A New Day

At last, my life is making some sense. I feel useful. I have a purpose. I feel that I am finally fulfilling my destiny. I’m working with women who have been abused, and I feel a close kinship with them.

It is July, and it is hot, even with the air-conditioning. But it’s always hot and humid in New York in the summertime. As the rain trickles down on windows that are worn and weather-beaten from a multitude of storms, I cannot help but feel it is appropriate to the setting I am working in.

I am sitting behind my desk, and a new client comes in. She sits down in a chair opposite mine. It feels strange; not so long ago, I was sitting in her place.

My client, Nancy, is a young woman in her twenties, with long, dark hair and hazel eyes. Her sad expression is familiar. It’s like seeing my reflection in a mirror.

As she talks, tears fill her eyes: “I feel like I can’t go on another day. Sometimes I feel like I want to die—it hurts so bad . . .”

As Nancy speaks, a picture of myself as a child flashes before me: I am sitting in the kitchen with my mother. I’m afraid to move. I dare not make a sound. I’m cowering in my chair, wondering if I’ll be able to make it through another day. Suddenly, I am feeling uneasy. I take a few deep breaths and shift my focus back to what Nancy is saying. I am distracted by the jarring sounds in the street below.

Nancy is now looking out the window. Her eyes are scanning the busy throng of the hectic West 90’s, and she seems dazed as she speaks: “The other day, I overhear my boyfriend Danny talking on the phone. He’s saying, ‘Sure, honey, I’d love to! When do you want to come over? I’ll see what I can do…’ ”

Nancy begins to cry. “I ask him, ‘What’s going on?’ and he tells me, ‘I have a few female friends, and I brought one over the other day when you were out working.’ Suddenly, my heart is thumping, and I feel like I’m going into a spin. I come right out and ask him, ‘Did you sleep with her?’ He says, ‘Yeah. So what! What’s the big deal! I didn’t mean it that way—it just happened . . .’ ”

Nancy’s eyes are now blazing with anger. “I feel like I’m going crazy. I yell, ‘How dare you! You’re living in my apartment, and you’re sleeping with other women while I’m out working?’ ”

Nancy starts to cry some more, and then she continues. “He comes towards me and smacks me across my face, and then he slaps me some more. I manage to run into another room and lock the door. That’s when I call the police. He runs out of the house and I yell after him, ‘Don’t you ever come back here anymore!’ ”

“That must have been just awful for you,” I empathized. “Did you make a complaint when the police came?”

“No, I didn’t. He’s beaten me many times before. I’ve been in the hospital a few times. He thinks nothing of punching me and beating me up. He has fits of anger, and he’s broken a few of my ribs. When he gets like that, he can’t control himself.”

A wave of anger sweeps over me. Thoughts keep rushing into my head. This is appalling! How can she allow herself to be beaten like that? This guy is a real bastard! I try not to voice my opinion as Nancy continues to tell her story. I am sad as I look at her. I can see that she’s hurting, and I wish I could say something to ease her pain, but I know she has to feel her feelings.

Nancy soon starts to cry again as she clutches her hands to her face. “He’s done this so many times. He pushes me around and hurts me. I don’t know why I take it. It’s terrible; I can’t put it into words.” Her eyes roam over the dark, speckled linoleum as she holds a tissue tightly in her hand. “You don’t know what it’s like to feel so worthless and unloved . . .”

I think to myself: If she only knew . . .

Nancy sits there for several minutes, staring at a blank wall, and then she says, “He hollers at me. He uses his hands on me. And now, he’s cheating on me . . .”

As she speaks, I am hopeful that she will be strong enough to keep away from the batterer. I want to tell her how I really feel— but I have to remain objective. I learned in my training, and in my own therapy, that the client must be allowed to have her own thoughts and feelings and make her own decisions. Nancy is having trouble with all of this. I am intent upon helping her get in touch with her true feelings. The goal here is for Nancy to become self- empowered and gain better control of her life.

But there is a deeper problem. She seems to need this abuse, so then the question is, why does Nancy have a need for abuse? I surmise it is a part of some kind of pattern from her childhood. I hope Nancy will be able to talk about this at some point.

Meanwhile, I am very concerned about her. I know that battered women have a tendency to return to their batterer when the tension lifts and things return to the status quo. I am wondering if Nancy is safe and if she will be returning to her batterer. There is always danger lurking when a woman is involved with someone who has a violent temper. My mind flashes: What is the next step to take if her life is in immediate danger?

I find the sordid stories that Nancy has been telling me about her boyfriend very distressing. I’m wondering what this guy Danny is all about, and I have questions. When I perceive the time is right, I ask, “Why is Danny in your home when you’re out working?

“He can’t find employment now. Acting jobs are hard to find, so he has time on his hands.” Nancy quickly changes the subject. “I’m afraid if he comes back, I’ll end up in the hospital again.”

“Nancy, there is something called an order of protection. It’s a legal document that protects women in situations like yours. Have you thought about that? It can help to keep him away from you.

Nancy reflects for a moment. “I know what that’s all about—I don’t want that right now. I’m not going back to him! I don’t want him back. I don’t ever want to see him again!” She began to sob. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t eat . . . I can’t sleep . . . I don’t care about anything anymore . . .”

“Are you suicidal?”

Nancy is fast to reply, “No, I’m not. I’ve gone through this before . . .”

But Nancy doesn’t look well, and I need to pursue this further. “Do you want to see a psychiatrist? A psychiatrist could prescribe medication for your depression.”

“No, I just want to see you,” she softly says.

I am surprised to hear that. It does not sit well with me, and I am feeling some anxiety now. She might be better off with a psychiatrist because she might need to be medicated. I feel an urgency to consult with my supervisor about Nancy’s case. Meanwhile, I make another appointment to see her.

I am aware that women are abused every minute of the day and that they are sometimes even murdered by their batterers. Working with a client is a big responsibility, and it is something that I take very seriously. I am now in a situation where someone’s life is at stake. When you have someone’s life in your hands, there is no room for error. I want very much to help Nancy, but I don’t know if I can. I will speak to my supervisor about it, and then we will see how to proceed.

That night I am worried about Nancy. Will she be all right? I can’t get any sleep. I keep thinking about the things she’s told me, and I recall memories from my childhood. I recall how violent my mother would become with me. I have a vision of her coming towards me and turning into a monster before my eyes. She’s chasing me all over the place and when she finally catches me, she grabs me and pummels me. I’m shaking with fear. I feel the pain as if it were only yesterday.

As I feel the pain of my early years, I recall how horrible it is to be beaten, especially by a significant person in one’s life. I was a child and couldn’t run away from my mother. But why is Nancy, a grown adult, allowing her boyfriend to abuse her? The thought keeps running through my mind, and it rotates round and round, like a phonograph record.

The following day, I talk to my supervisor about Nancy’s case.

She says, “Let’s wait and see if she comes back.”

But what if she doesn’t? I’m on edge. While I’m there, I ask my supervisor about Nancy’s safety: “If her life were in immediate danger, what would I have to do?”

She says, “There are all kinds of measures we can take. One option is a women’s shelter. But we’re not there yet. Let’s take one step at a time.”

I begin to think that I am getting ahead of myself. Maybe my supervisor is right. I attempt to stay in the moment.

A week later, I’m sitting at my desk, waiting for Nancy. It’s getting late and there is still no sign of her. I’m feeling very nervous. I go outside and look for her in the waiting room several times. Finally, Nancy appears. I am relieved. As she begins to speak, I’m thinking about how very pale and thin she looks. I ask, “Are you taking anything for your depression?”

She quickly replies, “No, but I’ll be all right. I try not to take drugs. They don’t agree with me.” Nancy pauses and then says, “I don’t know how I ever got involved with a man who makes me feel so bad. He makes me feel like I belong in the gutter.”

I am trying to be careful and not say the wrong thing as I empathize with her and what she is going through. Her pain is talking, and I’m listening. At times, I feel helpless. How can I help Nancy in her despair?

As our session draws to a close, Nancy says, “I don’t think you could possibly understand what it feels like to be hollered at for the least thing . . . to feel you don’t count . . . that you’re nothing . . .”

What Nancy doesn’t know is that I’m very familiar with those feelings. I know them all too well. I have experienced all of them— and more.

These sessions trigger many emotions in me. I keep hearing, Hollered at for the least thing . . . you don’t count . . . you’re nothing . . . you’re worthless . . .”

I am disturbed by those words. Memories are triggered in me about how invisible I was growing up. And then I remind myself of my uncle’s file,

One day, I was visiting my uncle Will, and I was eager to find an article on a mental health topic. I knew he had a proclivity for collecting information on various subjects and stashing it all away in his file cabinets, so I asked him if he had this particular article. “I might have it—look in the file cabinets.”

As I was rummaging through the drawers, I came upon a folder with my name on it. I was stunned. The folder was brimming with papers. My goodness, what could this be? I ran into the living room with the folder in my hand, my heart beating fast, and excitedly said, “What is this?”

My uncle casually replied, without emotion, “I’ve collected information about you when you were growing up. We were planning to write a book about you, but we never got around to it.”

Write a book about me? I was flabbergasted! My uncle Will and his wife, Jessie, never said a thing about it to me. And now, suddenly, I had a huge manila folder in my hands. I said, “I want to take this home and read it.”

Will was reluctant, and then Jessie interjected, “Billy, I don’t think we should give the file to Lenore . . .”

Goodness, gracious, what is she saying? Here is a big, thick folder with my name on it, and they don’t want to give it to me? They were now bickering as I stood by and watched, with my heart pounding. I was soon pleading, “Please, Will, let me have it. I’ll give it right back to you, I promise.”

He finally agreed on one condition: that I return it to him “as soon as possible.” Jessie looked distraught as I put the folder into my tote bag. I couldn’t wait to get home and read it.

As I left their apartment, I had a terrible feeling. My goodness, they were going to write a book about my life! The thought of it made my skin crawl. Good Lord, this file was thick enough for several books! How could my uncle be so detached? If I were a total stranger, I could understand this better—but not his very own niece! When I arrived home, I hesitated. Would I be opening Pandora’s box? I opened the file just the same and came upon the statement that my father signed to have my mother put away in Bellevue Hospital. Oh, my God, my mother was going to commit suicide and take me with her! How devastating it was to see those words in print. And there were more disturbing things about my childhood that rattled me. I soon became overwhelmed and quickly put the file away in a drawer.

Will and Jessie never mentioned the file to me again.

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For some time, I had no desire to open “Pandora’s box” again, but I am now overtaken by my curiosity to find out what’s in that file. My hand is a little shaky as I open the drawer that contains the horrors of my childhood. Soon the file is before me. I see all kinds of correspondence, notes, and cards. My uncle was communicating mostly with my grandmother and my father to find out whatever he could about the way I was living with my mother. I was astounded. Was I some kind of a lab experiment or research project? How could he sit back like that and collect all this information without taking some kind of action to help and protect me?

While I found this all very disturbing, at the same time, I am learning things about myself I had never known. From these papers come a flood of memories and an awakening of old feelings from so many years ago.

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I have written the story of my life based upon childhood recollections and the material accumulated in my uncle’s file, which he collected until I was nineteen. This is the story of a child trapped in isolation with a psychotic mother and of my lifelong struggle to overcome her abuse. This is a true story of personal growth that has a clear message to impart: we can triumph over adversity if we persevere. There is hope, there is healing, and ultimately, there are people who care.