Opening:

Allow me to tell you that I am not sorry for being involved in a relationship where I was beaten. I do not regret getting hit and verbally abused by someone who I once loved. As of today, I have no regrets towards my abusive relationship. There is no time in my life for regrets. There is only room for knowledge, education, life experience and growth in my life. If I linger in regrets and self pity, then I am no good to myself or those around me. I am not saying, that I like to be treated unkindly or without respect, but that I am proud to have survived my domestic violence relationship. I am proud that I am capable to share my ordeals with you, proud that you may read them and proud that they may make you proud too.

To survive this terrible time in my life gives me the strength to face anything life has to offer. I am only more knowledgeable for having gone through many years of my life living with domestic violence. It hurts me to say, that that part of my life was too many years. But I've learned that I could only free myself from domestic violence in my own time and that I was always exactly where I was supposed to be. Those many years that I no longer have, were years that I could not have lived any other way. It was my destiny. I had to go through the pain and suffering to get out of it.

Each time I was beaten, I changed. I became a different woman after my beatings. After he ridiculed me, tormented my inner soul and took advantage of my kindness, I lost a little part of who I was. I can accept that over time people change. That in time, we grow, we learn, and when we go through life's experiences we become wiser people. But when we are beaten down repeatedly, we change in another way. Sometimes in a way that is unexplainable, even to myself. When we could be trusting others, we turn away from them. When we could be giving love to our loved ones, we find it difficult to express our feelings. When we could be living free from violence, we shutter at the thought of our abuser coming home, a home to where the heart is not.

Here's where my abuse started...

Age 15, March 1984:

A teen's story: At fifteen she met her abuser. She did not know it then, but she would marry this man who would emotionally and physically abuse her for more than a decade. She did not like him at first. She avoided his phone calls. Told her girlfriends to tell him she wasn't home or that she was sick, just so she wouldn't have to talk to him. But with his persistence, his gifts, his complementing words, she began to change her mind. She began to fall in love with him. She decided, he must really like her, since he wanted to be with her all the time. And of course, since he was jealous of her being with anyone but him, how could he not in fact like her.

Six months into their relationship, he hit her for the first time. She can't remember all the details, but once he did, he apologized, and told her he would never do it again. If she knew that would only be the beginning to years of punches, kicks, hair-pulling and head-butting, as well as degrading verbal abuse, she would have ended their relationship that very night. Or would she have? She was the type of girl to trust people and believe people could change. A girl that loved to do things for those in need and who would give her life to save another. After all, she believed she would save him from his personal problems. I know so much about this fifteen year old girl, because I am that girl.

Summer 1985:

We are at a "50's" dance in the year 1985. Reaching out to grab me, he misses. I tell him not to be jealous. I tell him I love him. I tell him that I didn't look at the guy across the dance floor. I tell him to stop twisting my arm, for it hurts me. His hold on me tightens and he twists it more. Everyone around us is immune to the pain and discussion he is inflicting on me. As he lets go to instruct me not to talk or look at any man, he then flashes me "his look." The look that means he is going to finish what he started later on tonight no matter how proper I act.

Off to the bathroom I go to fix my make-up from the few tears I shed. In the bathroom stall I decide to leave the dance. Thinking I can escape him tonight, I walk out of the dance. Running to get a head start, I turn to see him running after me. I run and run and run. He catches me and pushes me to the ground. He kicks me. He pulls my long brown hair out of my head, as he drags me across the concrete sidewalk. I beg him. I plead with him to stop. I cry for someone to help me. Anyone, but no one hears my desperate cries. Maybe they do, and they just stay away. As I rise from the ground, he punches me. He says nasty words to me and then lets me walk home, all alone.

He thought by hitting me and his jealous behavior that he was looking out for my best interest. But in reality, it was his interest, not mine that concerned him. I am only a possession. He's thinking that since I accepted his violent behavior I must love him.

Age 18, Spring of 1986...

Kicking me out of his car after he slapped me around and tore my pants almost off my body, was only the beginning. He drove away, leaving me in a place I did not know. I walked crying, bleeding, not knowing where I was. Then came the sound of a speeding car. I knew. I began to run. I began to run as fast as I could. My running got me nowhere. I felt as if I was in a cartoon when the characters run in place for a while before taking off. When I looked back, he was in sight. He dove along side of me calling me a slut, whore, bitch and told me it was my fault that he hurt me. He said it was for my own good that he gave me a beating. He laughed as he made fun of my torn clothes.

Back in the car I got. His arm slowly went around my neck. He pulled me closer to him and told me he was sorry. Told me he loved me and did not mean to call me those words. He told me he would not do it ever again. That abusive event in my life was before I married him. I believed then, that if I could not run from his abuse that night, that I could never run from it, that I had to stay with him and tough it out.

Age 19 to 25, our living together years from 1987 to May 1993:

How many lonely nights I would cry because my abuser didn't come home? When he did, the fear that rose inside me was unbelievable. The loneliness I felt as he was unlocking the door that's undescribable. I knew, even when I pretended to be asleep, I would take "a beating" or be abused verbally. Verbal abuse is painful. Sometimes I wish my abuser would have hit me instead of cutting me with his nasty words. Words can be cruel. Words can cut deep. Words are powerful tools if you allow them to be. Being abused verbally, I allowed someone to hurt me. I allowed him to mentally abuse me with his words. He would call me a whore or bitch because I put make-up on. He would ask me so many questions if I curled my hair or put on a shirt and didn't button the very top button. "Why are you wearing that?" he would demand. Forget it if I looked at another man, even a man who was waiting on me at a store. It got to the point that even when I wasn't with my abuser I would be too afraid to look at a man or not have all the buttons on my shirt buttoned. How sick he was. But worse, how sick was I?

After he stayed out all night:

It's that time again. Beating time. Sunday morning time, when the cocaine had run out and the beer's all gone, home he stumbles...

"Wake up you bitch, move over!" He did not have to tell me to wake up because I never went to sleep. I was absorbed with anxiety and fear since he never came home. Well, he is home now. He's ready to fight and I do not wish to participate. But that doesn't matter, he fights with me even when I remain lying down. He cusses at me to no end, then kicks me in the back off the bed. He gets up himself, comes over to me, lies next to me and starts saying disgusting words in my ear. He wants to have sex with me and of course, I refuse. This only make him more mad. He grabs my hair and drags me across the floor. I cry and plead with him to stop. He lifts me up by my hair and without notice, head butts me, knocking me down again. He leaves me on the floor and goes inside to sleep on the couch.

Ashamed. Embarrassed. Withdrawn. Untrusting. Afraid. Guilty. Fearful. Never to be clean again. You feel you can not scrub the filth away after he beats you. Water does wash away the blood, but not the bruises or scratches. Your body aches from the abusive words he lashes at you like a whip. Mental abuse also makes you feel dirty. How dirty I feel just saying these last few sentences, knowing that he hurt me over and over.

Age 19, a day in the life of an abused woman:

Yes, it was really that bad!

Curled up on the floor hoping he will just vanish. Bleeding, angry, fearful, alone, she lays there. Sobbing until he leaves the room. Staring at the wall and seeing nothing but despair. Breathing heavy she calms herself only to hear him laughing at her. He makes rude comments loud enough for her to hear them. She does not move until she is sure he is sleeping. Using the bed to steady herself, she stands. Dizzy from him pulling clumps of hair out of her head she sits on the edge of the bed. Legs shaking as she stands to go look at herself in the mirror. She has been through this before and only wants to cover her bruises from others. Thinking not of herself. She only thinks about what everyone will say when they see her. Dreaming up excuses for this time so they are different. She also wants to say sorry to her abuser. Say sorry for him beating her. Say sorry for standing up to him. Tell him that everything is okay and that she believes he loves her. She knows his words already. Knows that he will beg her forgiveness and tell her he did not mean to hit her. Tell her he loves her. She questions herself if he really loves her. As she washes the blood away, she washes the experience away too. Maybe she will not have to go out. Maybe she will not see anyone she knows. Maybe she can cover the marks long enough for them to fade. Maybe no one will ever know...

...but Cynthia knows, for she is this woman.

Age 20, Raped December 1988.

Just the thought of the word rape scares me. Telling my husband he had to leave after the holidays, he became more angry and that "look" of the devil in his eyes seemed to never leave his face. (My heart beats faster just trying to write down my thoughts.) For the first time in many years, I went to a company holiday party without him. He stayed home with our son instead of coming. Going alone was new to me. The entire evening was spent thinking about what would happen to me when I got home. Never did I imagine I would be severely beaten and raped by my husband who was supposed to love and cherish me. Never did I think I would be so abused. So hurt. So afraid. So fearful for my life.

Back to the party... My husband called numerous times to find out when I was coming home. He even harassed a few of my co-workers over the phone. I took a few of his calls and then decided (for the very first time in our relationship) not to take his abusive phone calls anymore. I was drinking alcohol that night, even though I was only 20 at the time. When the party was over, I left with a few friends who drive me home. I asked them out of fear to walk me inside so they could tell my husband I was "a good girl" and that I was sorry for not coming home sooner. How afraid I became on the ride home. I was so afraid that I can actually feel some of my fears now!

I can remember like it was yesterday when he raped me. How my stomach turns at the thought. He gave me my worst beaten that night too. How I cried! Screamed out in anger. In fear. In pain. In need of someone's help. If they only heard my screams. How humiliated I was! How cold were the police officers to me! How disgusting was the bathroom in the hospital they took me to. How the doctor looked at me when he was taking my pubic hair samples. How the nurse hurt me as she took blood from my left arm.

These details may not sound of real importance, but they will last a lifetime in my head. A lifetime. How long is his sentence? How long could it be when I was talked out of pressing charges by the detectives, especially the woman officer. She told me that rape is hard to prove between a husband and a wife, even with all my bruises, cuts, blood and the samples they took at the hospital. Why then, did they let me go through those disgusting and embarrassing tests? I could have been home sleeping. I could have been lying in the dark with myself, instead of with those strangers. Strangers that could have cared less what happened to me and the violence that was bestowed upon me. They would have done me more justice if they told me to go home and get some sleep. Instead, they took pictures of my face and made me answer questions for hours.

Do I sound bitter? Is there sarcasm in my words? Of course, why wouldn't there be. I am still suffering. All women who have been sexually abused have the right to feel betrayed. To feel pain. To feel cast aside by others who look at them with "that look." But for today, I must learn to live with my decision of not pressing charges. I must begin to forgive myself for something that I had no control over.

Feelings of shame enter my mind. Feelings of disgust so strong, I want to scrub my body until I bleed. Sound too harsh, I think not. I know I can never cleanse myself from being raped by my husband. Even if God himself came down upon me, dousing me with his holy water, the fact of me being raped would still linger inside me. His cleansing may wash my outer shell, but what being raped has done to me mentally, will remain with me forever.

Forever. Forever makes for scary thought. Over seven years have passed since I was raped. A night that instills fear in me, just at the thought of it. An event that only took about and hour of my life on that night, in reality took my remaining years on this earth. Does that sound over-dramatic? Do these words explain how I truly feel? I don't think I can ever fully explain to you or anyone what happened to me on that December night. I can only try my best to convey the sadness, loneliness, fear, anger, hatred, confusion and pain I still suffer.

Age 21, May 1989:

How humiliating is it that we got back together after he did the most terrible thing he could to me? Well, let me answer, "very."

Why did I reconcile with the man I married, after he hurt me on the outside and on the inside of my body? Was I crazy? What was going through my thick skull? So many feelings. So many fears. So many reasons. The main reason was I thought he needed me. I couldn't leave him. The guilt overpowered my fears and my angry feelings. I just shut off my feelings of that horrible night all together. Why feel at all I thought or maybe I wasn't thinking.

Whatever my reasons were to get back with my husband, I did get back with him. I didn't go through with any of the domestic violence charges. Of course, things between us were never the same. I often think about that disgusting night. I haven't talked much about it. I'm not ashamed, but it is painful. What has helped me through these painful flashbacks is telling myself, "I made the best choices at that time in my life as I could."

Age 22, began working part-time for Prudential, December 1990:

Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays and the days I was abused stay in my mind for many reasons. The Superbowl reminds me of unhappy times. A time of bruises and stitches. A day to celebrate was a day to mourn. Sitting in the hospital emergency waiting room with my day brings a sadness to me. Crying and struggling to compose myself. Telling my dad, I could not press charges against my husband for beating me. Even with all the pain and suffering, I still couldn't bring myself to press charges. I was not ready physically nor mentally to leave yet, so back to my prison cell I went.

Who understands me? Only a few...

Walk in my shoes for only a day,

Run in my shoes because there's hell to pay.

You'll pay with a put-down, punch or a kick,

The feelings of loneliness will make you so sick.

Miles and miles you'll walk in my shoes,

Miles of pain, suffering and feeling the blues.

Walking and crying and feeling like dying,

Will you walk in my shoes and keep trying?

Age 23, September 1991

After years of abuse that consisted of physical, mental and sexually abuse, my self-confidence, courage and my outlook on my situation decreased. I was at a point in my life where I trusted no one. I questioned my faith in God. I believed that God had punished my for something I did in a previous life. My most asked question to God was, "Why me?"

In September 1991, I found with the help of my employer's employee assistance program, the help I so desperately needed to begin my recovery process. I received counseling through a confidential program in work. This program showed me the way to other women who were in similar situations as me. I began to attended support groups and domestic violence workshops.

In time, my self-esteem grew. I started accepting me for me and my situation for what it really was. I didn't have to like it, but knew I had to accept it.

Age 25, May 1993

My abuser was told to leave by the police on May 17, 1993, after I filed a temporary restraining order. My children were only six, three and one years old then. I didn't feel I had any other choice left, but to have him ordered to leave. He would not leave voluntarily. He never would leave when I asked him. This took a lot of courage and strength for me to go to court with three young children, wait all day to see the judge, then call the police and have them make him leave. It was one on the toughest decisions I've made in my life. The fears and confusion I was feeling made me cry. I cried when he left. I cried when he called. I cried when I held my three children and told them their daddy was not going to live with us any more. It was okay for me to cry. What wasn't okay for me to do, was to take him back. I had had enough pain from this person. He had caused me plenty of suffering and sadness in my life. Enough was enough! I had finally hit my bottom.

Enough was enough, when I put my well-being ahead of his. Enough was enough, when I allowed reality back into my life. Enough was enough, when I told myself I could make it without him. Enough was enough, when I set boundaries for myself and did not extend them for any reason. Enough was enough, when I realized I loved myself. I hadn't loved myself in so many years that it was strange at first, but then felt good.

Age 25, 1993:

Society places much of the responsibility for domestic violence on the women. My experience with the justice system and the police was nothing but tiring and frustrating. I once said to an assistant prosecutor, "Am I not the victim? The abuser gets more justice then I do!" Her response, (yes, a women prosecutor said this) "This is a vicious cycle with these type of men. Keep changing your phone number, have your kids call from a pay phone so your ex-husband can't get your number. We can't put a police officer outside your door." She and other employees of the justice system make battered women feel like their lives are worthless. They are too quick to place the blame with the victim. They tell you they are over worked and underpaid. They leave out the part of them choosing their profession in justice. Their profession to help people and give something back to their community.

Another assistant prosecutor (a man this time) told me, "This is a burnt-out job." They can't comprehend that the lives of abused women are burnt-out. How many complaints did I file over the years? Probably too many to count. Never-the-less, I deserve as much time and consideration as other victims of other crimes. I pay taxes. I am a human being who deserves to be treated with dignity and respect. They are too quick to judge abused women. Stress in a day of an abused woman's life is a month in the life of a non-abused person. Just because I know my abuser, doesn't give the courts the right to make me feel like I'm the bad guy or that my justice is less deserving!

When I finally made up my mind to follow through with domestic violence charges against my husband, I knew I was changing. Never in my life had I went through with any charges against my husband. Never had I stood up for Cyndie. It was time to move on in my life. Time to live my life.

Four domestic violence charges against him. I couldn't stop my anxiety attacks or my legs shaking, but I made it through his plea bargaining (three years probation and 30 days in jail). He made an apology to me in open court, which I never accepted. I have much anger towards him, but I am moving on in my life. I have three beautiful, healthy children. A wonderful and challenging career. And I have friends for the very first time in my life.

Age 26, divorced ten years to the day my abuser and I started dating:

The months ahead were very difficult for me outside my home. I was with my three young children without my husband for the first time in my life. Or was I? I had to do things all by myself and didn't have him to fall back on. Or did I? But then I realized... I never could fall back on him. I had been married to a non-participating partner anyway. What difference did it make for him not to be in the same house as me? Well, to be truthful with you, it was finally peaceful. I enjoyed coming home without being afraid to unlock the door. All my household matters were based on me. I was the "queen of my castle," even though I live in a five room apartment, it was "my castle."

In closing:

Why did the man who claimed his love for me hurt me? Power. Control. Because of his childhood problems that he carried into our marriage. Because of his alcohol and drug abuse. Because of jealousy and lack of respect for himself and for me. More reasons are not needed, just as a newspaper quoted a battered woman saying, "There ain't no dammed reason good enough."

What women affected by domestic violence need to accept, is that even when their abuser sees the stars in the sky, he may never see the light coming from those stars. Even when I come to realize that domestic violence is no longer in my cards, my abuser may not change his deck. Even when I make those phone calls to get him help, drive him to rehab centers, or a place for men that batter, I can not do his footwork for him. I have tried to make him stop abusing me. I have begged him. Pleaded with him. Loved him as much as I knew possible. All these things have not helped his behavior so far, so what makes me continue to think I will eventually change him? I can not change those adult males who abuse, that is left up to them. They are responsible for that change themselves, just as I am responsible for changing me.

When I was living with domestic violence 24 hours a day, I did not know who I was. I did not have time to know. I was always worrying about my abuser. Plagued about his next episode. His next adventure. I did not know what I liked or disliked during my abusive years. I knew what he liked and what would upset him. His likes and dislikes became mine. Over time, I gave my life to him, not realizing it. Not realizing that he controlled my every move.

Age 28, today:

I am no longer a victim of domestic violence. I am strong, no matter what others may think. I am a good person. I am scared, and I am not scared to admit that. I have courage, even if I don't think so all the time. I have feelings, even though many days I can't feel. I get angry. I get upset. I have cried many sleepless nights. I have taken many beatings. I have been called many unacceptable words. I have needs. I have dreams. I have hopes. I am a survivor. I will survive this day. I will take this day that God has given me, to better myself and my situation. Whatever I chose to do with this day, let me do one productive thing for myself, let me live today for me.

First productive item on my list is the book I am currently writing. My book, with all it's daily readings (365 days) was started with the intent to comfort, acknowledge and reach out to as many women affected by domestic violence as possible. It's been over three years since I began writing. I never knew that writing would turn into a healing process to my many painful wounds. Nor did I imagine how much personal growth I would acquire in writing, researching and talking with other women who are affected, as I have been, by an abusive partner. My book is a gift to myself and if it ever gets published, it will be a gift to any woman opening it, because she will learn in her own time that she is not alone.

My second productive item is my lunch-time (brown bag) domestic violence seminar that I started in July 1996 with the help of my employer. "Learn How to Unchain Yourself From Domestic Violence" is the theme. I have enclosed a copy of my script and my slides that I designed and produced myself. This hour long program has been successful in each of its first three scheduled dates. Currently, my employee assistance program has me traveling throughout its New Jersey offices giving my program to any employee that chooses to attend. I am the messenger for those who seek to listen.

Thank you for letting me share a very difficult and challenging time in my life. I know that I have given you a lot to work with, but I've been through so much that I wanted to paint a clear picture of what happens in the life of a battered woman. Unfortunately, many horrible events had to be written to paint that picture. But as the saying goes, "a pictures tell a thousand words."

As Told On June 23, 1995

Good morning everybody!

I am here today to share my experience of being a battered woman, how I survived years of physical and emotional abuse and my experience with the health care system.

I am doing this because no person should be forced to live the way my children and I were forced to live.

I was 22 years old when I met my ex-husband in the Philippines. It was a short courtship that led to what soon turned out to be a nightmare marriage. At first I did not care that much if he tried to control me but as time went on, the control grew and became more intense.

He constantly questioned my every movement. He asked, "Where did you go?" "Who did you talk to?" He even became obsessed with my past. I didn't understand his actions, his questions or his treatment of me. He knew I had never been with any other man, that he was the first one to touch me.

Each day he would only give me a few minutes to go to the market and shop. If I was late I suffered when I got home. He did not let me visit my family. He left me alone for many hours each day while he went drinking. My world became smaller and smaller. I was afraid to even say hello to my old schoolmate and it came to the point that I didn't want to see people because I was so afraid of what he might do. Once he was out and my mom came by asking me to help her with an errand. I was hesitant to go with her and wanted to ask him first, but I couldn't find him. My mother needed my help, so I decided to go with her. When I returned in a couple of hours, he was hysterical and violent. He screamed and yelled and left me with bruises all over my arms. He accused me of being with somebody other than my mother. He held me over the balcony and threatened to let go. The people three stories down watched but no one called the police. In the end, he told me that he was returning me and my son to my parents.

Prior to this, I had kept the sadness of my marriage from my family. I was raised in a kind, loving, conservative, Catholic family and thought my first marriage would be my only marriage. I never dreamed that I would be a battered woman. I never thought that the place I would fear most would be my home, or that the person who would terrorize me would be my husband. So you can just imagine how I felt.

While it was a financially hard time, my son and I were physically safe. With the help of my family, I was able to start a business selling clothes. Later, I started a small loan business and eventually opened a little restaurant. In 1986, my ex-husband returned to the Philippines crying and begging to be reunitedwith my son and I. I agreed and it was the biggest mistake of my life. Not only did he continue to abuse me, but he began abusing my son.

He also began hitting my son. My boy was three years old and began wetting the bed at night. One time he hit my son in the face while my son was asleep. He hit him so hard that blood came from his nose and mouth. My son and I ended up hugging and crying. I didn't know what to do. I was pregnant with my second child and I was scared to go home to my family because every time I went home, he would come in the middle of the night and kick the door down. He terrorized my whole family.

During one episode, I called the police, but when they came, they said it was a family matter and left. Even though my uncle got injured when he tried to help me and pacify my exhusband, still the police refused to get involved. My family and I had no protection. Eventually when my petition to go to the U.S. was approved, I did not want to go, but I knew that he would not leave us alone. I had heard that here in America, child abuse was against the law. So for the sake of my children, I decided to come to the States. When I came here, we lived with his parents. He would not let me work. He would give me twenty dollars for the house and then ask me what I did with the money. I also found out that he was a crack addict and that his parents supported that. That's when I realized why his parents were happy and content to support him financially in the Philippines because they were also scared of his violent behavior.

My exhusband didn't work very much and used all his money for his vices. Because he wouldn't let me work the only way I had to provide for my children was welfare. During one of his violent moods, he threw a very thick, heavy ashtray at my head and it just missed me. It also just missed my neighbor's baby. He threw it so hard that it cracked. Afraid for my life I ran. He chased me to the manager's apartment and I begged the manager to let me in. The manager called the police, but when the police came, my exhusband disappeared. My father-in-law swept up the evidence.

The mother of the visiting baby boy gave me the number of a shelter for abused women. The next morning I waited until everybody left and I took my two children and went to the shelter. I had been at the shelter one month when he found me. I was standing in line about to cash my check. He nicely called to the children and said, "Let's go to McDonalds" and the children ran to him and got into the car. I had no choice but to go with him. I was afraid that he would hurt my children. After I got in the car I found out that he had a shotgun. He started driving fast and told me, "If you can afford to lose the father of your kids, I can afford to lose the mother." He said if he killed me, he would only be in jail for three years. I begged him to let the children go, but he wouldn't. Again, he asked me if I still loved him and if I was going back to him. I felt that my only choice is to say yes or die. So we got back together and he was still the same person.

He continued his violence toward me and toward my children. After a particularly violent incident, he took my telephone book and my green card. I ran next door and called the police. I ended up in a shelter again and that's when I joined a program for women who were homeless to start their own business. At first, I was not sure I wanted to join it because I had planned to go back home. But to my surprise, my exhusband left for the Philippines. I filed for a divorce and got a restraining order. I went to a business training, got a loan, and some financial help from my brother and opened a restaurant. My parents came to visit me. My life changed and I met a lot of friends and got a lot of support.

It was the month of November, 1991 when I opened up the business. A lot of people in my program helped me clean and prepare for the opening. It was the late part of November when I received a call from my exhusband telling me that I should hire my own bodyguard. I made a police report, but they wanted me to sign papers before they could arrest him. I did not do that because I was afraid that he would just be out the next day. He continued to call and ask me if he can see his kids. I let him see his kids with the hope that he would stay sober. He asked me if we could be together again. I said no and he started asking me if I was living with somebody. I told him he needs to go to a rehab and get some treatment.

On December 27, I went out with my friend Jane to buy a VCR. He called and continued calling me at the restaurant, asking me where I had gone. After I returned to the restaurant, he appeared. He asked me who is Jane and who is Bob. I said, "Jane is my friend and I don't know who is Bob." He pulled a knife from his jacket and stabbed my mom in the stomach. She was cut and bleeding. He also stabbed my father who weighs only 75 pounds. He tried to cut my throat and I held the knife with my hands.He did this in front of my children. While I was holding the knife away from my throat my son called 911.

When the police arrived, the knife was still at my neck, but they were able to subdue him. When the ambulance came, they put us together in one ambulance and I was so scared because I was in the same ambulance with the man who just tried to kill me. I called to the ambulance attendant and told him this man just tried to kill me and told him I was scared. He said, "Shut up bitch or I'll knock you out."

When we reached the hospital, they treated me right away. My mother and father arrived at the hospital in separate ambulances. My mother was rushed to surgery, but my father was left for many hours on a gurney in the hallway. My father's thumb was almost completely severed and the tendons were cut. He later required two surgeries, but his first surgery did not happen until three days later. My father only weighs 75 pounds and I feared that he would get very weak because he was not able to eat while he was waiting for surgery. Only after I told them that my father was losing so much weight from not being able to eat for three days, they operated on him that day.

When I was in the hospital recovering I was so restless that I cannot explain my feelings. I talked to the nurse and asked her why I don't want to see people and feel like I cannot breathe freely. No one explained that I was responding normally to such a frightening attack on myself and my parents. They sent a social worker to talk to me about the hospital bill.

After this ordeal, the doctors, nurses, and the physical therapist were very kind to us. All three of us are left with permanent damage and I have more than one hundred stitches and my fingers are not a normal shape any more. Once out of the hospital I re-opened the restaurant. From jail, he continued to call and threaten me. My family and I have healed. My restaurant is doing well and my children are happy and doing well in school. For three years, this case has languished in court. He has claimed incompetence and therefore has not stood trial. But how can he be incompetent to stand trial, but competent enough to call from jail and threaten me. Because of how the law is, there is the possibility that one day, he may be released without any record of what he did to me and my family So my story does not end.

I still live in fear. I stand speaking to all of you here to join forces in this fight against domestic violence. Remember my children and remember all children. Thank you.

*************************************************************************************

This is domestic violence awareness month, a heightened urgency to raise consciousness, awareness and to educate ourselves about domestic violence, and more importantly, to find out how we can help stop this violence. It's devastating to me to read in the newspapers recently that 6 people were murdered in the past few weeks as a result of domestic violence. Given this rash of murder, it may feel like that we as individuals are powerless to prevent this kind of violence. But I know this is not true. I myself am a survivor of domestic violence and can attest to the fact that individual people and their actions saved my life. I would like to share with you a little of my story to let you know that you can make a difference in the lives of people who are being abused. My ex-husband was violent to me for 2 1/2 years. Before getting married we dated for 3 years, with no instances of violence. After our marriage we moved from Virginia to Nashville TN, where he started work on a PHd. The violence began within the first week of our marriage, where he pressed his hands against my mouth and nose attempting to smother me. After this incident, my ex husband would become violent almost nightly often for no apparent reason. One of his favorite assaults was to strangle me with my back against the wall, my feet dangling a foot or so above the floor. He would get right into my face and scream, "What makes you think I won't kill you and then kill myself?" He would keep me up all night, often lecturing me endlessly and if I got sleepy he would attack me, often times choking me. I was in a constant state of exhaustion, sleeping an average of 2 hours a night. His violence was controlled and directed at certain parts of my body so that the injuries were not visible to co workers and friends. The welts from his hitting me were often on my head or my torso, covered by my clothing. The only time that my bruises were visible was the fat lip from that very first bout of violence, where he pressed his hand against my mouth and nose, smothering me. Only one person asked me about my swollen lip, and directly asked if my ex-husband had caused it. I was terrified that my husband would kill me if I told anyone, so I said no. This co worker never again brought up the issue.

My ex husband decided to transfer to a university in St. Louis. I was also hopeful that the violence would stop if he was happier in school. My hopes were dashed almost immediately. After one particularly awful episode of violence, where he attacked me while I was sleeping, I got up very early the next morning and ran to our church, which was one block from our apartment. I talked to the priest and told him that I was afraid that my husband was going to "accidently" kill me. He told me that the violence wasn't my fault and that I should leave.

During the last 2 years of our marriage I tried to leave many, many times. Each time I attempted to leave he would accelerate his violence. Once I got as far as getting into my car, but he opened the car door before I could lock it. He bashed my head against the inside of the passenger door and dragged me screaming all the way down the block to our apartment. Not one out of the hundreds of neighbors who heard me called the police, or ever asked me if anything was wrong.

4 months after visiting the priest, I got my courage up again to try to leave. I was on my way out the door to work when he begged me to stay home and threw me to the floor. I convinced him that we needed the money, so he let me go. Rather than return from work, I stayed in a shelter sponsored by my church. I called work and told them my situation. My supervisor was very supportive and gave me time off from work and wanted to know how she could help. One week later, my ex-husband got into a serious car accident and begged me to return. He was very remorseful and made promises that he would change and get help through counseling. I returned to him, fueled by promises of change. Over time, however, these promises proved extremely empty. Slowly, he returned to using violence against me. The most memorable episode was on my last birthday with him, when he stood over me with an axe, threatening to kill me.

One month after this episode he became violent one morning and began to choke me and then threw me to the floor. He then proceeded to literally walk on me. A light bulb went off in my head that he was actually walking on me like I was a rug. I thought, he's financially, psychologically, emotionally and now physically walking all over me. This was the final straw. I knew at that moment that I was going to leave him for good this time. Part of the reason that I knew I could successfully leave was because a women with whom I worked was very open about her experiences with her violent ex husband. Part of me knew that if she could do it, that I could do it too. I got up off the floor and ran to the car. This time I had enough time to lock my car door before he got to the car. I quickly drove away. All I had with me were the clothes on my back, my purse and the car. I stayed in an abused women's shelter the first night and contacted work the next day. The response I received from my office was one of incredible support. I knew that my co worker would understand my situation but I wasn't prepared for the generosity of my supervisor. They both met me for lunch and my boss took me to her house and gave me an adequate assortment of clothes to wear and told me to take off as much time as I needed. She also invited me to stay at her house which I declined because I felt safer at the shelter for abused women. I returned to work the following week and found numerous e-mail and voice mail messages from my ex husband. I got a restraining order on him and was helped by the campus security, who drove by my office around the time of my leaving to make sure I was safe. As time went by, I felt supported enough to tell my other co workers, believing that the more people that knew my situation the safer I was. I returned to school and was determined to stay in St. Louis and continue my life. However, because I had trouble renewing my restraining order, I again felt unsafe and I joined a friend in San Francisco.

It was the combination of many people over time that helped me to leave. Each persons statement and action contributed to my ability to leave. I remember the first co worker in Nashville who asked me if my fat lip was caused by my ex husband. He may of felt that it didn't do any good, or that he was wrong to ask. But by asking that question, it planted a seed in my mind of what was happening to me wasn't right. I know it's frustrating to see people stay or go back to abusive relationships. But, there are many factors involved with staying and in returning. The biggest factor for me was fear for my life. I returned once because I still loved him, I loved the man that was my friend, who would go hiking with me, who would cook me dinner and comfort me when I was tired or sick. I loved the man who would play me music on his guitar, who would read me poetry and who would tenderly tell me he loved me. I wanted to believe that man existed. But when his promises proved to be lies again and again, I was supported enough by other people in my life to see this and to leave. I want to stress how terribly important the role that my co workers played. True, I got support from the counselors at the abused women's shelter, but part of me felt they gave me the support because it was their job, unlike my co workers who did it because they knew and cared for me. It wasn't because it was their job. I don't mean to say that the counselors weren't effective, they were. But it had even more impact on me when other people in my life gave me the same messages, that there was no excuse for my ex husbands behavior, that not being happy at school, nor our financial situation, nothing gave him cause to hit me. If you are currently involved in a violent relationship, believe me, life can be better. You deserve it. I never thought I would enjoy life as much as I do now, unhindered by a constant threat of violence. I am working successfully and have joined the Advisory committed of the Funds Survivors Mobilization Program. The Family Violence Prevention Fund's campaign "There's No Excuse for Domestic Violence" carries this same message. You can participate by endorsing and promoting this message, "There is never an excuse for Domestic Violence".

If you know someone who is being abused, or is abusive, you can help. Please call 1-800-END ABUSE. When you call this number you'll receive a kit that will tell you specifically how to help someone who is being abused or whom you suspect is being abusive. You can make a difference. Act now. Call 1-800-END-ABUSE.

****************************************************************************************

at a Family Violence Prevention Fund Press Conference

San Francisco, CA

May 25, 1995

From Alameda, California:

I feel that it is a tribute to my daughter and grandson to be here today to tell their story because this past Sunday, May 21, marked the third anniversary of their death. My daughter Nicole and three year old grandson Warren were stabbed to death in their own home. The murderer was not a stranger , but John Hoffman, my grandson's father. The effect this act of violence has had on our family can not be put into words, and the wounds we have been left with can not be seen, but they are there, and they will never go away.

Our grief is made even worse because of the guilt. The reason for the guilt is that we were with Nicole and Warren almost everyday, but did not know of the violence that they were suffering at the hands of John. But there was one person who did know, and that person was Dawn Girard, a family law judge.

We knew that she did not want a relationship with John and that she had been trying to move on with her life without him, but it was particularly hard for her because she wanted her son to have his father in his life. This wasn't good enough for John, he wanted her and his son. He was constantly harassing her and generally intruding on her life. We suggested that she get a restraining order and set up a place where John could have supervised visits with Warren without involving her. She agreed that this was the best course of action. She sat in my house and very carefully wrote a request for a restraining order. She asked me not to read what she had written. She said it was very hard for her to write but she knew it was time to take some action. She wanted to handle it through the legal system on her own.

I truly believe that if the court had been more sensitive to her request for help, I would not be standing here telling their story today.

We found out the details of what had been happening to her by reading her request for a restraining order on the front page of a local newspaper the day after the murders. At first, we considered the news article to be a thoughtless invasion of our family's privacy, but it has turned out to be an awakening and has given me a purpose and a reason to go on. That purpose is to see that all judges that preside in family courts are trained to recognize the signs of battered women, and be sensitive to their needs.

On May 1, 1992 Nicole stood in front of Judge Dawn Girard with a restraining order request that told of rape, beatings, child abuse, and numerous threats of death to her, her child, and her family. The following are a few direct quotes from that document.

"Starting over 4 years ago John Hoffman has been acting out sexual and physical abuse. He has regularly beaten me and has made several threats to kill me. He has forced me to perform sexual acts despite desperate pleas to leave me alone. He also has made threats to harm my family and destroy their property if I leave him or call the police." "He has injured Warren by slapping him, causing a blackened eye and welts on his face and head." "I was severely beaten, almost strangled, and left with black eyes and bruises all over my body." "These are not necessarily the worst things that John Hoffman has done to us, just examples of his capability of injuring me and my son." "The fear my son and I have lived in has been horrible. I am terribly afraid of him and I need protection." However, she left that courtroom without a signed order.

The newspaper headline read that Nicole had dropped the restraining order. I could not understand why she would have dropped the order when there was no other reason for her to go to court that morning. After obtaining and reading the transcript, I became aware that the sense of resolve and confidence that Nicole had that morning was stripped away after having to stand beside a man she feared and testify to a Judge that had neither the sensitivity nor the interest to concern herself with the seriousness of the situation. The very first thing the Judge said was " Is everything you wrote in your application true and correct to the best of your knowledge and belief? Or do you want to drop this today?" Those words, "Or do you want to drop this today?" haunt me. I am at a loss to understand how one in a judge's position could not see the obvious fact that Nicole and Warren were in mortal danger from this man. It is clear from reading the transcript that it was not Nicole who made the decision to drop the restraining order, but the influence of the judge's authority.

It is the duty of family court judges to act in the best interest of those who come before them seeking help. If Nicole had been listened to and taken seriously and able to plead her case in a more sympathetic and understanding environment, perhaps she would have felt more empowered, knowing that she could make a difference in protecting herself and her child through the court system, which is the only legal means that exists to protect victims like Nicole and Warren.

The manner in which the civil courts deal with domestic violence is in serious need of reassessment. We need mandatory intensive training and new policies for all levels of personnel who deal with families in crisis. Battered women have to be recognized and handled properly in the courts. Their cries for help must be taken seriously and the batterers must not be let off lightly.

There is nothing more that can be done for Nicole and Warren, but it is my deepest wish that by telling their story I may, in some small way, help change our legal system so that tragedies such as mine are averted in the future.

******************************************************************************

at a Family Violence Prevention Fund Press Conference

San Francisco, CA

May 25, 1995

I live in New York City and, unfortunately, it is all too rare that I have the opportunity to come to San Francisco. It is appropriate that I have returned here today. My last visit here was in December, 1992. When I landed in New York City returning home, the call was waiting - my sister had been murdered in Boston by her abusive ex-husband who then committed suicide.

The whole story of the courage of Betsy McCandless will not be told here today. Her friend Lynne Conroy is writing a book about the last year of her life.

Betsy was educated. She had a masters degree and worked as a systems engineer for a software company. She was a gentle person, she was a very private person. She was a talented seamstress and knitter. But this story, sadly enough, can happen to anyone.

After a whirlwind romance she was married for the first time at age 42 to an Irishman with a rich rolling brogue. The beatings started 11 days after the wedding. Her husband continuously threatened to kill her - stone dead - if she ever left him. She was isolated from friends and family. He systematically destroyed her mail, her clothing, her possessions and tried to destroy her career. It took seven months until she found the moment she could escape and live to tell about it.

She did everything right. She got a restraining order and filed criminal charges. She stood in front of Judge Albert H. Burns at the Brighton, Massachusetts District Court. The judge read her criminal complaint describing the beatings from her husband and his threats to kill her.

The arraignment later that same day, again in front of Judge Burns, must have been one of the most unusual arraignments that court has seen. Sean Murray was an unemployed immigrant with no ties to the community. He had been arrested in a bank trying to wire more than $50,000 of Betsy's life savings to Ireland. Outside the bank he had parked my sister's car with camping gear, maps and his Irish passport in the front seat.

Betsy appeared as the complaining witness, a very rare event at an arraignment. She was desperate that her husband should be held in custody at least until she could gather her belongings and vital records and go into hiding. She was afraid for her life.

For the second time that day Betsy stood within three feet of Judge Burns with her makeup removed and sleeves rolled up. She had large bruises on her face. She held out her arms to show the bruises where she had broken her falls during beatings. A veteran court officer commented: "Boy, was she beaten to a pulp".

The prosecutor gave Judge Burns a detailed presentation about the dangerous nature of Sean Murray, the circumstances of his arrest at the bank, his status as a foreign citizen and the serious risk of flight. He pointed out Betsy's injuries. The prosecutor asked Judge Burns that Sean Murray be held or that bail be imposed.

Judge Burns brushed aside the prosecutor's request and seemed barely to notice Betsy as he nonchalantly shuffled his papers and was distracted by other matters. Apparently seeing no risk of flight and disregarding the demonstrated danger to the victim, he let the abuser free with no bail and without confiscating his passport. Since the abuser needed funds, Judge Burns granted him $5,000 of Betsy's money.

Sean Murray, enriched and empowered by the court, had court-granted money and was a free man, never to spend even one night in jail. He knew then that the court would do nothing to him. His victim Betsy McCandless was a prisoner, never to spend even one night in her own apartment again nor go to her job because she knew if her husband ever found her he would carry out his persistent death threats. She lost her income.

Sean Murray immediately and repeatedly began to violate the restraining order, missed his trial date and travelled freely to Ireland and in the United States. Betsy was in hiding, living on friends' couches. Five months after she had escaped from her abuser she returned to her apartment to pick up mail. He was waiting for her inside the door with a cheap .38 revolver. Thirty seconds later they were both dead.

Neither the Chief Justice of the Massachusetts District Court, nor the Massachusetts Commission on Judicial Conduct found anything at all to criticize in Judge Burns' conduct. It appears that the court system in Massachusetts, all the way to the top, has condoned the actions of Judge Burns.

Betsy McCandless is at rest. Her suffering is over. But her story will not fade away and must not fade away. Across the country, every day, women and often their children, relatives and friends are injured or killed by domestic violence.

My sister wanted to help others avoid an ordeal like hers. The projects of the Family Violence Prevention Fund work toward that goal. I applaud their work in the training of judges.

I hope that the project discussed today will save the lives of women who find themselves in the same danger as my sister.

******************************************************************************

This case originated in California

Marisa, a citizen of the Philippines, married her husband, a United States citizen, on February 10, 1991. On August 1, 1992, Marisa gave birth to their daughter Lucia.

In April 1992 he filed a relative visa petition and Marisa's application for adjustment of status application with the INS office in Los Angeles. The adjustment interview was scheduled for December 1, 1992. Marisa was severely beaten by her citizen husband. After he was prosecuted for the violence against her, he withdrew the relative petition which had been filed and approved. This withdrawal occurred after an INS officer had interviewed Marisa in conjunction with her adjustment application.

Marisa's husband had been physically abusing her since April 1991. On various occasions, he threatened to have her deported by INS if she did not obey his commands. Over time, the violence escalated and intensified to the point where Marisa feared for her life. He had also begun sexually abusing Marisa. Days after the birth of their child, he sexually assaulted her, forcing her to have sexual intercourse against her will. Marisa had had an episiotomy while giving birth which made sexual intercourse extremely painful and caused vaginal bleeding.

In September 1992, Marisa fled to a battered women's shelter after her husband physically assaulted her. She filed a temporary restraining order against her husband on October 15, 1992. On October 16, 1992, Marisa returned to her husband after he promised that he would change his abusive behavior. His promise was short-lived. On October 26, 1992 he pointed a shotgun at Marisa while she was holding her two month old baby and threatened to kill her. Fearful that her husband would carry out his threat to kill her, Marisa fled with her baby to battered women's shelters. On November 23, 1992, Marisa filed another temporary restraining order against her husband. On November 27, 1992, Marisa returned to her husband again because she wanted to give him another chance. She felt she had made a commitment to be married and she continued to hope that he would change.

One December 1, 1992, Marisa appeared at the INS office in Los Angeles with counsel for her scheduled adjustment interview. Despite counsel's request to proceed with the adjustment interview without her husband, INS refused to interview Marisa and rescheduled a new appointment for July 22, 1993.

For the next five months, her husband continued his violent behavior relentlessly. Much to Marisa's horror, her husband began directing his aggression at their baby, Lucia. On March 31, 1993, he grabbed the baby by her feet and shook her hard, upside-down because the baby was crying. To protect the child from further abuse, Marisa took the child to an outside babysitter the following day while she worked. Angry, because of the childcare arrangements, he arrived at Marisa's workplace on April 1, 1993 and demanded to know the whereabouts of the baby. When Marisa refused to tell him, he became violent and began to physically assault her. When her supervisor intervened, her husband threatened to return with his shotgun. Fearing for her life, Marisa called the police and filed a police report. This time she agreed to press charges against her husband. As a result, on May 10, 1993, the District Attorney's office charged Marisa's husband with Spousal Battery.

Marisa separated from her husband on April 25, 1993. On April 27, 1993, she filed for a temporary restraining order against him which the court made permanent after a hearing on August 12, 1993. In issuing its orders, the court found the threat of harm to the child by Marisa's husband serious enough to restrict his visitation rights. The court only awarded Marisa's husband visitation with the child in the presence of a professional monitor.

On July 21, 1993, her husband was convicted of battery. This was not the first time he had had problems with the law. He had a history of criminally violent behavior. In 1987, he was convicted of assault with a deadly weapon. Previously in 1985, he was charged with lewd and lascivious acts with a child under 14 years, transportation, sale or distribution of Marijuana to a minor, and disorderly conduct.

On July 22, 1993, Marisa and counsel attended a rescheduled adjustment interview. Her husband was not present at the time because the temporary restraining orders were in effect and he posed a danger to Marisa. At the interview, Marisa submitted through counsel documentation to the INS that the marriage was bona fide. The documentation included: birth certificate of their child Lucia, 1991 joint income tax returns, credit card receipts, copy of life insurance policy designating Marisa as beneficiary, copy of automobile insurance policy indicating coverage for Marisa and her husband and company checks signed by Marisa.

After the adjustment interview, the INS officer indicated that she was satisfied with the documentation and that she would approve the adjustment application after obtaining her supervisor's approval. She indicated that she would mail the approval notice the next morning. On August 12, 1993, counsel was informed by INS that the husband had withdrawn the visa petition after the adjustment interview on July 22, 1993. Consequently, the adjustment application was denied.

In order to cope with the years of physical abuse that she has suffered, Marisa is undergoing counseling through the Services of Rainbow Services for Survivors of Domestic Violence, a non-profit organization providing counseling to battered women.

******************************************************************************************

This case originated in New York.

Debbie* is from the Southeast part of China. She married her husband Charlie*. Charlie has sponsored their two children and filed petitions for them but he said that it would be too expensive to also file for Debbie and that she would have to wait.

Charlie informed Debbie that he was seeing another woman and that he wanted Debbie and the children to live with him and his new girlfriend. Debbie told him that she did not want to live like that and he beat her. He beat her a few more times before she left him. On that occasion, he beat her severely and then tied her to a bed. He kept her there for a long time until the children found her and untied her. She then left and went to stay with some of her family that lived close by. The police were called and Debbie was taken to the emergency room for treatment. The police photographed Debbie's wounds. As a result of this incident Debbie had cuts on her face, bruises, loss of vision in one of her eyes, and visible rope burns on her wrists and ankles where she had been tied to the bed.

After this incident, Debbie obtained a restraining order against Charlie. She also began a criminal case against him for spousal battery. Debbie was having a hard time supporting herself and her children on her own so her family helped her file a petition for child support. When Charlie was served with the papers asking for child support, he became very angry. Charrlie and his new girlfriend accused her of trying to murder them and they pressed charges against Debbie and had her arrested. When she was arrested, the police dropped her case against Charlie because they said that they were not sure that they could believe her. At this time, the photographs that the police had taken of her injuries from the last battering could not be located by the police. The District Attorney lowered the charge to illegal possession of a firearm, which Debbie insists that she never possessed, and Debbie accepted a plea bargain. The only reason that Debbie accepted the plea bargain was that unless she did, her children would have been sent into the foster care system.

Charlie withdrew the petitions for the children to get permanent residence after Debbie had filed for child support. At the present time she is not receiving any money from him to help support the children. Debbie's family is allowing her and the children to stay with them but her family is unable to help her with other financial needs. She is very afraid to leave the Chinatown area where she resides with her family because she does not speak very much English and she is very afraid of Charlie. She tries to find odd jobs to support herself and the children but this is very difficult without a work permit.

Names have been changed to ensure confidentiality

***********************************************************************************

I'm Marya Grambs.

I grew up in Washington, D.C. in the '50s and '60s, with a mother who was a Ph.D. university professor and a father who was an official in the federal government.

But our family had a dirty little secret: My father regularly, and very violently, beat up my mother. Sometimes every day for a week, sometimes just once a week, sometimes only once a month. Never predictably, but always terrifying. He would change from a loving and playful father to an enraged, frightening, and terribly powerful man. I would lie in bed at night wondering if I should try to intervene, worrying that the gun would go off. I would wake up in the morning, not knowing for sure if I would find my mother alive. Wondering if he would turn on us kids.

Anything could set him off. Perhaps she didn't answer him quickly enough, or she had forgotten to buy toilet paper, or she had interrupted him while he was telling a story, or she didn't remember to bring ketchup to the dinner table. I remember him turning her purse upside down, scattering its contents in a rage, because it wasn't neat enough. At some point in the fights, he would say, "If you say one more word, I'll hit you." And then my mother, by now pretty upset, would say something, and then he would throw her down, kick her, slap her, punch her, pull her hair.

As a child always listening to the fights in the stairway leading to their bedroom, I would try to figure out who was right and who was wrong. I never could. He always seemed so right, so logical. Why did say that one last thing? And, yes, she had forgotten to buy toilet paper. I couldn't understand that the excessiveness of his reaction was what was wrong.

Of course, we told no one. There was just an overriding sense of shame, and of needing to keep it secret. The morning after, I pasted a smile on my face and set out for school, exhausted after sobbing all night, so ashamed at what had happened that I didn't want anyone to know. I felt torn apart all day, many days.

My mother would go to the university with black eye, and tell her colleagues, "I ran into a door." None of her friends or coworkers asked any questions - they didn't want to know. Needless to say, my father didn't tell anyone either.

The toll this violent secret took on me was enormous: when I was 17, I had a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized for a year, nearly destroyed by what had gone on in my family. It's possible that a shelter might have been an option for my mother. But undeniably the most significant factor keeping my mother bound to my father, enabling my father to continue his abuse, and driving me to the brink of self destruction, was society's attitudes: They went (and in large part continue to go) something like this: whatever goes on in your home is not our concern, it's your problem to deal with, a woman's responsibility is to stand by her man, a crazy father is better than no father at all (my mother actually said that to me), he's sick and can't help it, if he had broken a leg you wouldn't tell me to leave him (she said this too), and anyway there's nothing to be done. . .

Add to this the fact that this problem was never uttered, and that those people who knew our family, and had some idea of my father's unpredictable anger and dangerousness, never reached out for help. We were, all of us, so terribly isolated.

What a difference it would have made if those attitudes were changed, if this private, secret problem was, instead, understood to be a public one, if everyone knew that battering is never acceptable under any circumstances, and if people were working in their communities to do something about it.

A brief update: Fifteen years after I left home, I founded La Casa de las Madres in San Francisco, one of the first battered women's shelters in the country. It felt so good to me to be able to help women and children who were being terrorized. Even though this was back when the entire concept of domestic violence was unheard of, our shelter was full and with a waiting list the day we opened. It still is.

*********************************************************************************************

Let me explain. For 10 years of my life, our family (one brother and three sisters) lived in a home filled with domestic violence. The term domestic violence is used often to describe this crime but the correct term is domestic terrorism. As a SWAT officer, I have studied the subject of terrorism. I've traveled and trained with the Royal Ulster Constabulary in Northern Ireland where they battle against the Irish Republican Army. I've trained with the Frankfurt, Germany police as they dealt with the Red Army Faction, and the London Police, terrorized daily by bombings, and I've investigated groups in this country such as the Ku Klux Klan and the violent Skin Heads. Please believe me when I tell you that there is no difference between these groups and their tactics and the crimes that are being committed in the homes and families in our country today.

My family was prisoner of war to my stepfather. Let me describe him. He stood around six feet two inches and weighed more than 200 pounds. He was a batterer, a "professional alcoholic," a police fighter and a cropduster.

Many days I can remember standing in plasma center lines with him in Dallas as he sold his blood to buy just another bottle of wine. I've watched as he drank bottles of rubbing alcohol and cooked shoe polish and dipped the alcohol from the top to drink. He piloted an airplane and sprayed the cotton crop in the southeast, and we traveled like a gypsy family. The police departments in the towns that we lived in were grateful that we moved on. At the time, there were no shelters, no laws holding batterers accountable for their crimes, no police policies that guided officers to provide equal protection of the law, and no judges who understood why or how these things could happen.

He was a police fighter. I learned my first lesson in officer survival at home as a child and not at the police academy. I've watched as this man fought with police officers on our yard, on the front steps and in our home. He hated the police and tried to convince me that they were the enemy, but I knew better and prayed that they would come again and again to take him away. He was never held accountable for the crimes he committed against us - only the public drunkenness or assault on police officers.

All of the studies and experts will tell you that family violence just doesn't happen overnight, and they're right. He was best at battering. He began with the mental control, convincing us that no one cared and that if we rebelled we would pay the price - and we did.

He started with my mother with slaps and then beatings and then being hospitalized. She suffered assaults that most strong men could not tolerate as we watched unable to protect her, and afraid that in the middle of the night we would be next. We became desensitized to the violence as though it never happened. On the outside, you couldn't tell of the fear we carried inside and we followed his orders by not telling the police, our neighbors, teachers or other family members. Fear has a powerful effect on people - just ask any prisoner of war.

As time passed, we became potential killers. Unable to accept the pain and fear, my brother and I tried to stop him. (More than 50 percent of the juveniles in prison today for murder are there for killing an abusive parent.) One night we took his wine bottle and filled it with poisonous bug spray. He woke up and drank the bug spray in front of us as we watched and waited for him to die. It never affected him, but turned seven and eleven year old boys into attempted murderers.

People often blame my mother as they blame victims of family violence today for not just leaving. You just can't imagine what it feels like to live in fear every day, year after year, knowing that at any time you might be killed. Of the 4,000 women killed by family violence each year in this county, 75 percent are killed after they have left their spouse or boyfriend. In our case, as others, we accepted the beatings instead of being killed.

I say to those who blame the victims to recall what happened to our brave soldiers during the war with Iraq. We turned on our televisions to see our captured flyers, beaten and battered, saying the most unpatriotic things about their own country. Some ask why. What you didn't see was the Iraqi soldier with the gun just off camera putting them in fear of their life. Yet when they returned home, we hailed them as the heros they deserved to be. In family violence, there is no difference when an officer comes to the door and the wife answers with "there is no problem here," not knowing that the husband is standing just out of sight using the same threat as the Iraqi soldier. Death is death and there is no difference between these two killers.

To me, the crime of family violence gives birth to the crimes of the future. It is learned behavior. The cycle of violence must be broken by the police, the prosecutors, social services, the courts and finally our government. This most committed and least reported crime in America is one of the most crucial civil rights issues that we have ever had to deal with.

In model police agencies across the country where injuries and death to women and children have been lowered, (Knoxville, Tennessee; Albuquerque, New Mexico; Newport News, Virginia; Dallas, Texas, Minneapolis, Minnesota), we see the same common denominators.

They have strong leadership in the government committed to stopping this crime, strong pro-arrest and pro-prosecution policies, batterers' counseling programs, and local task forces made up of the cross section of government and community working together to solve the problem. But the battle continues. The March of Dimes recently released a report stating that a major cause of birth defects to children is assaults during family violence. We need long range solutions to protect our nation's families from this crime. Training for judges, prosecutors, police officers, doctors, nurses and social service workers is sorely needed and often the funds are not available. Victims of family violence want one thing - and that is for the law to keep its promise.

Just before the United States entered the second World War, there were people who strongly protested against getting involved in the fight to stop the Axis powers in their genocide of hundreds of thousands of people. They said it wasn't our business. A news reporter happened to interview an old farmer in the hills of Tennessee at Fentress County, asking him what he thought of the issue. He replied, "What some people don't understand about freedom and democracy is that you don't just fight for people's rights one day and stop. To preserve freedom and democracy, you have to continue to fight everyday." The old farmer happens to be Sgt. Alvin York, the most decorated soldier of the first World War.

Everyday I and thousands of other police officers march under the banner of a Bill of Rights dedicated to the equal protection of the law. Please join us and dedicate the government to protecting our families. Give us the resources to research, train and educate and we will save lives in this country, and there is no greater honor. Thank you.

********************************************************************************************

When Rep. Dan Burton rose on the floor of the House of Representatives last fall to urge the creation of a National Domestic Violence Awareness Month, few of his colleagues were prepared for the intensely personal nature of his remarks. Burton, 55, an Indiana Republican, told of growing up in a household terrorized by his father's violence -- of lying awake at night listening to his mother's screams as his father inflicted yet another savage beating that would leave her bruised, bloody, even unconscious.

Sadly, the experiences of Burton's mother are not uncommon. Every year, an estimated 4 to 6 million women in the U.S. are assaulted by people they know -- acquaintances, boyfriends, current or former husbands. As a supporter of domestic violence amendments to the omnibus crime bill now working its way through Congress, Burton hopes to toughen federal laws dealing with violence against women and to allocate more resources for victim services.

Dan Burton's mother, Bonnie, now 74, was fortunate. Eventually, she managed to escape her violence husband, Charles, and after their divorce, marry a man who provided her and her three children -- Dan and his younger siblings Sylvia and Woody -- with a stable, loving home. Burton left the family to enlist in the Army at 18. Later he attended Cincinnati Bible Seminary and worked in the insurance business before running successfully for the Indiana state legislature in 1966 at the age of 28. In 1982 he was elected to Congress.

Dan Burton, married 35 years and the father of three children, ages 18 to 29, decided to speak for publication about his childhood to encourage other victims to break free from domestic violence. In this emotional interview with correspondent Rochelle Jones in his Capitol Hill office, he talked about traumas suffered during his boyhood that he has never before spoken of publicly.

One of my earliest memories is of being awakened in the early morning hours by a terrible noise. I was 5 or 6 years old and my father, mother, younger sister and I were living in a duplex house in Indianapolis. I heard the sound of furniture being shoved across the room and a lamp crashing to the floor. Then I heard my mother's bloodcurdling scream. Every nerve in my body stood on end. Terrified, I lay there thinking, "My God, it's happening again." For almost a decade, my father beat my mother nearly every week. Anything seemed to set him off: jealousy, rage over something that hadn't gone his way. He'd start by saying horrible things to her. He'd rip her clothes off and throw her down. Sometimes he literally knocked her unconscious. Afterwards, her face and eyes would be swollen and bruised. He'd put wet cloths on her face to wake her up. I'd hear him consoling her, saying he was sorry, that it would never happen again. But of course it did.

Sometimes I'd try to stop him. I remember going partway down the stairs and yelling, "Stop, stop!" but my father would say, "Get back upstairs." Physically, there was nothing I could do. My mother would scream and holler for help, but nobody ever came. I was afraid to tell anyone. I thought my father would attack me.

Dad was 6'8" and a vicious guy. I don't think he was born mean, but when he was growing up he was picked on by other kids. But after he learned to fight back, he realized he was strong enough to inflict pain -- and he used that to his advantage. It carried over into his marriage and his family.

Dad wasn't dumb, but he was a vagabond. He never held a job for very long. We lived a ragtag existence, moving from trailer parks to cabins to motels. By the time I was 12, we had lived in 38 states, in Mexico and in Canada. I remember once enrolling in school in the morning, only to move that afternoon.

Mother wasn't the only object of his violence. She told me about a time when I was 6 months old; my parents took me to the movies, and I started crying, as babies will do. He took me out to the lobby. Later my mother saw that I was black and blue from my shoulder to my ankles. Another beating, I remember vividly, took place when I was 10. We were living in a small motel in Niles, Mich. Dad gave me a list of groceries and ordered me to go to a little store a few blocks away. It was snowing like crazy when I started back to the motel with the groceries. The bags got wet and broke, spilling the groceries everywhere. I gathered up whatever I could carry in my hands. When I got back, my father beat the hell out of me. He was embarrassed to have to go pick the groceries up out of the snow.

I was so terrified of him I would try to stay out of his way as much as possible. When things got really bad, my mother would sit me down and read inspirational poems aloud. Occasionally, she would move out. She'd take us and go to her relatives, but she was afraid to leave him for good. He threatened to come after her if she ever did. In those days, there were no shelters where battered women could go for safety. There was no place to hide. The beatings got worse. Finally my mother decided that if she didn't leave, he would kill one of us. In 1950, when I was 12, she went to the police and got a restraining order, then moved us to her mother's house on Division Street in Indianapolis. It was a very small old house with no indoor plumbing. I slept in one twin bed with my brother. My mother and sister slept in another.

A few months later, my father made good on his threat. He broke into the house through an attic window. I remember him knocking the bedroom door open. He had a sawed-off shotgun and dragged my mother away. I had a baseball bat next to my bed, but it happened so fast I couldn't do anything.

For several days we didn't know if she was dead or alive. Because my grandmother was too old to take care of us on her own, law enforcement authorities placed in the Marion County Guardian Home. My mother managed to escape when Dad pulled the car over to get some sleep. He had taken the knobs off the doors and windows on the passenger side, but somehow she managed to climb over him and get out. He was arrested and charged with kidnapping. I remember being called to testify at his trial. The prosecutor told me, "You don't have to be afraid now," but when I saw Dad sitting there I was scared to death. He went to jail for two years.

My mother divorced him and later remarried. My new stepfather was a wonderful man. He only made $75 a week before taxes working at a foundry in Indianapolis, but he took us into his house and gave us love and guidance. He never resorted to physical punishment. When we would get rowdy, he'd just tell us to simmer down. For the first time, I felt safe.

But I never stopped worrying that Dad would come back after he got out of jail. One day, when I was 13, he did. I was baby-sitting my younger brother and sister when I saw him come up the front walk. I was petrified, and yelled, "Don't come up here!" He said, "You don't have to be afraid of me." I grabbed the shotgun we kept beside the front door. When he saw the gun, he turned around. I'm glad he did, because I might have shot him.

After that, I didn't hear from Dad for many years. In 1967, when I was an Indiana state legislator, he called to tell me his mother had died and asked me to come to the funeral. When I said I couldn't he made threatening remarks. I said, "Listen, I'm not 6 years old anymore. If you come near Mom or me or my family, I'll have you arrested. We aren't going to live like that anymore." There was a long silence. He said he understood and hung up. I never heard from him again. He died in 1969. After debating a long time, I went to his funeral.

I know now that violence is a learned response. People who have been abused as children often end up abusing their own wives and children. Growing up, I had a tendency to lash out too when I was angry. Fortunately, my mother and grandmother helped me with love, kindness and encouragement. When I got married and had my own family, I made a conscious effort to control my anger because I recall what it was like in that house.

I also learned that unless an abusive man gets professional help, he is not going to change. He may make promises for a few weeks, but then it will start all over again. My message to women with abusive husbands is to get out. It was only when my mother escaped my father that we could begin to live a normal, productive life.