I'm not going to jump down Rihanna's throat because I've been there, done that. When I was her age. M was in his 30's and and used to rough me up. He would grab me by the arm and yank me. And then he'd do what he always did: apologize. Said he'd never do it again and give me flowers or jewelry, which he stole from his mother, usually things from the 1940's that I still have.
It was my roommate who noticed the marks. I didn't even see them. Young love can be so stupid when you're 22 and the man is insecure and controlling. I was planning on marrying this man. Thank God that never happened. Statistics say getting married in your 20's is now no longer recommended by psychiatrists, marriage counselors or even the clergy. People in their 20's just don't have a lot of street smarts. And I was one of them when I was 22. GOD did I have a lot to learn.
So when my roommate asked if M was beating me, I said, "Of course not." To me, beating involved blood and weapons.
But it soon escalated. M was jealous. Ridiculously jealous. A glance from another man would set him off. It was always about men. I was in a theater company and got a lot of attention. He had no job at the time and I guess felt ashamed. He was a master manipulator and charming to everyone. Even me. Until we were alone.
The year we met we drove across country so that I could have a surgery that would eventually save my life. In Amarillo, Texas we checked into a motel and then went to a local bar. We had a few beers and left. On the way out, a cowboy asked me what time it was. I looked at my watch, turned around and answered him. When we got back to the motel, all hell broke loose.
"Is that your new boyfriend?"
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"He asked me what time it was."
"A whore, a lying fucking whore, that's what you are."
"HE ASKED ME WHAT TIME IT WAS."
"He wrote something down on his hand, what was it, your PHONE number?"
"I don't HAVE a phone; we left San Francisco, remember?"
People pounded on the wall next door and yelled SHUT THE FUCK UP. M pounded right back and told them to shut the fuck up. They didn't pound again. I don't remember what I said next but he pushed me backwards and then when he got close enough, he threw me across a bed and I landed on a bedpost and got a black eye. He said he was going to kill me.
I cried. He apologized. There was no flower shop in the motel and his mother's jewelry box was mercifully hundreds of miles away. So I took the apology, the kisses, his tears and just sat on the edge of the bed feeling like a rerun.
He said we should go back to the bar so HE could cool down. So, like the ever faithful afraid I was going to lose him girl, I acquiesced. The bar finally closed and we walked out all smoochy and holding hands. We were soon surrounded by 5 men. They asked us if we wanted to go party.
"No, we've got an early ride out of here tomorrow."
"Oh come on; it's good stuff."
They surrounded us and made one guy go in our car while the other 3 went in their car and told us to follow them. My black eye started to pound but that was nothing compared to the kind of trouble I knew we were in now. The 3 of us sat in the front seat, me in the middle, the rape seat. I suddenly got real calm and told the stranger next to me that I hoped there was a gas station along the way since we'd been experiencing car trouble. Then I told him M had just beat me up so he'd know he was a fighter. The stranger didn't even look at me and grunted.
After about 10 silent minutes I turned to M and said, 'There goes that front tire again."
"What tire?"
"The right front tire.' I elbowed him hard. M finally got it. Stretched out in front of us was miles and miles of dark highway and the tail lights of the other car were far in the distance. M and I were not going to get out of this alive.
M slowed the car and I asked the stranger to get out and check the tire and to leave the door open so when he told us what was wrong we could hear him. He yelled from the dark, "Looks good from here."
"Are you sure, check the ghdysgsh."
"The WHAT?"
"Floor it," I whispered to M, "and do a 180."
He did. The open door knocked the stranger flat and M's Dodge Charger turned, burned serious rubber and took off at about 90 mph.
I guess I had SOME street smarts. And M never hit me again. But when we got to my parents' house, my dad didn't talk to me for 7 months because of that black eye.
When I went back to California, M and I got back together. WOMEN ALWAYS GO BACK. People never understand this but it happens over and over and over in this kind of dyad. Don't judge unless you've been there. I don't approve of Rihanna going back to Chris but it's her path to walk in life, their karma that does not concern you or me so I don't judge. I've learned one thing, I've NEVER met ONE person who wasn't fucked up in some way. Some, obviously, more than others. My dad used to hit me when I was a kid. Is that why I allowed it from M? I thought I deserved it? Or was it just part of what I had to go through to get from Point F to Point G in life?
I never got hit again by anyone again.
M died of a heroin overdose.
