Just slip out the back, Jack, make a new plan, Stan
Don’t need to be coy, Roy, just listen to me
Hop on the bus, Gus, don’t need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee, and get yourself free
It was 1975, and I listened to that song over and over, with longing and hope. I knew I needed to get myself free.
He had seemed so nice at first. Brilliant, sensitive, compassionate. A little alienated, with his long hair and funky job fixing motorbikes. But it was the 70’s; we were all alienated. He was older, in his early 30’s, and he hung around with college professors.
I thought I was in love. And I needed a place to live.
I’m not sure how quickly I realized my mistake. The problems started with food. He liked to go out for midnight pizzas. I was happy to go along, but I just didn’t have much appetite at that hour. It wasn’t OK with him that I wasn’t hungry. We fought about it, and each time we went out to eat it got worse. I would try to eat, but I got nauseous. I vividly remember being at an expensive restaurant, ordering, and having to leave before the order came. I remember being on a business trip and making sure I had a waste-paper basket in front of me in case I got sick while talking to him on the phone. I weighed 112 pounds when I met him, and I remember vowing that I would leave him if my weight dropped below 100.
I don’t remember what else we fought about. Only that they were terrible. My mother had always told me that it took two to tangle, but it wasn’t true. I tried desperately to avoid them or end them. I would apologize. I would agree with him. But it didn’t work. He wouldn’t forgive me, or he’d change the argument.
I’m not sure when I decided I needed to leave or why I didn’t leave much earlier.
Of course, I thought I loved him. When things were good, they were really, really good. He was so bright. He was so charming. He was so interesting. We formed our own secret society and felt superior to everyone else. Also, there may have been gin involved.
But my weight kept dropping. And although he never hit me, I started to be afraid of him. He had pushed me. He had put his hands around my neck.
When I ended it, it was because I needed a car.
I’d gotten a good job, a real job. A job with benefits, a career path, and a pension. But it required a lot of travel. And I was using my boyfriend’s car, which kept breaking down. I was sure that losing that job would be the end of me.
Of course, he resented the job and claimed I was choosing it over him. I could easily pay for a new car, but he thought I should be using public transportation. And one day, when I was headed to an assignment in Connecticut, the car abruptly quit. It quit on the exit between 195 and 95.
After the car was towed to a garage, I called my mother. I didn’t call my boyfriend, because he would have told me to call my boss and tell him I couldn’t make it into work. My mother immediately picked me up and drove me to Connecticut.
“I think I’m going to leave him,” I said.
“We’ve all been praying that you would,” she replied softly. (I think that was the first and last time in my life I ever heard my mother use the word ‘prayer.’) “You can move into the apartment over the post office,” she continued, immediately turning back into my practical, ever-efficient mother.
I broke up with him by phone from Connecticut because I was afraid to do it in person. My father helped me buy a reliable car.
Still, I did see him, even after all that. I’d worried that if I left, he’d hurt himself. He threatened to. Of course, he didn’t. In fact, he immediately starting dating someone else. Yet, I still wasn’t able to stay away. And so, we “dated” a couple of times.
It only ended for good when the phone rang in his apartment at midnight.
“Please answer it,” I begged. “It might be my mother.”
“No,” he said. “It’s a girl I don’t want to talk to.”
We argued and he kicked me out of the apartment. At midnight.
“If you do this, if you kick me out tonight, you’ll never see me again,” I declared.
He was unmoved. And I left.
Six months later, I met the guy I married. He wasn’t sensitive and misunderstood. He was kind of ordinary, bright, but with a normal haircut and a normal 9-to-5 job. This time, it was only ‘like’ at first sight. And ease. There were just no arguments. Only growing respect, admiration, and trust. In 2018, we will celebrate our 40th anniversary.
I’m not sure what I would tell my naive, callow, 24 year old self if I could go back in time. Perhaps nothing. Some things you just need to learn from experience. I realize now how lucky I was. I didn’t marry him. I didn’t get pregnant, I wasn’t broke, and I had strong family support. I never doubted that I could just call my mother, and she would save me, no questions asked.
In the end, happily, I didn’t need to have 50 ways to leave my lover. I just needed two. Like any toxic addiction, I needed to decide to stop. And then I needed support.
Although I don’t know what I’d tell myself, I do know what I’d tell my mother. Thank you. Thank you Mom. You got me free.
For those women whose mothers are unable to get them free, our community is lucky to have Sojourner House. Sojourner House is a comprehensive domestic and sexual violence agency providing programs and supportive services to victims of domestic and sexual violence and children who witness abuse in the greater Rhode Island community. Since 1976, Sojourner House has served over 60,000 victims and survivors of domestic and sexual violence. Every day, Sojourner House receives requests for assistance from individuals in abusive relationships. Thanks to their supporters, Sojourner House is able to offer support groups, one-on-one advocacy, immigration advocacy, crisis intervention, HIV testing, emergency shelter, and more.
If you or someone you know is in a violent relationship, please seek help. Advocates are available 24/7 through the helpline: 401-765-3232. In the case of an emergency, always call 911.
