The abuse had been going on for many years... Always the same argument over and over again, the jealous husband, the compliant wife. Too much alcohol and drug abuse he had no other excuse.  She would stay with him she believed because she loved him and she felt the kids needed their dad. When they would fight, sometimes she would flee until he calmed down, but not this time. This was last time he would ever hit her.

We were on our way to one of my husband's AA meetings when he decided instead to stop and buy a couple of beers to share instead of going to a meeting this night.  He said he was tired of the meetings and his P.0. running his life. He needed to relax and have some meaningful time alone with his wife. We needed to talk and he wanted to make love like we use to do. So we parked in the alley which we own behind my father-in-laws house to talk and of course we drank a couple of beers. Something I knew I at least should have left alone, as it most always caused us to fight. My husband was a heroin addict, tired of his life and the recovery process being forced on him. I was a recovered alcoholic until a few months prior to this night, when I just got tired of shutting my mouth and putting up with all the hell and worry that he was dishing out.

We did well hiding his addiction from the children and most of my family, the only one that knew was my mother, and she and I felt sorry for him and as enablers would make excuses for his behavior. Life was hard for us

and I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

So as the evening went on we were talking casually, when all of a sudden the conversation changed as the alcohol took it's effect. Soon he turned to his usual jealousy about other men, and his insecurity that one day I would probably find someone else. Someone better than him, I swore to him I would never leave him for anyone, as I loved him so much, but he wouldn't listen to that and started accusing me of what he feared the most that one day I would leave him.  The conversation turned into a heated argument and then he pulled back and punched me as hard as he could as we sat in the car. The first punch I could feel the swelling of my eyes, the second punch, I cracked the windshield with my foot, the third, I knew I could die as my foot broke the windshield, the fourth blow was the last time he would ever hit me. He just let me go and sat there as though he had given up the fight. My ribs were also injured as I got out of the car and I told him you will never hit me again, and you are no better than the rest of the men that abuse their women. With that I got out of the car and ran through the alley and down the street into the darkness of the night, not sure where I would hide.

I thought I could go to a mutual friends but they suggested I go to a near by carryout where the police could be called, so I ran again into the night.  Afraid he was going to come after me, I ran into a nearby bar, called the Country Connection. I remember reaching out for the golden knob on the door, and the telephone booth in the doorway. I had no change, so I reached for the door and entered the bar, knowing I probably looked like a monster and hoping he wouldn't look for me in here.  As I entered the nightclub, all eyes were upon me. All I remember is there was a familiar face coming toward me, a bagboy from my grocery store was there, he came to my rescue. There were about ten or twelve women that took me into the bathroom and helped to clean me up and to get me some ice. The bartender was my bagboy's father, his name was Charlie. He and his two son's took me and drove me to the YWCA's Battered Women's Shelter. They stayed with me until I got a room and was settled in for the night.  He talked to me as a kind and gentle stranger saying that no one deserves to be hit like that or go through what I had just gone through and that I should press charges on my husband and never go back, at least that was his advice to me. 

So for the next three weeks I stayed at the YWCA, believe it or not I went back home after that, with my husband. He never said he was sorry and sorry would not have made it any better. He went to jail for breaking his probation. I wrote him letters for a while until I received one that his jealousy showed through again. That did it, something inside me said no, I'll never go back to that again and so I left him while he was yet in prison. He put himself there for his addiction, I could have pressed charges and kept him there additional years but I did not. So he was out in one year. He died a year later from staff infection due to a dirty needle and I did go to his bedside along with his family and our children. He did not die alone. This is a sad story that is all too often true in our society. I just hope that perhaps if I write my life story, it may help someone else along life's way. Perhaps for an abuser to stop and think and to get help. Perhaps for an abused spouse to get the strength to leave. I could have died, my husband could have spent the rest of his life in prison and where would our children have been then. Thank God I got out and my children and I found safety, and yet we had compasion for him.