They say I'm not ready to talk to others about this yet, that I haven't fully separated myself from the blame. If I didn't own part of it, though, I wouldn't be me. What's more, without acknowledging my mistakes, how can I avoid making them again? I believe you'll find my experience compelling, though. Let me take you back to my junior year in college...
*
I'd been serving at Carl's Diner since my second year of undergrad, picking up enough extra money to cover what my parents and financial aid couldn't. I'd already written "3 Coff" on my check pad and was getting ready to move to my next table, when I heard a man speak up.
"Actually, I'll have hot tea, if you don't mind." Carl's is not on campus. It's actually a fair bit away from the school, which is why I went to work there. Less competition, and it was a break from the stress of daily academia. Hearing a man order tea in a college coffee shop was commonplace. Hearing it in a greasy spoon was enough of a break from routine that I almost stumbled.
"One tea, got it." I tried not to connect with the locals. One more year and I was out of this town, and on to something grand. My fantasies were endless. I was going to make a difference in this world, and by God it was going to happen before I hit thirty. Still, I couldn't help but look at my smiling customer, who knew he'd thrown me for a loop.
"I don't trust coffee that's been sitting in a pot since you opened up for the day," he said. Still smiling. Waiting for me to find my way out of his hypnotic eyes and say something. This many years later, I don't remember what I might have said. I do remember that he wrote his number on the check when he paid for his breakfast. I remember calling him, and spending more than two hours on the phone before we decided we should be going out somewhere.
*
A year later. School was over. I had my degree. I didn't see the need to go on to grad school right away, particularly not when my portion of the bill would be more painful than it had been in four years of undergrad. I was looking at several companies to go work for, all of which would require that I pick up and move across the country. I didn't know how I was going to break it to Jonah.
We'd had a fantastic year. On that first date, over tea, we'd talked about all the things we both liked, some of the things we both hated, and all the things we found wrong with the world. Two young idealists. My God, but if we weren't cut from the same cloth, it was so close it made no difference.
He could always make me laugh. Even on my worst days he could make me smile, and when he had me giggling after I thought I'd tanked a final in my senior year, I'd swear I fell in love with him then and there. Still, he was a local. He worked for his father in a family-run machine shop. He had roots, and he wouldn't want to leave them.
I told him it was time for me to start thinking about my plans. I had my resume and a killer cover letter ready to send to a law firm in Chicago, one that specialized in representing battered women in divorce cases. They had advertised online for a new client counselor, someone sympathetic who could talk those women through their experiences.
This was the perfect job for me, I reasoned. I wanted to make a difference in the world, but more, I wanted to see the world. Small town life just wasn't it for me.
Jonah didn't like the idea. He gave me a counter-offer. How about I stay and marry him, he said. He and his dad made enough money I didn't need to go finding a big career, and didn't we make each other happy? I put him off. I didn't know he felt that strongly. I'd have to do some serious thinking about the direction my life would take.
I must have been seriously navel-gazing that night as I drove home. I apparently ran a red light. When I came to in the hospital I was told it was three days later, and there was a ring on my finger. Jonah had spent the entire three days at my bedside, the nurses told me, and as soon as they cleared me and left us alone, he lost all his composure.
He was terrified that I'd left him. I wasn't ever to scare him like that again. He was marrying me so he could keep me safe. His family had money, I'd never want for anything. The wedding date was set far enough out for me to be recovered, and that was that.
*
You mentioned you recognized me from somewhere, so I suppose full disclosure is necessary here. While I was recuperating in his home, he arranged to have all of my things moved out of my apartment. I don't suppose I have to tell you that this was just the start.
I've never been comfortable with charity, so as soon as I was up and around, I started taking care of things around the house. When he came home from work, he had a clean home, he had dinner, and I insisted on taking care of him as he'd taken care of me. Once I was fully recovered, he managed to convince me to keep the status quo until the wedding. He liked the comforts I provided, he said, and he'd cared for me for several months, so I felt I owed him that.
By the time the wedding came around, it took some heavy duty makeup to hide the bruise on my cheek. I'd over-spiced some chicken earlier in the week. I was lucky someone was marrying me at all, really; that car accident had left me with scars I don't even like to look at, so I should count my blessings that someone was willing to chain himself to me.
This went on for six years. I knew something wasn't right about the situation, and I knew I needed something to change, but it's not like I screwed up all the time. This is what I meant earlier, when I made reference to my own mistakes. I know better now than to let something like this continue. At the time, though, I clung to the fact that we still had fun. He still made me laugh. And then I had to tell him that he'd made me pregnant.
Jonah never wanted kids. He insisted that I take the pill religiously, and at times even managed it himself to make sure I was doing it right. But apparently he couldn't trust me with something that important.
I'd never seen him so angry. He knocked me to the kitchen floor with a backhand I should have seen coming. I thought by then I knew what pain was, but I learned differently. He started kicking me in the stomach, breaking ribs in the process. On and off for what felt like eternity - he'd storm away, shouting and cursing about my stupidity and my worthlessness, and then he'd be back again.
I think it was the third time he stormed off that I realized he meant to kill me. Maybe he wasn't really trying, but something told me I'd end up dead if I let this go on. To this day I have no idea how I managed to pull myself up for long enough to fish the paring knife out of the drawer I kept it in.
When he came back for more, I managed to slice his ankle and bring him down to my level. I know I was screaming something, but I still can't remember what. I'm not even sure I remember stabbing him, but I know I did. When the police finally came and found me covered in blood, I was too dazed to speak.
Apparently the evidence was on my side. I wasn't charged. One of the detectives put me in touch with a local counselor, and after talking with her twice a week for a year I like to think that I've gotten my life back in some kind of order.
*
I see that you've pinned down how you recognized me. I was on CNN several times last year, first as a victim and later as a survivor. I want to thank you for indulging me in such a long story. I know short and sweet examples are usually best for interviews, but I didn't want you connecting the dots later and thinking I'd withheld anything.
But, you see, it's all relevant. With my education and my experience, I think I have a unique insight into what your clients need. It's precisely because of what I've overcome that I think I'll make an excellent intake counselor for your firm. I strongly believe that I can make a difference in your clients' lives, and should you give me the opportunity to show this to you, I'll even get to do it before I'm thirty.