The other night I was reminiscing about my misspent youth and commented about an ex-boyfriend He was so beautiful, it is just impossibly sad he went insane.
My dinner companion said Are you sad you didn’t stick around to help him with his brain problems?
I was shocked at the question, and replied Do you know what he liked to do when he was mad? He would punch whichever of my wounds he could reach. He would grab my damaged arm and smash it. He would…
But the audience, of course, was too squeamish to hear more. I’m probably too sensitive to know what happened, and I was there.
Of course I was never a passive victim – I was raised to defend myself, and I did, with vicious force. The years have been kind in dimming the memories.
When that beautiful boy appears in my dreams (and that is a rare event) his ghost is always mutilated, a ravaged burned bloody creature who poses no threat. Awake or asleep, all I feel for him is compassion mixed with regret. We were both messed up kids from chaotic families. The love we shared was not sufficient when the world fell apart.
His violence against me, and other women, and male friends, and strangers in the 7-11 parking lot, is not excusable. Though I can explain the sudden and frightening switch: head injuries often cause behavioral changes in otherwise rational people. The one I sustained in the car accident certainly did not improve my mood.
Beyond that he had no other resources growing up in a racist impoverished miserable town. His own family did not offer much in the way of support or role models; when I talk about knowing gangsters please take that to mean, literally, gang members with tears tattooed under their eyes. His cousins were not exactly keen to discuss the fears or sadness of a messed up punk kid – though they did in fact, as recently reported in the press, love the Smiths just as much as he did.
They loved me too, and I loved them all in return. During those years I needed a family, and they took me in, earning my eternal gratitude. Should I have stuck around to render aid, attempt to heal that broken boy? The answer is a simple and emphatic no – we were both far too damaged to help each other, and staying together would likely have ended in death. Breaking up was only slightly less dangerous.
For his own sake I hope he managed to find the perilous path to recovery, that he is surrounded by people who nurture and care for him. I hope he learned to seek out people who are strong without raising their voices or hands in anger.
News from home has lately been horrible, but I’m not going back to help. I moved away on purpose. My children will grow up without ever knowing their extended family, or any of the characters in my stories.
Violence is handed down across generations. I’ve seen the consequences, and I chose something else.