Gods …

I was re-reading The Story of O the other day, and how interesting I found a few passages in which O referred to men like Rene and Sir Stephen as gods; she being a possession of gods. Here are two particular favorite passages, for they reveal the depth a person can reach in their submissive nature, that the abuse they might suffer is deemed preferable to living without that person who is their abuser.

He told her that she belonged to, and ultimately was dependable on, him, and only him, even if she were to receive orders from others than he, no matter whether he were present or absent, for as a matter of principle he concurred in whatever she might be required to do, or whatever might be inflicted on her; and that it was he who possessed and enjoyed her through those into whose hands he surrendered her, from the simple fact that she was surrendered to them by him. She must submit to them all, and greet them with the same respect she greeted him, as if they were so many images of him. Thus he would possess her as a god possesses his creatures whom he lays hands on in the guise of some monster or bird, some invisible spirit or state of ecstasy. — The Story of O p. 32.

"I love you, René, I love you," she repeated, whispering to him in the solitude of her room, "I love you, do whatever you want with me, but don't leave me, for God's sake, don't leave me." … Doomed because those powerful strands, those thin cables whose ends René held in his hands, were the only line by which the current of life could reach her. That was so true when René slackened his grip upon her — or when she imagined he had — when he seemed distant, or when he retreated into what O took to be indifference, or when he let some time go by without seeing her or answering her letters, and when she thought he no longer cared or was about to cease loving her, everything came to a halt in her, she languished, she smothered. Green grass turned black, day ceased to be day, night to be night, becoming instead infernal machines which made light alternate with darkness specificially in order to torture her. Cool water made her nauseous. She felt like a pill of salt, a statue of ashes, bitter, useless and damned, like the salt statues of Gomorrah. For she was guilty, a sinner. Those who were God and whome God abandons in the dark of the night are guilty, they are sinners. Because they are abandoned. … When she was a child she had read a text written on the white wall of hte room she'd lived in for two months in Wales: a passage from the Bible … "It is a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living God." No, she said to herself now, no, that isn't true. What is terrible is to be rejected by the hands of the living God. Every time René postponed the moment he was to meet her … O was brought to the verge of madness and despair … — The Story of O pp. 93, 95-97.

O's submission was most definitely one quite deep and profound — so much so, that she believed these men who controlled her as they did truly were a god; that only a god could be that controlling.

I can relate to O. I've had my share of gods in my life — or at any rate, men who conceived themselves to be, and one who became my controller for twenty years.

Steve.

I look back and think, Some might think him a bastard. But was he truly? For me, he was a lifeline. In my quest for inner peace, I discovered the martial arts, and Steve took me farther than simply as a mentor in Shotokan. In the midst of Zen and meditation, I was introduced into the world of bondage and domination. I was like O — mesmerized and shocked. I suppose, looking back, I saw Steve as a god back then, naive as I was, though he himself never personified himself to be. Or perhaps, Steve was a gentler god.

Then … I got very stupid.

One day at my friend's house, her boyfriend called and he had a friend — we could double date, he suggested. I had seen his friend the day or two before, and though he wasn't really my type, I agreed. He ended up becoming my husband.

I moved in with him, leaving my rather independent life despite living with my religiously zealot mother, my friends, college, my life, to go live in a god-forsakened world known as Oklahoma.

I spent many years a prisoner to his manipulations and abuse, although mostly verbal/emtional, nonetheless they cut just as much as a real knife. His violence did at times extend to physical, and I was lucky enough to escape with my health — and my life — intact.

I remember the many times he would slice his wrists, knowing that button that was pushed each time, my own father committing suicide when I was six years old. I didn't want my children to go through what I did coming to terms with suicide. For a long time, I believed his threats, though deep inside, crying and begging him to stop cutting himself, I knew the cuts were not fatal, and it was my tears and pain he was wanting. It turned him on, physically and emotionally.

I remember how he isolated me from my friends until I had lost most all of them; they couldn't understand how I let him do this to me, and rather be a friend, they turned their backs. I couldn't blame them; I envied them.

I remember learning that while I was in the hospital, after having nearly died giving birth to our first child, he had been with another woman. I remember many nights, waiting up late, a day spent tending to nothing but our children, exhausted and alone, and he would be out drinking, picking up women in bars …

I remember him telling me — that I was ugly …
       … I was fat …
       … I was totally incapable of being loved by anyone other than him …
       … I should be thankful for him …
       … I should be thankful to him …

I remember the violent rapes; his, as well as his friends whom he gave me to.

I remember being slammed into walls as if I were a stuffed toy; I remember sitting in the bathroom and watching in horror as he threw a hammer at me, missing me (barely) and shattering the glass shower door next to me, feeling the shards of glass rain down on top of me. I remember hating him, as well as fearing him, as he forced me to clean up the bathroom, not caring about the glass embedded throughout my flesh

I remember the fear and hate I felt the time he placed a loaded gun to my temple on more than one occasion.

I did once turn for help; my long-time minister at the church my mother forced me to attend while living under her roof, a church my mother religiously paid her tithes to. "I'm sorry, but, you're husband — he's not a member of this church?" was the response that I got, and I turned my back on organized religion from that moment forward; God and I would have a relationship without the walls of a church — once I was ready to believe in God again. At that point in my life, there was a living "god" in my life. I seriously doubted I would go to hell for not attending church any longer; I was already in hell.

He was not a living god; he was Satan himself.

The Awakening, that time in your life when you finally get it; when in the midst of all your fears and insanity, you stop dead in your tracks and somewhere the voice inside your head cries out — ENOUGH! — enough fighting and crying and blaming and struggling to hold on, finally arrived to save me. After a 48-hour reign of terror, held at gunpoint, in which he relentlessly throughout those seemingly endless hours, attempted with his foul words to demean my existence, listening to him tell me, drive the words into me, that I was lucky that I had him, that no one else would want me, I, in my fugue, having reached a deep sub-space, decided that I had to get away. Like a child quieting down after a tantrum, blinking back my tears, I realized it was time to stop hoping and waiting for something to change; happiness, safety and security would not magically appear over the next horizon. I knew that for any chance of “happily ever after” to happen, it must begin with me, myself, and I … and in this thought-process, a sense of peace and calm was born of acceptance of these facts.

Our children were safe, at my mother's for the weekend. And so, I began my plot, convincing him to take me to the store to get some bread, something to fix him lunch with, and though he drove with the gun pointed at me, and though he voiced a threat that I had better not go into the store and seek help, that he would use the gun, on himself, on me, on whoever — as I got out of the car, I was determined to call his bluff. He would kill me, or he would not; both offered escape from him permanently. I could only pray that he would actually kill himself. Unfortunately, the flaw in that plan was that it was Memorial Day that day, and in our small community, no stores were open, not even the mini-marts that so plague our country.

Upon returning home, needing to collect my children from my mother's, I told him, I think in the coldest voice I have ever in my life used, that I would collect them on my own. Amazingly, he agreed with no complaint. I left the desert, dropping him off at his friend's, along with his shotgun, and the threat that if I didn't return, and/or if I called the police … I did return, I didn't call the police, because I cared to much for the friend he had placed in the center. My husband was certainly capable of violence — even to himself.

Long after we had been married, I learned through his brother and sister-in-law, of his time spent in a sanitarium in Texas, after committing violence toward his ex-wife (who went into hiding for almost four years after their breakup) and violence toward himself. I learned that the doctors did not wish to release him, that my "wonderful" parents-in-law bought a judge so that he would be released by court order. The night before his mother passed away in her sleep, a vicious, cruel woman she was, called me on the telephone, and apologized to me for all of her meanness, but mostly, for seeing that her boy left the sanitarium.

I gathered my courage and started my plans for my permanent escape. I had no place to go to, unable to stay at my mother's (she lived in a senior-citizens complex), no friends I felt close enough to turn to; I was going to have to remain where I was, and I knew it would take time in the preparation and planning. So, I returned home that day with my children. I know my mother saw me that day a different person, but, we were never really close, never had that mother-daughter relationship in which I could seek her out for advice. So, she didn't ask.

The next step, was taking charge of my life, and in doing so, my husband knew he was on shaky ground. I had yet not even spoken of leaving, but it was evident that after that weekend, he had lost me, and his control was in jeopardy. I gave … zero emotion; sadness, fear, nothing. It was easy because I was empty, I felt empty. I knew I had to be careful and not let the emptiness destroy me.

At the time, I worked in the Public Works Department of a local municipality, and my co-workers, my boss, were not simply fellow employees; our group was an extended family. They knew I had changed, but they were cool, and didn't pry; though not a day went by that my closest friend there, Chris, who was like the big brother I never had, stopped to give a hug.

Did I mention we did try counseling? Yes, right after that memorable weekend, and well, that went real well. Prior to arriving at the office, he demanded that I not reveal anything of his dirty little secrets. You see, he feared that he would be sent back to a mental institution. I didn't have a chance to; the counselor was a man, and he had already determined before we even sat there with him, that I was the reason for the troubles in our marriage. Despite the mention of his abuse, both physical and mental, of his philandering, it was my fault because, when all was said and done — I was a horrible wife and deserved it all.

I understood then why the counselor himself wasn't married.

Counseling out, because no matter who we saw, he was not going to change, I continued in my personal goal. Two days after the fiasco with the counselor, I received a call; my husband was in the hospital — he had fallen and hurt his back. Hm. To this day, I know he fell on purpose, though I doubted he had intended to hurt himself as badly as he did. Though unable to work, he was up and about enough to come to my job — to the point that I had to give up my job. I was unable to break down and tell my boss, one of my best friends, what was happening, and so, it was decided that a mutual dissolution of our work relationship end. At least it enabled me to collect unemployment, for by then we had moved from San Bernardino into the desert, and the commute to the San Bernardino Valley was becoming harder as more people flocked from the 'burbs of Los Angeles and Orange County to live where homes were cheap and easy to obtain.

Now, I was stuck being around him 24/7, but his injury worsened to the point that he needed back surgery; I prayed he would not survive. Without remorse. However, he did, and with the money awarded to him, he suggested we purchase a house. Though I was still working toward my personal goal, he had made some improvements in his demeanor toward me, I agreed to buying a house because one, we had to move from where we were living, and most importantly, it would be good for our children. Too, we had made friends there in the desert; later I would discover one who would become important in my life.

In the interim, through friends we had made, I was told of a job I would probably get. Temporary though it was, I needed something to get me out of the house for a few hours. A small company, though a subsidiary of a very large company outside of San Diego, building UAVs — Unmanned Air Vehicles (we built the Predator that was used in the war in Bosnia, as well as the war in Iraq). I was the only female — and I brought needed organization to the small group of people at the flight test facility situated on the dry lakebed in El Mirage. Hired solely as a technical writer for instructional aircraft maintenance manuals (which was fun because I knew nothing of aircraft — but I quickly learned!), my boss — uh, disappeared — in Turkey — with $50,000 of the company's money. [ And he wanted ME to come there with him — ACK! ] However, I also helped out the guys with little projects they would shyly bring to me, and the chief pilot was ecstatic because someone was there to draw up, type up and print out his flight diagrams — exactly as he liked them — and he, being best friends with the vice president of the company, arranged that I get hired permanently.

The guys became my big brothers, and it is there where I learned how to build a computer. One brought me parts, another brought me software, software technicians taught me C+, and I consumed and learned everything that was within reach to learn. I was back on track in my life, building toward independence, learning something that would take me far in a career. I had also started a home business on the side offering desktop publishing services (business cards, mostly).

After the purchase of the house, my husband was free to return to work, and took a long-haul offer (he was a semi-truck driver). Yes! I was ecstatic; six weeks of not having him around at times made life much more bearable.

Back at work, he was back to his normal self as well; those few days in between the several weeks of his absence, he more than made up for the time gone. Then one day, my youngest daughter's sixth grade graduation, I left my job for a couple of hours to attend the graduation and then pick up my other daughters at their schools, plans for attending my middle daughter's graduation from junior high. On our way to the high school where my oldest girls were waiting, waiting to turn off of the two lane highway onto the main road leading into town and the high school, my car was rear-ended. I saw it coming, I watched the truck speed even faster it seemed (and the driver of the truck admitted to it), and there was no where for me to go; an on-coming semi-truck in the other lane, the side of the mountain on my right. I was calm about my own impending death; though terrified for my daughter, whom I did not warn what was about to happen. I said to her simply, a breath before the impact, "I love you."

My daughter and I, to the amazement of police and the well over one hundred eyewitnesses, walked unscathed from my car, miraculously escaping from serious injury. Our backs hurt, our bodies bruised, we were in a daze, watching and listening to people talking. The seatbelts snapped in half from the force of the collision, the seats broke and flung us backward — which basically saved our lives. The semi-truck managed to swerve around my car, which spun in 360 degree circles making six complete spins, and the truck that had struck my car. The rear end of my car smashed all the way to the rear seat — off center toward the right, which saved us from not only going over the side of the mountain, but just missing the fully filled tank of propane I had in the trunk for the celebration barbecue planned for the evening. The gas tank of my car ruptured, electric company workers right there working, ran over to cover the dripping gas with sand until the fire department arrived moments later; I had not filled the tank of my car yet, very little to leak out.

The man who had been driving the pick-up had just been released from the hospital two days prior after having suffered a stroke. He was okay, shaken, but his friend who was not wearing a seatbelt, seriously injured.

Concerned for my other daughters who would be waiting less than a half mile down the road — but still in a fugue, again an intervention divine; friends driving by sighted my car, then my daughter and I, and pulled over. Not only did they collect my daughters, but they took them to my middle daughter's graduation in my place. My youngest daughter and I were transported to a hospital — not the hospital within the desert community nearby where we lived, but down the mountain into San Bernardino to the County Hospital (because the passenger of the other vehicle could only be taken to that hospital and rather than calling for a second ambulance, we were given no option). We were released after I had raised bloody hell, watching my daughter taken for the 4th time to be x-rayed — because they kept goofing up the films — and the doctor examining me was a bit too familiar. I would take us to our regular doctor at home the next day. The only good thing was that a friend lived nearby and she came to collect us, made sure we ate and rested, and had her husband take us home. By then, it was late, and I would have to wait for film to be developed to see my middle daughter's graduation.

Is it true that your life flashes before your eyes just before you die — or at least believe you are about to? Oh, definitely. That unnerving experience, coupled by the phone call from my husband, his lack of concern whether or not I was okay, it was time to set things back on schedule. Too, his abusive nature had returned and memories of that weekend surfaced; a repeat performance was drawing near, I could feel the storm stirring. However, this time, it was not only myself who noticed, but a close friend …

My mistake perhaps, but I sought a quick divorce, agreeing to joint custody, mostly in part because our children wished it. I had gone away to stay with a friend for a couple of weeks, fearing his reaction to my decision of seeking a divorce, my mother there at our home to ensure the safety of our children. Rather than strike out at my mother, instead he caused himself to lose his job when he decided to stand in the center of the road with a shotgun to his head; he assumed I would not leave him once he was jobless. Of course, he tried to get me to change my mind on several other occasions as well; he vowed counseling, he vowed religion, he would grab bottles of pills and drag himself to the bathroom, setting out the few dollar bills he had in his pocket: "This is yours" he would say, then close the door and wait, expecting me to come running in tears to beg him to not kill himself like all those times before.

I remember sitting there praying that he would, shedding not one tear.

He would not agree to letting me keep the house we purchased. I didn't fight for it either; I couldn't afford it on my own, and I knew I could never depend on him, even under court order, to help with the house payments. He fully expected, of course, that I would choose not to divorce him, rather than move.

He was in for an awakening of his own.

Houses are not important if you fear for your life; I would rather myself and my children live in a cramped apartment and have peace of mind.

I was slowly becoming the one in control. I had ballooned into such a fat, unhappy woman in my years with him, but once in control again, I shed the pounds. I walked daily, for exercise not only of body, but of spirit, I purchased a home gym, and worked out. I learned who were — and were not — truly my friends; Tam was my godsend of a friend and emotional cheerleader. Those "friends" who believed, I cared not, though he did manage to almost brainwash our children that "Mommy is sick and needs to go to the mental hospital" (my mother quickly informed him — "Do not even try it, buster!") because I truly must have lost my mind to want to divorce a wonderful man like himself. Yeah …

I had a few close friends online, one whom stayed with me in my new home for awhile. However, prior to moving out, another very strange event occured. He was in one of his routines of attempting to get me to give a damn while he played as if to swallow a bottle of pills, when I was talking to "A", a friend who was simply that — a platonic friend. "A" helped me keep my cool that night, but, that was not the strange thing. As he was telling me goodnight, my soon-to-be ex-husband walked by and started accusing "A" of being someone else, of being my phantom lover (an Air Force pilot stationed at the base near us was the husband of one of my good friends, and according to my soon-to-be ex-husband, was the one that was stealing me away). "A" said goodnight, and the AOL IM window closed; I typed "Help." "A" received that message offline two minutes later. He instantly signed back on, and managed to convince my husband that he lived on the opposite side of the continent, and even had his wife call on the phone. Had he not received that message …

I remember the immense joy I felt when the judge granted my divorce in November, 1995.

Despite the struggle I was going through, learning to survive on my own, to accept my new life, and even, to rejoice in the freedom that I had found, I was stymied at each turn. I was a victim of stalking, yet, with his friends providing alibis, despite the testimony of our children, despite the kindly officers who arrived one night to take pictures of the bruises, he was the grand manipulator and managed to charm his way remaining free to perch himself on his friends' porch, from well before 6:00 a.m until well after midnight, using our youngest child in a cruel game of manipulation.

Though the laws are out there to protect us, unfortunately the laws are only as good as the legal personnel you must deal with. For me, I was stuck in a small desert town with wannabe police officers and a judicial system that was rather archaic. After my divorce and had moved to a new place, my ex-husband had moved, temporarily, out of state. Unable to make a living there, he returned, to sleeping in his truck on the block where I lived. Despite the restraining order that I had, he would prowl around outside my home . One night, a neighbor called the police seeing him sleeping in his truck. They knocked on my door, wanting me to provide him with at least a blanket and some pity. While standing there, holding the restraining orders, my middle daughter stood at the door with me, and though we emphatically made it known to the officers that he was a violent menace not to be pitied, I was still the bad guy in their eyes. He had friends who lived across the street from me and circumvented the restraining order by moving in. His friends would provide an alibi each time he would come to my house, break into my house, go through my garbage, steal my garbage …

He would show up at my job, making sure to arrive during the hour I was at lunch at not there; our company itself did not have security, such was not truly necessary, but at the time, one of our customers, the United States Army, deployed several individuals to remain at the flight test facility that I worked at to learn how to operate and performance maintenance on the UAVs; they served as security, having "adopted" me as one of theirs.

Our oldest daughter, he had moved to Oklahoma, depositing her there with friends of ours; she wanted to go and so I didn't fight her on it. She blamed me for everything, believed his woven tales of how I had lost my mind, of how I had all these lovers lined up because I was sexually delusional. Incredibly sad, was that before they had left for Oklahoma, she had walked in my room to find him holding a loaded shotgun to my head, demanding that I take him back or he would shoot. She took the gun from him, carried to his friends across the street, then calmly lied to the police along with the neighbors that the event happened. We have had a greatly strained relationship since then, however, since that time, she has grown up and realized considerably where she errantly placed her trust.

The joint custody clause came back to haunt me.

After depositing our oldest daughter in Oklahoma, leeching off our friends and being unsuccessful at finding a job (his little stunt getting fired by pointing the gun to his head did him great harm — go figure), he returned to California, arriving one day while I was at work, and took our other two daughters against their will, forcing them to go to Oklahoma, leaving a note that I was not fit to raise our children; I needed serious mental help, he said, I needed a break from responsibility. Our oldest daughter, along with our friends, demanded he return them to me.

He did return the girls to me, but then he moved in with his friends across the street, and his vigil began. It became apparent to my daughters — and I — that he would never leave me alone; I had to find someplace to go — alone. And so, one tear-filled day, I left my children who put on their brave front that they would be fine with their father; he loved them, he would never harm them (or so we thought then). I placed 3,500 miles between us, moving to the one place my husband feared far more than a mental institution — New York City.

Yes, that's me there in the corner in the picture at the top of this page; and I'm a survivor. So are my daughters. We share a good relationship; the same cannot be said for them and their father.