Riding In (Fast) Cars With Boys
Warning: This blog post discusses domestic violence, emotional abuse, and intimate partner relationships.
He had a great relationship with his parents who were still married after decades. He came from a very good, educated town in California and when I visited his family’s house down there, it was immaculate and his parents were very welcoming and friendly.
Not the time he kept me from leaving his condo so I could go back to my apartment to take a break from yet, another spat we were having, and slamming the door shut again and him saying, “Don’t leave. You can’t leave!”
Not the time he was so mad at me for possibly scratching his new car and while he was driving us back to his place that he screamed, “I want to drive this car off a cliff - right now!” And I was begging him to slow down and let me out of the car. He refused and sped to almost 100 mph on 405 going north, weaving in and out of traffic. Where are the cops when you actually need them?
Not the time he told me, “No one else will want you. You’re crazy!” (The first time I tried to break it off.)
And not the other time he kept me from leaving his condo by grabbing my arm, slowly closing the door shut, and I had to walk into my corporate job the next day wearing long sleeves in the heat of summer, attempting to hide the four-finger bruise behind my arm.
And not when my mom met him, for the first time, and after he flew back out to the PNW and she sat me on the bed in the guest room and then stated, “I don’t know, there’s just something I don’t like about him.”
Not the time he told me he owned a firearm.
And, also, not the time he told me, “You don’t need antidepressants. It’s all a lie. You’d be fine without them and they probably change your personality.”
Why didn’t you just leave?
I was a young woman in my twenties, insecure, and just trying to survive a corporate work environment. Also, I was ashamed. Ashamed that I’d even let it get to this point. Stigma. And, I was isolated from friends, and made to feel smaller and smaller. He was constantly telling me, ”I’m all you really have.” He was working on breaking down the relationship I had with my own family, which was easy as they lived out of state. He’d called my mom and made her cry at one point. But, I did leave. And what followed was exactly as I’d pictured.
You see, there weren’t any blaring fires, until there were. It became a full-on forest fire engulfing an entire town: my life. He stalked me for two months, following me to places he knew I’d be, emailing, texting and calling my parents, friends, colleagues(?) to tell them that, “She’s crazy!” The “crazy” part being that I had enough gumption to leave.
He followed residents of my building through the underground garage so he could get access to my 4th floor apartment, knocking and knocking while I hid, silently, up in the loft until he left. It was a “secure building.”
He sent me texts threatening to “…hurt you, like you hurt me!” And, “I’m going to destroy you.”
The catalyst would be his mom calling me and asking, “Why did you break up with him? He’s over here distraught and so confused. What happened?” And I thought, hell no, I’m not doing this.
With the encouragement of a friend, I obtained a restraining order. The whole thing was terrifying because at that moment, I wasn’t sure what he was capable of and knowing that he owned a firearm sent me into a tailspin. I didn’t sleep for weeks, my anxiety was untethered just… swarming all around me, and I felt trapped in my apartment.
I knew when the papers were served because all the messages just…stopped.
There had to be photos and printouts of all the threats (this was before smartphones were everywhere) for the court date in order to prove all of this, I was sure. Hauling my ass to Office Depot down the block and carrying an awkward printer box back to my apartment, figuring out how to get the thing working to ensure I could print it all out. Sitting there in my loft apartment, the printer spit out grainy, black and white threats and my anxiety came back all over again.
What if the judge doesn’t believe me? What if they think I’m overreacting? When you’re told these things as a girl, and as a young woman growing up in the world, you start to believe it.
The middle-aged, white male judge in his flowing black robe did believe me and admonished my ex multiple times during the hearing. I was relieved. Relieved to be believed.
I was in that relationship for a total of one year and five months and learned so much about advocating for myself even with the fear of potentially being dismissed.
Well, after watching a disturbing 48 Hours episode in which the ex-boyfriend murders his former girlfriend I decided to turn to the internet and look up my ex (the fear of where an abuser is never leaves it seems). Last year he was arrested and booked for harassing a witness in a grand jury trial which, after some clicking around, we (thanks Scooter) found out to be a very serious domestic violence incident. And after a bit more digging, another girlfriend of his had filed a restraining order against him before the pandemic.
What causes me to tell this story now? When we don’t share our stories, the abusers win because they essentially stop the flow of information regarding their actions and they’re able to continue the monstrous cycle of hurting others.
If it feels like abuse, it most likely is abuse, but it never starts that way. It’s sneaky like that.
Every time a sporty-looking car with dark tinted windows speeds past me on a freeway, threading in and out of traffic, I wonder if there’s a woman wanting out.
Resources For Help
National Domestic Abuse Hotline
1.800.799.7233
Text BEGIN to 88788
Domestic Abuse Women’s Network (DAWN) - King County, WA
425-656-4305 Main Line. www.dawnrising.org
King County Protection Order Advocacy Program
www.protectionorder.org
206-477-1103 Seattle Office
It never occurred to me that it was anything other than a “normal” relationship. Nothing appeared, to me, to be red flags.
Not the time he kept me from leaving his condo so I could go back to my apartment to take a break from yet, another spat we were having, and slamming the door shut again and him saying, “Don’t leave. You can’t leave!”
Not the time he was so mad at me for possibly scratching his new car and while he was driving us back to his place that he screamed, “I want to drive this car off a cliff - right now!” And I was begging him to slow down and let me out of the car. He refused and sped to almost 100 mph on 405 going north, weaving in and out of traffic. Where are the cops when you actually need them?
Not the time he told me, “No one else will want you. You’re crazy!” (The first time I tried to break it off.)
And not the other time he kept me from leaving his condo by grabbing my arm, slowly closing the door shut, and I had to walk into my corporate job the next day wearing long sleeves in the heat of summer, attempting to hide the four-finger bruise behind my arm.
And not when my mom met him, for the first time, and after he flew back out to the PNW and she sat me on the bed in the guest room and then stated, “I don’t know, there’s just something I don’t like about him.”
Not the time he told me he owned a firearm.
And, also, not the time he told me, “You don’t need antidepressants. It’s all a lie. You’d be fine without them and they probably change your personality.”
(This isn't everything...but you get the idea.)
There were so many I love you's at the end of each day from him.
Why didn’t you just leave?
I was a young woman in my twenties, insecure, and just trying to survive a corporate work environment. Also, I was ashamed. Ashamed that I’d even let it get to this point. Stigma. And, I was isolated from friends, and made to feel smaller and smaller. He was constantly telling me, ”I’m all you really have.” He was working on breaking down the relationship I had with my own family, which was easy as they lived out of state. He’d called my mom and made her cry at one point. But, I did leave. And what followed was exactly as I’d pictured.
You see, there weren’t any blaring fires, until there were. It became a full-on forest fire engulfing an entire town: my life. He stalked me for two months, following me to places he knew I’d be, emailing, texting and calling my parents, friends, colleagues(?) to tell them that, “She’s crazy!” The “crazy” part being that I had enough gumption to leave.
He followed residents of my building through the underground garage so he could get access to my 4th floor apartment, knocking and knocking while I hid, silently, up in the loft until he left. It was a “secure building.”
He sent me texts threatening to “…hurt you, like you hurt me!” And, “I’m going to destroy you.”
The catalyst would be his mom calling me and asking, “Why did you break up with him? He’s over here distraught and so confused. What happened?” And I thought, hell no, I’m not doing this.
With the encouragement of a friend, I obtained a restraining order. The whole thing was terrifying because at that moment, I wasn’t sure what he was capable of and knowing that he owned a firearm sent me into a tailspin. I didn’t sleep for weeks, my anxiety was untethered just… swarming all around me, and I felt trapped in my apartment.
I knew when the papers were served because all the messages just…stopped.
There had to be photos and printouts of all the threats (this was before smartphones were everywhere) for the court date in order to prove all of this, I was sure. Hauling my ass to Office Depot down the block and carrying an awkward printer box back to my apartment, figuring out how to get the thing working to ensure I could print it all out. Sitting there in my loft apartment, the printer spit out grainy, black and white threats and my anxiety came back all over again.
What if the judge doesn’t believe me? What if they think I’m overreacting? When you’re told these things as a girl, and as a young woman growing up in the world, you start to believe it.
The middle-aged, white male judge in his flowing black robe did believe me and admonished my ex multiple times during the hearing. I was relieved. Relieved to be believed.
I was in that relationship for a total of one year and five months and learned so much about advocating for myself even with the fear of potentially being dismissed.
Well, after watching a disturbing 48 Hours episode in which the ex-boyfriend murders his former girlfriend I decided to turn to the internet and look up my ex (the fear of where an abuser is never leaves it seems). Last year he was arrested and booked for harassing a witness in a grand jury trial which, after some clicking around, we (thanks Scooter) found out to be a very serious domestic violence incident. And after a bit more digging, another girlfriend of his had filed a restraining order against him before the pandemic.
What causes me to tell this story now? When we don’t share our stories, the abusers win because they essentially stop the flow of information regarding their actions and they’re able to continue the monstrous cycle of hurting others.
If it feels like abuse, it most likely is abuse, but it never starts that way. It’s sneaky like that.
Every time a sporty-looking car with dark tinted windows speeds past me on a freeway, threading in and out of traffic, I wonder if there’s a woman wanting out.
Resources For Help
National Domestic Abuse Hotline
1.800.799.7233
Text BEGIN to 88788
Domestic Abuse Women’s Network (DAWN) - King County, WA
425-656-4305 Main Line. www.dawnrising.org
King County Protection Order Advocacy Program
www.protectionorder.org
206-477-1103 Seattle Office
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