“Okay,” I replied. “I’ll think sad thoughts . . . snap away.”

She took two photos; one was blurry and the other (which I purchased) made it appear as though I’d just finished viewing Lassie Come Home. Besides looking glum, upon closer inspection of the passport photo, I realized that a facelift may soon be in order.

Thoroughly bummed out, I went home and created my own version of a passport photo (one with a built-in facelift.) I took this photo while lying on the sofa, holding the camera above me. Add a little color saturation, and voila: I’m beautiful again. Plus, the uber-cropped nature of the “after” photo adds greater visual appeal. (Now if only I can get the U.S. Bureau of Consular Affairs to agree with me.)

–

–

–

Baby Girl, a 5-year-old Boxer, receiving etheric messages.

“Your cat has a chipped canine,” he told me.

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “My ex-boyfriend threw her against a wall about a year ago. But I’m not with him anymore.”

“You know,” he said, with a compassionate look in his eyes, “That’s the second time this week that someone’s told me such a thing.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and he continued with his examination. He said the tooth would be fine; no pulp had been exposed.

He finished his examination and sent Kier and I home with a clean bill of health, but his words stuck with me: “It’s the second time this week.”

So, I thought, I’m not the only one.

Far from it, in fact: statistics show that every year, some four million American women experience domestic violence (DV) at the hands of their husbands or lovers.

Why do they put up with it? some may ask.

The answer is complicated. Our society is quick to label battered women as “weak” or “mentally ill.” And — in a few cases — there is truth to these labels. In the vast majority of cases, however, this stigmatization is nothing more than a symptom of the sexism that still pervades our society. In many cases of DV, there is nothing inherently wrong with the woman, other than that her self-esteem has been eroded to such a point that she is convinced she will not be able to make it on her own.

DV consists of more than just a physical component; it always begins with verbal abuse. The abuser craves power over his partner, and will often use manipulation and humiliation in order to feel powerful, long before he ever resorts to physical violence. This is not to diminish the physical component of DV in any way but rather, to alert the reader to the simple fact that, when it comes to DV, there is much more than meets the eye.

An abuser may be charming, attentive, and loving in the early stages of a relationship. During this “honeymoon” period, his partner may find herself hooked, and thus, blinded to the red flags cropping up all around her (as surely they will).

In my own situation, my ex’s having admitted to me that he had thrown my cat up against a wall should have been the first warning sign to “LEAVE NOW.” However, we were already living together at the time, and I was very much in love. I wanted so badly to make it work, that I was more than eager to believe him when he told me how terrible he felt, and when he subsequently promised that such a thing would never happen again. It wasn’t until approximately 9 months later, when I was the one being thrown up against a wall, that I realized this time, there would be no turning back.

All my canine teeth remain fully intact, but any last shred of faith I had in my ex and his empty promises of “never again” were damaged beyond repair. I got away, and for that, I consider myself to be one of the lucky ones.

I wish that, earlier today, I could have told the vet: “My ex threw Kier up against a wall and that’s why I left him.” But that would not be the truth. I have apologized to my little feline companion (yes, I do talk to her from time to time), and I like to think that she still trusts me, as her caretaker, to keep her safe from harm — whether that harm be in the form of a mangy alley cat or an abusive boyfriend. Most of all, I would like to be able to trust myself not to fall prey to that sort of situation again.

Looking back, I am puzzled as to why I stayed for so long (13 months, to be exact). I have tried to wrap my mind around the hows and the whys of my situation, yet so many questions remain unanswered.

In an act of self-empowerment (since knowledge is power, after all) I intend to spend the coming winter researching the topic of DV in order to learn about its history, prevalence, and policy implications. If, from my experience, I can help but one woman leave a bad situation, then my work shall not be in vain.

[Image at the top left is a painting by René Magritte.]

ONLINE RESOURCES
—The cycle of domestic violence is beautifully illustrated at
www.beatinghearts.net/exhibit/cycle.html.

—A description of the manipulative behavioral patterns characteristic of many abusers exists at www.rickross.com/reference/brainwashing/brainwashing11.html.

—An enlightening timeline of the battered women’s movement can be found at www.mincava.umn.edu/documents/herstory/herstory.html.

—A brief discussion of the difference between men’s and women’s use of violence in intimate relationships can be found at
www1.umn.edu/humanrts/svaw/domestic/link/womensviolence.htm.

—Youarenotcrazy.com powerfully explores the phenomenon of domestic abuse. The site exists to “empower, support and educate men and women involved in abusive relationships” (quoted text taken from actual site).

—Click here for an article outlining a recent “twist” in the domestic violence movement, wherein battered women are being arrested alongside their abusers. (This is known as dual arrest, an unexpected consequence of “mandatory arrest” policies which were initally adopted by many states as a way to send a message to the community-at-large that “violence is not okay.” This increase in the percentage of women arrested has raised some concerns among researchers and policymakers. Are all of these arrests justified, or is there an underlying pattern of abuse that one single episode of violence could not accurately portray?)

—Finally, here is a link to Cornerstone, an organization dedicated to Twin Citians (like myself) who have witnessed domestic violence firsthand. I am deeply grateful for the support they’ve provided and continue to provide: www.cornerstonemn.org.

BOOKS
I would highly recommend the Domestic Violence Survival Guide, written by retired NYPD patrol officer Cliff Mariani (1996, Looseleaf Law Publications, Inc.). It’s easy to read, with helpful information to guide battered women, step-by-step, through the messy process of leaving an abusive relationship.

Lundy Bancroft’sWhy Does He Do That? Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men (2002, G.P. Putnam) takes an honest look at some of the thought processes driving abusers and why it’s so hard for them to change. An important tool for helping the abuse survivor to recognize that the abuse is most assuredly not her fault.

In The Verbally Abusive Relationship: How to Recognize It and How to Respond (1992, Bob Adams, Inc.), author Patricia Evans describes how physical abuse is always preceded by verbal abuse. For this reason, the book is an invaluable resource in the field of domestic violence literature. As the title would suggest, Evans delineates categories of verbal abuse and dynamics of the verbally abusive relationship, and then goes on to outline possible ways to respond. She makes it very clear that sometimes the best response is, quite simply, to leave.

It’s My Life Now: Starting Over After an Abusive Relationship or Domestic Violence, by Meg Kennedy Dugan and Roger R. Hock (2000, Routledge), is the ideal literary companion for the woman who has taken the most difficult step and finally left her abuser. The book offers women help and hope for repairing damaged self-esteem in the aftermath of domestic violence.

INFO BY PHONE
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE

CONCLUSION
In closing, I’d like to share a passage from feminist psychologist Lenore Walker’s 1989 book Terrifying Love: Why Battered Women Kill and How Society Responds. On p. 46, Walker writes:

“After years of research and practicing psychotherapy, both with battered women and with batterers . . . it is my professional opinion that battering relationships rarely change for the better. Even with the desire of both partners, the inequality inherent in the relationship, the brutalizing division of power, is resistant to change. The violence in such relationships seems almost ingrained, although it may sometimes abate in frequency and severity. Physical abuse may stop for a time, but almost invariably the psychological abuse increases, and eventually the physical abuse will begin again. The best hope for the battered woman to stop the violence is to end the relationship altogether” [emphasis mine].

I’ve worn through three pairs of winter boots this season – that’s one more than my yearly average. Only a single one of the these may be salvageable: a sturdy — or so I thought — pair of flat-soled black leather boots imported from Paris. I suppose they don’t have to worry about road salt eating through their shoes in the City of Lights.

By late February, most would agree that the frigid air has overstayed its welcome. Though the sun shines more brightly now than it did only weeks ago, and the days are longer, a thick blanket of snow still covers the ground. We’ve had two or three thaws thus far, giving us a fleeting taste of the spring that seems so far out of reach. After each thaw, the ground has refrozen, and snow has fallen afresh on the once-sodden land.

At this point, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to go outside without bundling up in a coat, mittens, scarf, and a hat. Walking outdoors for longer than thirty-minute increments is something I can nearly recall, if I scan the furthest dusty reaches of my mind.

I trust that spring is near; I can see it glimmering on the horizon. Once the air warms, snow melts, and the first buds blossom on the tree branches, only then will we Minnuits come out in droves with big smiles on our faces to let the sun shine down on our winter-pallid skin.

Having spent most of my life in this frigid clime, I’ve met my fair share of winter enthusiasts. Their positive attitudes toward Old Man Winter often correlate with their participation in winter sports such as cross-country skiing, snowboarding, and the like. The lesson these folks would teach us is a valuable one: that is, to help pass the time during an otherwise-ungodly season, find an activity you thoroughly enjoy which can done only during that season (and no, beer bongs don’t count). That way, you have something to look forward to while others are moaning and groaning about their miserable state of affairs.

Some of you may ask: why not take the logical step and move somewhere warm? Easier said than done, I can tell you first-hand. Many of us have ties to Minnesota that keep us fiercely loyal: dear friends, family, cherished jobs, or some combination of the latter. Also, considering that many native Minnesotans are of Scandinavian descent, there is a certain genetic disposition towards just staying put. Our ancestors dealt with harsh winters in their native lands, and it’s reasonable to assume that the inherent fortitude it takes to handle a Minnesota winter has, for some, been passed down through generations.

Regardless of the nature of a Minnuit’s decision to stay, there is one redeeming quaility to living in this God-forsaken state: summertime. Even though it only comes once a year (and even then, doesn’t stay nearly long enough), anyone who has lived through a Minnesota summer can attest to what a glorious payoff it is, indeed. The lazy days spent frolicking at the lake, balmy nights sharing dinner with friends at an outdoor cafe in the city, or cozying up by the fireside during a summer thunderstorm are favorite pasttimes for many residents of this state. And, after a few months of temperate weather, the Minnuit has all but forgotten the other, unmentionable season known as wint-

“Shhh! Enough already.”

You get the point.

What if, one day, a fish stopped swimming? Would he float to the surface, only to be swooped up by a bird skimming the water in search of prey? Or, say the weather is inclement on that particular day, with no birds of prey flying overhead; what if this particular fish still chose not to swim? Would he float there, glassy-eyed, until he died of boredom or starvation?

And what if, that same day, a bird decided that she would no longer fly? Not because her wings had been clipped, or because she had been injured in some odd way, but rather, because she had concluded, quite simply: “Flying’s not for me.” Could that little bird find happiness building her nest in some inconspicuous corner of a cluster of bushes, away from the wolves and foxes that would surely make a meal of her, while she watched her former flockmates sail the sunny skies? And, if so, would she be content?

And what would happen, do you suppose, if a passionate young writer decided: “I shall not do this anymore.” Would headaches, self-pity, depression, or an overall sense of lethargy ensue? Could that writer, who’d spent so many hours perfecting his verse, find satisfaction via some other means: interior design – say – or gardening, or photography? Would he wake up in a cold sweat at night, thinking: “Something is missing from my life”?

Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly.
Writers gotta write, or they’ll surely die.

In spite of all that others said
About you and me;
How we shouldn’t;
How it would never work.

We made it work,
Though it hasn’t been easy.
“He’s cheated, he’s lied,”
But then, so have I.

“Why dwell on the past?
We’re not those people anymore.”
So you don’t understand
Why I can’t let it go.

“How many times
must we fight this same fight?”
And I don’t reply
Because I don’t know.

I want to say, “It’s the last of its kind,”
But my fear prevents me
From saying so,
And I know this moment could tear us apart.

Can you look me in the eyes;
Say you’ll never cheat or lie?
You’re not that person anymore;
Am I?

For just a moment,
The fear takes over,
And I think:
“This is the fight to end all fights.”

Then it’s gone
In a flash,
Like a blinding light
Dissolved into nothingness.

And even though
I don’t know what’s to come,
The look in your eyes will
Help guide me there.

This churning in my gut
Is just a passing phase;
One of the many trials
Our love puts to the test.

We pass the test
To prove that our love is more than some ice sculpture melting.
We take our chances against all odds.

I’ll be 29 years old the day after Thanksgiving. Having been on the dating scene since age 13, I’ve seen my share of men. Some of us parted on amicable terms, others not so much. I keep contact with a few of them on those ubiquitous social networking sites like MySpace and Facebook . . . not that we communicate much, necessarily, but at least this way, we stay somewhat connected and, on occasion, receive updates about each other’s lives through the respective site’s mini-feeds.

In spite of the fact that I am in a blissful partnership with a man whom I intend to marry, I must admit that I still feel a twinge of jealousy whenever I see pictures of my old flames with their new lovers. I know better than to hang out on their profile pages long for that very reason, but every so often I might happen upon a mini-feed update stating something along the lines of “[So and so] has been tagged in a photo” and, letting my curiosity get the best of me, I click on the update and enlarge said photo . . . and there they are: my ex and his beautiful new woman. While every rational bone in my body tells me to be happy for him, there’s that sneaky little voice inside, no doubt fueled by my ego, whispering to me: “It’s not fair. He’s supposed to be faithful to you and only you, for the rest of his days. Never mind that you haven’t seen each other in years. You shall forever remain the one and only apple of his eye.”

Totally hypocritical, I know. I mean, here I am, posting pictures of myself and my man, bragging about how happy we are together and yadda yadda yadda, and all the while, finding myself having a hard time accepting when someone from my past feels the same way about the new love of his life.

I suppose my situation is not so unique. After all, it’s only human to be curious, and to feel jealousy on occasion. However, holding on to these feelings is a choice that I alone make. Instead, it might be more fruitful to let go of my past, and to forgive any remaining hurts that still linger even years after our parting. Only last week, I made a promise to myself to let go of those whom I once loved and to say a blessing that they might be content. What better opportunity is there than this to make good on my word?

I release my past and the people associated with it. I wish them the best in all their endeavors. I refuse to let anger, disappointment, jealousy or any other feelings keep me from enjoying the happiness which my life and current romantic relationship present to me on a daily basis. Finally, I recognize the humor in my ego’s constant attempts to keep me from embracing joy in the present moment. (Sneaky little bugger, that one. Not falling for its tricks this time!)

Full of energy on the night of the election, I decided to take a long stroll through downtown Minneapolis. Departing my apartment on foot at approximately 10:00 p.m., I arrived at Nicollet Mall, one of the city’s major thoroughfares, within minutes. Zelo’s Bar/Restaurant had left its front doors open on this unseasonably mild autumn evening. Inside, TV screens flickered, with people gathered ’round, watching the electoral votes being tallied on the national networks.

“He won Virginia! Obama won Virginia!” an enthusiastic bar patron piped up. Cheers arose from the crowd as the TV station’s political commentator announced that this was the first Democratic Presidential victory the state had seen in 44 years.

I continued south along Nicollet Mall for a half-mile, hung a right on Washington Avenue, and headed east, toward the city’s historic Stone Arch Bridge, which has a magnificent view of the newly-reconstructed 35W bridge. (For those of you readers needing a refresher, the 35W bridge is the Mississippi River overpass that collapsed one storied afternoon in August 2007; killing thirteen, injuring 145, and sending an aftershock of questions in its wake, namely: “How could this possibly have happened?”)

I picked up the pace as I crossed the cobblestone bridge, which is reserved exclusively for pedestrians, bikers, and the occasional tourist trolley car. Just south of where I stood, within clear view, dozens of cars sped hastily along the new 35W bridge.

So much has changed since that bridge went down, I couldn’t help but think to myself, both on the national scene and in my own personal life.

I’d been on the Stone Arch Bridge the day the 35W bridge had tumbled into the river, and had watched as people used binoculars to get a better view of the death and destruction taking place before their very eyes. I had come to terms with my own destruction, in a sense, just weeks prior: having implemented major life changes that left me newly sober and single.

In the months that followed, I would often walk along the Stone Arch Bridge — with friends or alone — my heart heavy after the loss of my old lifestyle. As construction workers toiled away at the new bridge, my heart slowly began to mend from the blows I’d recently faced. Meanwhile, in the political sphere, candidates from opposing parties built their platforms and garnered support from constituents.

The physical and metaphorical rift that the fallen bridge had created in the heart of Minneapolis was mended in September 2008, when the new bridge was unveiled to the public. Within mere days of the bridge’s grand reopening, my new partner, Ted, and I moved in together. (How could I not see that as symbolic?)

That week in neighboring St. Paul, Republican delegates and party supporters had joined together at the Xcel Energy Center while protesters rioted in the streets outside. On Wall Street, financial powerhouses lost their footing on the market and crumbled to pieces. Changes were brewing, although no one knew yet what, exactly, those changes would entail.

As I continued my stroll along the Stone Arch Bridge, the wind picked up, blowing strands of my hair to and fro. I reached the edge of the bridge and crossed a patch of grass leading towards Main Street NE just as a biker sped past, nearly missing me and sending us both flying.

Tonight, Main Street was like a ghost town. The sidewalks were devoid of the standard passers-by, and the bars and restaurants lining the east bank of the Mississippi River appeared hauntingly empty, save for a few lone bartenders wiping down tables and mopping floors.

I approached the Hennepin Avenue bridge at approximately 11 p.m.
, crossing back over to the city’s west bank. I knew the election results had been declared when car horns began honking incessantly and two black men gave each other congratulatory “high-fives” from a street bench nearby. In the streets, twenty-somethings began running wildly and shouting, their arms outstretched in the sign of victory. Their joy was contagious, and a shiver of anticipation ran up my spine as I realized what this meant: major changes in store for our country, both on a political scale and on an interpersonal one.

I arrived home at a quarter past eleven and immediately logged onto the internet, where top news headlines confirmed what I’d already intuited: Obama had won the race.

Soon after I had crawled underneath the bedcovers, my cell phone buzzed on the nightstand next to me, alerting me to a new text message from my friend Matt in DC, who’d written: “At the White House with thousands! Absolutely amazing!”

Outside my bedroom window, the skyscraper housing Target’s corporate headquarters flashed dancing red, white, and blue lights from its top floors.

This morning, the metaphorical hangover from last night’s Election Day frenzy was palpable. On the way into my office building, I passed a coworker shaking her head as she hung up her cell phone.

“My mom and I are both in mourning today,” she explained to me, placing her cell phone gently in her purse.

“Oh?” I remarked, pretending not to know why she would possibly be in mourning.

“She and I are both conservatives,” she explained, raising an eyebrow at me as if to judge whether I shared her sentiments.

“I see,” I said, holding steadfast to my neutral stance.

“Did you vote?” she asked, clearly eager to determine on which side of the fence I stood.

“I did, and I’m convinced that it was my one vote that steered the course of the nation in this new direction,” I joked.

A man walking several feet ahead of me cast a stony glance in my direction, seemingly unappreciative of my sense of humor.

“Well, that’s the nice thing about this country,” she said. “We can disagree about politics and still be civil to one another.”

“Absolutely,” I replied.

“We’ll just have to buckle our seatbelts and brace ourselves for whatever’s to come.”

I smiled at her and advised, “Get ready for the ride of your life.”