According to my husband he only had one fight with a male in his life. He was in high school and had said something smart to an obviously gay young man that I guess he’d thought nothing of on account of the guy being gay. But to his surprise, this effeminate young man, jumped a fence or wall and got to him and beat him up, embarrassing and humiliating him in front of whoever was around to see it. From that time on, he only fought women and terrorized children.
He was arrested on a domestic violence charge after assaulting another woman he lived with when she called the police and he spent the weekend in jail. The charges were eventually dismissed because he blackmailed her into dropping them. While they lived together, she paid for some stuff at Victoria’s Secret with one of his checks that she signed. So he told her that if she didn’t drop the charges, he would press charges against her for forgery.
When he first told me this story shortly after meeting me, he said that she was crazy and had made the whole thing up. He said that she just wanted to get him out of his apartment, as he was forced to leave due to the charges against him. He also said that she peed on his kitchen floor for no reason, she slept with a knife under her side of the bed, and she was forging his checks. Prior to him driving her across the country to come live with him, he said they had been good friends for a long time. Then I guess without provocation, she let the psycho out of the bag.
I believed him at first, because I had no reason not to. I had known him for a few weeks or so and he appeared anything but abusive. He was charming, polite, funny, fun, smart and a gentleman. So she must've been crazy, right? He kept telling me that I was beautiful and that I was making him fall in love with me. I believed him hook, line and sinker.
It wasn't until years later, after enduring physical and every other kind of abuse there was and being called crazy and off to the point where I began to think I was, did I begin to realize, that he actually abused that woman. I don't know if that was the first time he hit her or the last, but she called the police that day.
I understood the fear she must have felt when she peed on herself and why she slept with that knife under her side of the bed. I also had "went" on myself once, I had been that afraid too.
I confronted him years later after another abusive episode and told him that I believed he did hit that girl and that's why she called the police. And you know what? He admitted it. He kinda laughed about it as if he was just busted stealing a cookie from the cookie jar. I guess he must have been thinking, "Very good stupid, you finally figured it out." He nonchalantly recounted his version of the story to me, admitting to choking her at one point, smiling and laughing at times, as if proud of himself. Although I wasn't surprised at this information, I was still dumbstruck at hearing it.
I felt like a fool. I had been had. But it was too late now, I was trapped. I had children with this psycho. Why didn't I see this incident as a red flag from the beginning, no matter what the version? He played the pity card so well, I fell for it and had even felt bad that this nice guy had to endure a weekend in jail because of a crazy scheming ex-girlfriend. He was, excuse me, IS a very skilled liar, Ted Bundy style - doing it with a smile.
My husband took pride in the fact that he never punched me, in his mind that meant he wasn't abusive. When I would tell him he hit me, he would say, “I didn’t hit you, I mushed you.”
Well, he mushed me. He pushed me. He smacked me. He slapped me. He shoved me, squeezed me, and dug his nails into me. He threw things at me. He pulled my hair. He wrestled me. He fought me like someone he'd fight on the street. Over the past 10 years, I was covered with hundreds of bruises and had dozens and dozens of cuts and scratches.
He did all of these things in front of our innocent and frightened children. He didn't care what they saw or how terrified they were. He ignored their cries and screams. At times I was able to get them into the bedroom and close the door to shield them. But they could still hear those awful sounds of adults fighting. Sounds you sometimes can hear forever. He was a family terrorist.
Once he slammed my arm in a door when I was about 7 months pregnant with our first child. My arm was very swollen, scratched up, sore and had just about all the colors of the rainbow. I had never seen a bruise like it. It looked really bad and felt terrible. I thought that I should probably go to the hospital, but I didn't.
I was afraid of what would happen to him and then to me and the baby. We were basically homeless at the time, renting a room from a heroin junkie in Washington Heights. He was making pennies working as a security guard, but they were the only pennies there were at the time. I was afraid to be alone and have the baby without him. To this day there is a lump in my right forearm from that injury. That was about one of the worst and most painful injuries he had ever given me.
He fought me throughout all of my pregnancies.
He would fight me if I was holding the baby or nursing the baby and would even attack me if he were holding one of them. He would get angry and sometimes take whichever baby he was holding and shove them forcefully into me. The babies were no deterrence to him. If he wanted to hit me or hurt me, he would and no one, no matter how precious or fragile would stop him.
He fractured my rib. One day he started a major fight with me, it was an exceptionally scary one for some reason, and sticks out in my mind. Our third child, Joshua was about 6 months old at the time and lying on the bed. Jeff was tackling me onto the bed and we rolled on the baby. I was screaming at him about hurting the baby, he didn't care.
Then at one point he had me pinned down on the bed and began crushing me with all his body weight. He pressed on me and pressed on me until I felt like I couldn't breathe. Then I felt a cracking in my ribs and then a sharp pain under my right breast. I screamed and he finally got up. I told him that I was in a lot of pain and it hurt to breathe, that I believed he fractured my rib.
When I told him that I needed to go to the hospital, suddenly he turned caring and concerned, as if he wasn't the cause of it. He told me not to try to move. Then he went to the computer and looked up rib fractures I guess. He came back and told me that I didn't need to go to the hospital, that they don't do anything for it, that it just heals on its own in about 6 weeks. I just had to take it easy.
Every breath I took caused a piercingly sharp pain, so I had to breathe softly and shallowly. I tried to pick up the baby and it hurt. He told me that he would help me with heavy lifting until I felt better. He was actually kinda nice to me for the rest of the day and a couple days afterward.
I thank God it was a fracture and not a break that could've punctured my lung. That was the most serious injury he had ever inflicted upon me.
But the most disgusting thing he ever did to me was......
