A Friend was Beaten Up at Home

My mum’s sort of old man drinks.

Michael bounds off of the sofa and pins me into the fridge, leaning over me.

He puts up his dukes, the former military boxer’s sign he wants a scrap. I want exactly ZERO part of this and tell him to fuck off. In some twisted moment of hell, we havehim punching me in the face-me trying to get away-him climbing on me and doing one of those MMA chokeholds from hell-me trying to get away-him biting me and somehow bruising my ribs and giving me a lump on the head- me finally shaking the bastard before he can render me unconscious.

He’s chasing me but I slip him and then get out of the house, him screaming dirty words all the way. I walked over 15 blocks barefoot to try to find help before finding a police station.

***p.s***If you’re one of the few THOUSAND people who saw me walking down the street cold and barefoot, crying, with blood coming out of my melon and didn’t stop to even offer so much as a phone call to the police, you should be ashamed of yourselves. Yes, I know, I’m a bald brown chick, but I was in real trouble. If you’re one of the various people who saw me up close and gave me the stinkeye- you’re a glowing example of the absolute inhumanity that plagues the little city we live in and you probably should seek counseling.

I’ve been like Michael, but I’ve never beaten anyone up like that.  But, I’ve terrorized and I have punched and I have kicked and hit someone in the leg with a golf club.

The golf club incident required a trip to the hospital because the leg was bruised to the bone and we were worried it was broken.  By some weird stroke of fortune, I did not spend that night in jail.  Yes, she lied for me, and no I didn’t ask her to do it, and yes the doctor and nurses knew it was a lie.  They made some personal evaluation of the situation and decided not to involve the police.

Thankfully, I’m no longer that person.

I can understand Michael — he’s a single person with a huge malfunction.

I don’t understand people who can see an injured human being walking down the street bleeding, without shoes, and not stopping to help her.  Shame on you.  I do not understand your malfunction.

I love Mika and this really hurts to read.

Suddenly, I’m even more sorry for being the asshole I was because this time around I’ve witnessed cruelty and violence perpetrated on someone I love and I’m sensing the horror for the first time from my well adjusted perch.  My own crimes are now distant memories, ones I’ve tried to release.  This new nastiness cuts me like the old ones should have.

Actually, I did feel sick about doing those bad things in the past, but I experienced doses of personal shame that distracted me from developing a proper empathetic response for my victims at the time.

I was ashamed to be a monster and I was ashamed that I could not always control myself.

Since I’ve learned that the thing to do is to NEVER control myself — to always say whatever is on my mind and never start those statements with an accusation.

Not: You pissed me off.


Not: You’re being a jerk.


Not even: You hurt my feelings.


Better: I feel like I’m nothing when you ignore me like that.


Eventually a person with anger issues can learn to just figure out why they feel the way they do and then learn that the feeling comes from crappy learning in the past.

I’m always something, no matter what you do.