by Debbie Gillotti

Created on: January 31, 2009

I grew up in a dysfunctional family as many of us do. Both of my parents were alcoholics. Physical and emotional abuse was a common occurrence in my household. Though I myself never experienced the wrath of my father's anger, I saw plenty of kicking and screaming released on my mother over the years.

I knew early on in my life that I was gay. Drinking as a teen was nothing new to me and even though I really had no difficulty in handling my partying, I will admit there were times I was more of a jerk than I should have been. I had always promised myself that abuse and violence would not be something that would be part of my life but I suppose you sometimes can't shake what you grew up experiencing. I was wise enough to know within a few years that my drinking needed to be kept in check and that if I didn't do it then, my future wasn't going to be any better off than my family's.

Keeping a handle on my life would have been much easier had I not continued to hang around with the crowd I chose as my friends. It was the early eighties and the disco clubs were packed with plenty of single women seeking a good time. Plenty of drinking, sleeping around and yes, even fighting. Jealous women can be evil and when paired up with a few shots of tequila, well, you are just asking for trouble.

Abuse in a lesbian relationship never crossed my mind until one evening when I was knocked backwards off my feet by a woman two feet taller than me. A solid right to the jaw because I told her she had had too much to drink (like I was one to call her card). That encounter was enough to make me walk away. Unfortunately, my next relationship was far worse than I could have ever imagined.

The first two years seemed pretty happy. We both worked good jobs, lived in a nice place, drove nice vehicles. Neither of us drank much other than during a football party or a family celebration. I didn't think much of her little episodes. Spouts of anger out of nowhere. Dinner wasn't cooked right, I didn't iron her shirts the way she liked. She'd be ticked off if I left an empty soda can in her truck. Don't even think about leaving a fingerprint on the driver side window. But it got worse. Dinner had to be on the table exactly when she got home. Pepsi not Coke had to be in the fridge. Her recliner, make sure nobody sat in it or moved it one inch from where it sat the night before. It seemed silly really. But she was truly angry, sometimes for days. She would threaten me, back me into a corner, warned me

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