Once upon a time, okay, last year in March, I went to a friend's wedding. My best guy friend's wedding. He met the girl of his dreams and I loved her instantly. She helped me swipe on Tinder for the sake of my new found comedy hobby. I needed new material and the engaged couple needed to be reminded why you don't want to be dating in your thirties. Well, late one night while the gang was performing some terrible karaoke, we came across a very handsome man whose profile picture was of him base jumping off a cliff, naked. So very naked. Swipe Right. Yes puh-lease. It's a match! Hopefully a fun first date in my future or at the very least, some potentially good comedy fodder.
Unfortunately, Mr. Naked Cliff Jumper and I never met up. Wedding festivities had me pretty busy and I honestly was only looking for new comedy material. I get back to Chicago, and we wind up talking on the phone for almost 3 hours the first night. I couldn't even tell you what about. It was amazing. It was like I met my best friend on the phone for the first time. Two weeks later I jumped back on a plane to go meet him. I was terrified. We had spent every night on the phone since our initial chat. I was already enamoured before I got on the plane and I think I just wanted to know if the actual intimate sex was going to be as good as the mind sex. Oh, let me tell you, it was!
Not long after that amazing weekend, he left all of his clients behind to move in with me for the summer in Chicago land. My lease was ending in August and I had fallen so head over heels for this comedy thing, I thought I would leave Illinois and head back to California, where my family is, and pursue my dreams. He was so along for the ride. Charming, fun to be around, and seemingly supportive at first, my friends, at least in the comedy world, really liked him. He had a mohawk and talked to my friends. A huge and positive improvement over my ex. What's not to like? He was fun and I was happy.
But then something started happening. He started telling me that I shouldn't be staring at other guys all night at the clubs. "But I wasn't." I'd retort, and he'd just pout and yell until I understood that my eyes were for him only. I started becoming afraid to talk to people, to meet people. He'd tell me that I'm too much of a control freak and that I'd need to go with the flow. He started spending my money on things that didn't make sense. He convinced me to steal. He never tried to get a job or some part time work while he lived with me. I was exhausted by the fights over how insecure he was with the amount of gentleman friends I have. I hang out with other comedians. A lot of whom are men. Dopey, funny, men.
I was under a spell. I was slowly being brain washed and I had no idea. (You know, because that's what happens when you are brainwashed.) I could tell I was being muted. My enthusiasm for life was disappearing. I was exhausted. I just wanted to keep the peace. When we'd fight, he'd ignore me for days at a time and the only way to regain his attention was to perform sexual acts. He degraded me. He despised my independent spirit. He controlled me.
We went on a road trip from Chicago to LA. The idea was to kayak and perform comedy all the way across the country. What I wanted out of the trip quickly became a non-priority, as long as we were fishing and kayaking and drinking beer everyday. I wanted his attention so badly, that it didn't matter what was happening I just wanted to keep the peace and keep his attention.
Fast forward through the 7 week road trip where we wound up very broke. A friend of his called and said he needed help getting back into his home after a natural disaster. Mr. Naked Cliff Jumper was ready to go chase that dolla dolla bill ya'll. I was finally home and didn't want to leave. But I didn't want to let him off the hook for spending all of my money either. So, off to the natural disaster area we went. Typical domestic violence case. Mind control...then isolate. I knew no one. I was just not the same girl that left Illinois. I hadn't performed comedy in so long. I couldn't do anything right to please him. I didn't know who I was and I didn't know how to get out.
Finally, after having been ignored for so long and then yelled at for trying to use my brain, I snapped. I said that I had had enough. I was out. Leaving. Mr. Naked Cliff Jumper didn't like that at all; he went from being Mr. Suave to Mr. Manchild. Pouting, yelling and then throwing my computer. Changing the password to the only computer that made me money a la voice acting. (He changed it to "lyingcunt," for the record. My mother was actually impressed he could spell it correctly). Then he tried to be nice to me to get money from me to move back to LA, where we had a storage unit together. He stomped his feet and yelled at me. Called me every version of the 'c' word he could come up with. Tried regaining any shred of control by taking his time packing his things into the UHaul I rented to gtfo of smallest town, USA. Seriously, no taxis, no buses, no trains, planes or rental cars. There were no limos, Lyfts or Ubers. My only choice was a damn UHaul.
But, even after everything we had been through, I didn't want to be a jerk and not help him get all of his belongings in one place. With no legal license or credit card, I thought I could help him move one last time. Biggest. Mistake. He was so scary that day. There was no reasoning. I wasn't strong enough to just help myself, but I wasn't going to just take his b.s. lying down, either. His body language was mean. He wanted to play keep away with the keys. I wasn't going to get a key to our storage unit AND he was going to lock up the uHaul which had both of our belongings in the back. I wanted a key to one of those things. I was furious and I wasn't going to take his b.s. lying down. So I took his helmet and riding jacket and locked them in the cab until I could get a key. Either one.
Mr. Manchild didn't trust me with either and I just wanted to get this show on the road. So I opened the cab on the passenger side. His helmet was sitting on top of my big bag of bathroom essentials. He came in so close to me that I was scared he was going to hit me then. He didn't. But that's because I threw his helmet across the driveway just to get him to step away from me. Apparently, I broke the dang thing. Mr. Manchild didn't like that one bit. So, to retaliate, he took my bathroom bag and chucked it across the driveway and across the yard. I went to collect my belongings as I quietly and (eerily) ever so calmly told our hosts not to worry because it "was just stuff, after all."
The dispersing of my belongings wasn't quite enough because he did manage to find my birth control pills and bury all of those in the mud. Like a dog. After stomping on those he then went back into the cab for more. He found my sunglasses and stomped on those. Tore up my snacks. Don't mess with my snacks! He even left my prescription glasses on the ground ready for a good romping. He noticed I was collected my birth control and came over to grab those out of my hand. He grabbed my hand and wrist to get me to let go yelling in my face "WHY DO YOU NEED YOUR WHORE PILLS?" My hands were covered in mud from trying to unearth his temper tantrum. I open handed slapped him across the face and walked away. Eerily calm. And then it hit me. His closed fist on the back of my head. I don't remember it, but our lovely hosts said I screamed. All I remember is feeling like "here it comes...the beating of my lifetime."
Our host came to stop him from going any further. I was walking away, much faster now. In between the sobs and pounding adrenaline in my head I heard him yell "If she can hit like a man she can take one like a man." I must have one gnarly open handed slap. Makes me wish he felt my right cross thanks to all the Jillian Michaels videos I have been doing!
I rushed inside and called the police that I had on speed dial. The entire day I had made sure I wasn't alone with him. Everything had happened so fast. Even though the cops were on the phone, I suddenly felt so isolated and alone. He saw me on the phone crying and knew I had called the cops. I looked around and no one was in the house any more. He chased me outside and on to the porch where there were many others and I felt surrounded and empowered by numbers. To me, these people were strangers, but somehow, they made me feel less crazy. I didn't know it then, but I am not the psycho he made me out to be.
You know how if you hit your sister just a little too hard, she'd start crying. Immediately you think "Shit...you're OK. You're fine. Shhh....Don't tell mom." I think I half expected him to react that way. But while I stood protected by the numbers of people on the porch that afternoon, he continued to yell at me. "GET IN THE CAR, MAGGI. GET IN THE CAR AND LETS DRIVE." I was going no where.
Was anyone laughing at this scene? I wish I wasn't IN the scene because watching a grown man bury a woman's birth control and then stomp on it would have been hilarious to watch. Partly because a dog would have buried it better AND peed on it to declare his ownership. All I got was a punch in the head. From behind. Coward.
I should be glad though. No one has ever hit me before! Never. Not once. In my whole life. I did want the boys to like me so much in school. I wanted to be pinched and hit on the arm. I should be so glad, that finally, someone loves me so much that he can punch me in the back of my head. I should feel the warm, fuzzy glow that comes along with a crush...a love like that.
But instead, Mr. ManChild, I am left with fear. My heart skips a beat whenever I hear a motorcycle come up from behind me because I'm worried that you know where I live and have followed me. I cannot seem to leave my room to go meet new people for fear that I don't know how to talk to someone new. I don't even want to make love to myself because you left such a nasty taste in my mouth. Okay, I won't stop making love to myself, but the scar is there.
My story of domestic violence is no where near as violent, or scary, or deadly as some I have heard. This, however, is not a competition. I was vulnerable, I got hurt and the signs and pattern of abuse is the same. Perhaps the story is, indeed, just as scary as some, but I am stronger than most. I can laugh with my mother about the horrible names he called me. I can get onstage and talk about this. I will heal. I will love myself again. I will get back to normal. Because to me, you are now but a mere tragically funny memory.
I'm not the only one that can find the humor in domestic violence. Instead of a music video, here is comedian Bill Burr's take on the subject.
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