the universe has this (sometimes cruel) way of presenting one with all the information one needs to realize whatever it is they’re supposed to, I’ve been getting a lot of refresher courses on domestic abuse lately. Today’s lesson came via my morning assignment: The county sponsored a seminar for stylists and other salon professionals on how to spot abuse in their clients. And this seminar of course had a workbook detailing the types of abuse, i.e. isolation, denial and blame, coercion and threats, economic and male privilege. Well, under “emotional abuse,” what should they have detailed but “Tries to make you think you’re crazy,” and under reasons women stay with abusers, it lists “Guilt over failure of relationship” and “Guilt about choosing an abuser?”
There’s an oooof for you if I ever seen one.
The other lesson came Saturday night when, against my better judgment, I went out with an acquaintance that I normally know better than to set foot out the door with, but did anyway because ... well, because. Anyway, she and I go to see a local band that wasn’t my homies (for which I got shit today, but you know, got to check out the competition, too), and it started off lovely—met some new people, got stinkin’ drunk, had guys staring at my bodacious tatas because my tank top kept slipping, had some good hair going ... you know, chillin’ and illin’.
I should’ve realized that was not going to last, however, when said acquaintance started talking about how her boyfriend hadn’t acknowledged Sweetest Day, like, before we even got out the door.
After two songs or three songs into the second set, Acquaintance decides we’re leaving because she hasn’t heard from the boyfriend since before we left for the evening, and we’re going over there, but would I take her car home? ‘k, I think to myself; she’ll go in to his crib, they’ll decide it was all a big misunderstanding, and I’ll be home about 2-ish. Yeah, I don’t know how long I was passed out in the car, but I wake up to Boyfriend telling me in very broken English, yet in no uncertain terms, that I needed to get her out of there, because he doesn’t want to have to call the police. All right, I say as Boyfriend storms off into the night. Naturally, Acquaintance is having none of that—even though he’s broken up with her in the time that she went inside and I passed out—so we’re going into the house and waiting for him and his friend (who speaks even less English than boyfriend) to return.
In the hour or so that we waited for them, she called him what had to have been three or four times (he turned his phone off, of course) and proceeded to repeat over and over the whole shpiel of what I missed. Oh, and she isn’t leaving, but I could, which, cool! this was getting a little too crazy for me. So I take off, only to get about two blocks down when she calls me to pick her up a pack of smokes.
Shortly after, the two men return, and Acquaintance chases him first to his room, then to the garage, then to the front of the house and then back to the garage while I’m sitting there drunk and trying to carry on a conversation with a man who speaks marginal English at best. They come back into the house, and since physically moving away from her wasn’t working, Boyfriend decides to play like he’s sleeping on the couch so maybe she’d back the hell off. That only made Acquaintance sit on the edge of the couch and poke him to wake up. He goes back to his room, she follows ... you get the idea. At some point, she tells me I can go again and she’ll call someone else to come get her in the morning. WONderful! I think. I’m out!
Until I got the phone call that he pushed her out of the house, come get her.
I go back, and the friend is coming out of the house. Where are they now? I ask, and he shrugs his shoulders and gets in his car. She then comes around the corner and gets into the car with me and starts telling me how he grabbed her and pushed her. And then? The drunken hysteria started, followed by the “I didn’t do anything wrong” proclamation. Now, you won’t get me to excuse a man for resorting to violence toward a woman ever, but saying that getting all up into his grill isn’t “doing anything wrong?”
Long story short, I didn’t get to bed until 7 a.m. Sunday morning. The end.
For enduring my tale of woe, below is a shot of me taken earlier in the evening, when I was drunk and rockin’ out:
Not sure why, but I look uncharacteristically olive in this shot. That never happens.