A recent
post on Facebook by the prime minister’s press secretary ostensibly aimed to
discuss domestic violence and turned into a kind of organized Facebook
political assassination of a known terrorist.
It was sad
to see domestic violence become a victim once again, this time, not in the
household, but in the political arena.
I had hoped
that the abuser in question would face down the specific allegations honestly,
sub-textually daring the rest of the men on the post to deny that they are any
different than him. He didn’t. He scored some political points, took some
political hits (including what might be a death blow) and totally avoided the
question of his abusive behavior when confronted by his peers.
Unfortunately,
I had not forgotten Jada Jn.Pierre’s original challenge to have an honest
discussion of domestic violence. With her intended target on the run, I picked
up his blindfold and stand now before the firing squad.
If you’re
looking for a guy who beat his wife, you found him. It’s me. I am guilty of
what you accuse Amatus Edwards of. The details might be different, but in
substance, we are the same. Domestic violence is not just the doing of deranged
heavy drinkers with penis issues. Sometimes, it’s nice guys you would never
expect it from. Sometimes, it’s someone you hoped would know better.
Most
importantly, in this article, sometimes, when you heard your neighbor screaming
as her husband abused her…sometimes, it was me.
Before you
shoot me, I want to make a true statement. This is not some kind of allegory.
Everything that follows is an actual fact.
DAYS OF THE
DOG: 2000 WORDS OF PAIN
I’m trying
to be a lion. I was raised as a lion. But somewhere along the way in my life, I
became a dog.
I will waste
no words on the reasons or excuses for my actions. The story begins where MY
violence begins...
THE BROKEN
GLASS: She held the thick glass mug her hands just above her head. I wrestled
it out of her hands easily and smashed it violently on the floor near her feet.
It was my first taste of violence. She pretended to be strong, but it shocked
her. I was not angry and shouting. I was calm as the early morning sea. I had
never tasted violence like this. Violence without fear.
I didn’t
think it then, but with hindsight, it was the first time I began to understand
the addiction of violence that grips psychos and gangsters and cops and
soldiers and…but I’m diverting attention from myself. As she walked away
silently to the baby in the bedroom, I picked up the shards on the floor,
retrieved the torn and crumpled novel she gave me for my birthday and resumed
reading.
THE BEER
BOTTLE AND THE FLOOR: She sat at the computer, opening files of St Lucian girls
who had taken their clothes off, some of them specifically for me. Very recent
pictures. She grabbed the beer bottle by the side of the computer and small
part of me thought, “Oh man, the one beer you drink all year is going to burst
your head. This is why people put things away before they go to bed.” The rest
of me grabbed her hand and dis-lodged
the bottle. It fell to the floor
as I grabbed her by her neck and dragged her from the bedroom into the living
room, explaining all the legitimate
reasons why I was going to do something wrong. We weren’t together
anymore. She didn’t live here. She had
humiliated me with violence enough. I wasn’t her bwa. I was tired of being a
pussyhole. Blah, blah, blah. I could see
myself, as though I was watching myself, panicking and helpless at what could
happen next. But I was also powerful and domineering, asserting myself in a way
I never had in any relationship. I threw her to the floor, thinking, “She’s a
lot lighter now than when we have sex.” Then, as she cowered, screaming for
help or attention or whatever, I sat on her chest, straddling her and choked
her with one hand as I slapped her with the other. I slapped her hard enough that my hand
hurt. But I didn’t stop slapping her. I
cursed and spat and strangled, watching the veins around my eyes rage in the
reflection of her eyes.
Watching
myself commit these crimes from above myself, something screamed, “Jason, WTF,
Rasta? You were not raised like this.
What will Aunty Martha say when she hears about this? Aunty Cynthia?
Aunty Julita? Women who raised you. Women who could never be hit by a man.
Jason. Jason!”
But she was
screaming and I was cursing and the floor was wooden, reverberating with the
fighting, so I could hear myself trying to stop myself. I can’t remember why I
stopped. I think I realized that I had what it took to kill her. And it wasn’t
that I didn’t want to kill her. I just didn’t want my son to grow up without
his mother. When I got off her, I threw her shoes outside. I threw the bag. I
grabbed her from the floor and dragged her to balcony and down the steps to
ensure that she did not remain sobbing within my range.
You see, I
was filled with rage, my voice was an insensible growl, my blood filled with
strength I never knew before, my emotions like horses stampeding out of
control. But somehow I had not lost control. I was not crazy. I was still in my
right mind. Which means that every time I hit her, I chose to do it.
I could have
thrown her out from the beginning. But I wanted to beat the shit out of her. It
didn’t feel good afterward. But it felt good at the time my hands were
constricting her trachea. It felt good when I tossed her like a rag doll. I
like I experienced something about ‘being a man’ that I never knew before. I
felt like I was showing her something about me that she had not taken account
of needed to know.
Somehow, in
the midst of being the worst version of myself I have ever been, I felt like I
was right. I felt like I was both the
victim and the goddamn hero.
THE PHONE
AND THE FLOOR: She was living with my mother and I spent the night because she
and I were going to lose something important the next day. In the early
morning, I got a call. To save money, I made the person call the landline. She
came at me with a pair of scissors. I grabbed her wrist so that the scissors
were disabled and tripped her so she fell backwards. I straddled her and holding her neck, I
banged her head into the floor. I didn’t use all my strength because I didn’t
want to wake up the baby. The baby woke up anyway. I didn’t soothe him. I left
them both alone to lose that something valuable by themselves as I comforted
myself in somebody’s daughter’s vagina.
I realize now that she was trying to cut the phone line. She wasn’t
trying to attack me at all.
THE WET
DIAPER AND THE FLOOR: This is after the wedding and before the second baby. I
was in bed. She in was in my phone. She threw a wet diaper at me and it hurt a
hell of a lot. It hurt for weeks on that side of my face. But it wasn’t the
pain that sparked me off. It was that
she was accusing and punishing me unjustly. I grabbed the wet diaper and flung
it at her. She dodged, but that was part of my wicked plan. As she dodged, I
lunged forward and braced her on the wall.
My hands were at her neck again. I head butted her a few times while
whispering what I was saying very calmly.
She screamed as I threw her to the floor. In my mind, I was already
slapping the shit out of her. My
two-year-old son took hand and said, “Ok, Papa, calm down. Let’s go inna room.”
My son had never spoken a complete sentence before that. He wouldn’t even put
two words together unless it was absolutely necessary. The first sentence my
son spoke was to stop me from beating his mother.
THE MOST
UNPROVOKED VIOLENCE: I was angry with her about something else, but I hadn’t
told her what it was or that I was furious inside. When she accused me of
exactly what I knew she was guilty of, I flipped out and left the living room,
went to the kitchen, put her down on the ground and started hurting her. I
wasn’t using punches or slaps or choking. I was pinning her down and hurting
her with the pressure. I remember that after weeks, even months, of being
repulsed by her, I was suddenly aroused.
Disgusted by
my own perverse, rapist erection, I relented. I stopped. She was still pregnant
with my daughter. I wanted to hurt her, but I didn’t want to hurt my daughter.
But…I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to hurt her for what I thought she did to
me. Sometimes, I think I still do. Sometimes, I still have violent fantasies involving
real people for no good reason. I am consoled only by the fact I am far more
interested in pain and death than in sex. Imagine that.
THE REVERSE
SLAP: For some reason, there was a time when she had taken a preference to
slapping. Having had a conversation with myself about the rewards of turning
the other cheek, I resolved to walk away. I was scaring myself. And while this
demonic side of me was growing, I was also finding out that I’m not a bad
father at all. The good guy in me had the best reason to live. To not hurt others. One day, I came up with a
slightly different strategy. When she slapped me, I grabbed her hands and
started slapping my face violently with them. It soon got to the point where
her hands hurt far more than my face. She closed her fists, but that was a mistake. I started punching my
face with her fists. I think I was hoping to break her fingers or something. I
told her that when she is telling people I hit her, to describe to them how I broke
her hands with my face. So much for the good guy.
THE PHONE,
THE SLAP AND THE OTHER SLAP: I tried to take the phone away from her but she
grabbed it in a way that accidentally broke my finger. I didn’t hit her then,
but she went outside and made our argument very public, including saying some
truly scary things about me. Inside, we fought and I slapped her so hard, it
stopped time for a moment. I picked up my son and walked out of the house. She
came to the balcony, as the neighbors gathered, screaming, “That’s how you’re
treating me. You’re punching me! You’re punching your child mother!” I turned
back to her and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “I didn’t punch you, I
slapped you. Like this.” And I slapped her so hard, it stopped time again.
While she and the neighbors stood paralyzed, I said, “Want to see it again.”
Pow. I slapped her again and walked away with my son. As I walked away, I felt
somehow vindicated. I don’t know from what. I had just demonstrated to my
neighbors that I was a wife-beater. Lucky for me, I live in a place where no one
cares. That day, my son didn’t talk very much. We just kinda limed around in
silence.
There were
other incidents of violence, some quite public, but as these are not stories of
MY violence, I don’t feel like those are my stories to tell. I don’t consider
myself a victim and so while the memory of those incidents fill me with shame
and hurt, I don’t consider them relevant to the discussion of the violence of
the male abuser.
I meant to
analyze this stuff a little bit more. I have some principles I learnt from the
entire experience that I want to share. But I’m exhausted from remembering this
stuff.
Being a
wife-beater must be like being a drug-addict, where no matter how long it’s
been since you last did it, what matters most is that you now know you are the
kind of person who does that.
I can never
again be that loveable, innocent boy who never abused a woman. I can never look at a public service
announcement about domestic violence without thinking, “They’re talking about
me.”
Perhaps
because I was not convicted of anything, I will probably never really be free
of the guilt…
All I have
left in this moment is to be a man about it and admit that pretty much
everything said about Amatus Edwards is true about me.
And because
I didn’t think I was even capable of this, now, sometimes, I think maybe I’m
capable of worse than that.
Telling this
story did not make me feel better and I don’t know if it will do anyone any
good. I don’t know if other men will identify with this or if it’s just who is
this sick inside.
But you know
what?
This is my
small contribution to the ‘Honest Debate on Domestic Violence’ started on
Facebook by Jada Jn.Pierre. This is what I know firsthand. Statute of
limitations be damned.
Let the
chips fall where they may.
If everything you say is true, you should be in jail
ReplyDeleteNo lie. I should be in jail.
Deleteyou are sick get help
ReplyDeleteI am. I wonder if maybe more people do. But then, I can only help myself. I can't help people who don't want to be helped, especially when I myself need help.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThe truth will get you crucified...sadly.
ReplyDeleteTwo sides though, despite it obviously being a crime there is also the possibility of good coming out of your admission.
To open oneself to criticism and judgement takes a lot of guts and I do hope that others in similar situations man up and get the help required.
Will keep you in my thoughts and prayers that you continue to find ways to be a better individual.
Keep on keeping on.
The truth is its own reward. Hopefully, others can reap some profits. As for me, I have to be straight with me readers about everything.
DeleteFor better or worse, you know exactly who you are dealing with. There will be no dirty secrets between us.
Plus fair is fair. If Yasmine and PIF can get FLOGGED, Jason should, too.
Admitting you have a problem is the first step. Sharing that kind of problem with the world is an even bigger step! If you have sort help for yourself, I applaud your efforts. I'm pretty sure it isn't easy to put this all out there and I'm pretty sure it isn't to "show off your masculinity." As a society we judge people when they do bad. I hope people can pick out the good you are trying to accomplish by exposing yourself. I don't agree with you in any single incident listed, but wish you all the best in deal with and overcoming your demons.
ReplyDeleteAll of this happened 1-3 years ago. I got a lot of help working it out. I think that's how arrived at this point where I kind admit to anyone that this was the kind of person I became. Even though it isn't the person I am now, it will always be part of my FACTICITY....or whatever they call it...
DeleteWhen you were a kid, did the women in your life (mother, granny, aunties) beat you?
ReplyDelete