Why She Stays

A “friend” posted this article from the Billings Gazette on her Facebook page:

A man was accused Friday of kidnapping a woman and holding her in her home — including making her stay in a crawl space — for several days while repeatedly and severely beating her.

Matthew Ryan Bertagnolli, 31, appeared from the county jail in Yellowstone County Justice Court on felony charges of aggravated assault, three of partner or family member assault and one each of aggravated kidnapping and intimidation.

According to the affidavit a woman, identified in the documents only as Jane Doe, came into an apartment on the 3500 block of Granger Avenue saying she needed to call for help. When officers arrived, they noticed she had two black eyes, a severely swollen face and bruises and burns on her body.

She told officers that she and Bertagnolli had been dating since March and that on July 11 he accused her of cheating on him. He allegedly hit her numerous times until she left, the documents say. The woman returned to her home two days later and found Bertagnolli waiting there. He ordered her inside and assaulted her until she passed out from the pain, the affidavit states.

Through that day and into July 14, Bertagnolli "began a systematic torture of her with repeated beatings in different parts of the house," according to the charging documents. The woman told investigators that at different points, he beat her, urinated on her, threatened to kill her, possibly burned her with a cigarette, told her to give him money and said "you're going to suffer through this pain ... go lay down" when she tried to take Ibuprofen, according to the court documents.

The affidavit goes on to say that Bertagnolli forced the woman to hide in a crawl space several times when her mother came.

The woman told investigators that she ran to a neighbor's house on Thursday when Bertagnolli let her out of the crawl space and decided to take a shower. Court documents say her injuries include a broken nose, fractured orbital bone, burns and bruising and swelling.

Officers arrested Bertagnolli at the home on Granger on Thursday evening. He remains in custody at the Yellowstone County Detention Facility and is scheduled to appear in District Court on Thursday.

Perhaps more heinous than the atrocities this woman suffered were some of the comments posted by Billings, MT readers.

One individual named ‘small town football’ made this comment online: “Well how stupid was this woman? There had to be red flags before this all happened. Unless she was constantly chained or tied up she could have tried to get away sooner."

My immediate response to this person is not publishable in the paper until I remind myself that ignorance must be bliss and you just can’t argue with stupid!

After all I would only imagine that ‘small town football’ is more concerned with pigskins and touchdowns than volunteering to work with the local domestic violence shelter.

I would have to guess that if this individual spent any time with domestic violence victims, he or she would understand that women who stay in abusive relationships do not do so out of stupidity. The real stupidity is in thinking that the reason a victim might stay in a relationship wrought with domestic violence is simply black and white.

Perhaps ‘small town football’ has never considered that maybe she stays because she has children and he has threatened to take those children away from her; as horrible as it might be to stay, she can at least protect her children from his abuse – sacrificing herself to his rage.

Maybe over the months and years of his manipulative isolation she no longer feels like she has support from her family and friends. No one to call. No safety net into which she can fall.
Maybe all of the degrading, belittling and emotional abusive whacks at her self-esteem have completed chipped away at what flimsy self efficacy ever existed until she believes that she cannot ‘make it’ without him.

Maybe she beats herself up for being stupid, worthless, unlovable – the negative self talk making her depressed – sadness leads to guilt – more emotional turmoil – a vicious and toxic cycle so closely mimicking the relationship that has been fodder fueling the fire of herself degradation.

Maybe her only option, if she leaves, is to find a job that doesn’t pay above minimum wage. She might not have any education beyond high-school. If she works full-time, she will make enough money to afford daycare for her children because if she works full-time hovers at the poverty line, she will have too much income to qualify for ABC vouchers or social service programs.

Maybe she grew up in an abusive home – and however twisted or warped it might seem from an outsider’s prospective – abuse is a normal part of everyday life. It is what it is.

There are so many reasons why she stays, but I doubt small town football would have the complex and critical thinking abilities to understand those reasons. It must be incredibly convenient to walk through life heaping blame on everyone else and never accepting responsibility for the part one plays in creating a society where we blame victims instead of offering them the unconditional help and support they need to make better life choices.

My FB friend who posted that article was in a relationship with the accused Bertagnolli. She has a daughter. Thankfully she made it out of that relationship alive. And there are many reasons she stayed as long as she did, but stupidity isn’t one of them.

Inner Peace

Call it hokum. Call it wishful thinking. Call it happenstance. Call it crazy: I have never believed in coincidence.

As of late my belief in fate, destiny, non-coincidence is stronger than ever before. In a nut-shell, we all have free-will and the opportunity to exercise it. Choice A might lead us in a completely different direction than choice B. However, within that freedom of choice, there is a larger design for life (as I know it)  – for the universe – and I, we, are small details in this amazing blueprint.

Over the last few months I’ve been determined to improve my spiritual health and relationship with God. Growing up I had an incredibly strong faith. I was in church every time the doors were open. As I got older and life happened, I fell out of the habit of going to church and nourishing my spiritual self. I need a relationship with God to feel mentally and emotionally healthy.

In my quest, I have created time – carved out time at the very least – to spend quietly and earnestly in prayer. I had forgotten how comforting it is to converse with God – to just open the flood gates in my head and heart and let it all pour out.

Because I love to read, I’ve also incorporated specifically spiritual books into my stack of must reads. I happened upon The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho a few weeks ago. It is a work of non-religious fiction, however, it is deeply spiritual in nature and, perhaps, one of the most uplifting reads I’ve encountered since I devoured Eat. Pray. Love last summer.

 Without spoiling the novel for anyone out there who might read it, I can sum up the essence of the story with one quote from the book: “God has prepared a path for everyone to follow. You just have to read the omens that he left for you.” The novel focuses on one character’s search for his personal legend or destiny – according to God – and how he finds the meaning of his life by following God’s signs along the way.

Three weeks ago, about the same time I found myself immersed in The Alchemist, my Mom told me she found a lump in her right breast accompanied by surface area dimpling of the skin – one key characteristic of a malignant mass. Cancer.

Biopsy confirmed her self-diagnosis. This Friday, she will have the 2.7cm mass removed via lumpectomy.

As is my nature, I’ve spent many hours analyzing my mom’s cancer hoping to derive meaning from this unexpected card we’ve been dealt in life’s most recent hand. The thoughts of not having as much time with my mom as I’d planned are devastating.

I cling to faith in my belief that everything – no matter how oppressively heartbreaking it might feel – happens for a reason.

At age 34, I had not planned on having a mammogram myself until I was 40. Now, however, I have a family history of breast cancer and am having my first mammogram this week.

Life can change in an instant, and over the last few weeks, life as I’ve known it has been turned upside down and inside out. Yet in spite of it all, I am at peace – a rarity for me. Each day is a brand new opportunity to enjoy the time I have with my Mom – to show her and tell her how much I love her – to create memories my children can spend a lifetime imagining and recounting.

Every moment is a gift and I have learned to embrace them and treasure them as such. I’ve learned to separate what matters in life from what is no big deal. I am less in a hurry and I find I have more patience with my children and myself. I am learning to let go of those things over which I have no control and to pray for serenity when I need it.

Cancer is a diagnosis no one ever wants to have.  Ironic how the introduction of this disease into my life - my mom’s life – has made me stronger – more faithful – more hopeful – more grateful than I have ever been.

“Usually the threat of death makes people a lot more aware of their lives.” The Alchemist

Indeed it does.

Two Dads

“I have two Daddies,” Emerson would announce in her children have a way of saying anything that might be potentially embarrassing, loud enough that even the hard of hearing can decipher voice. Without fail, eyes would widen and jaws would drop as people looked down at her adorable little face and then up at me, Brian and Allen, pausing a moment before the awkward smile and the obligatorily whispered, “Bless her heart.”

In the conservative climate of Southern decency, I would imagine onlookers trying to mentally put the puzzle – with one too many pieces – together: two fathers and one woman? What does this mean? I always took some perverse pleasure in the less liberal minded praying for this poor child being raised by this homosexual couple and their surrogate partner in crime.

My daughters do have two fathers, but neither my husband nor my ex-husband are gay and I am a full-time, multiple hat wearing, wanna be super-woman kind of Mom. As unorthodox as our family tree might be to some, and as far from the perfectly picturesque picketed fence family of my childhood imagination, what we have works.

Beyond simple functionality, our family form offers our girls an over abundance of love, and with so many children caught in the cogs of DSS, I don’t see how love and concerned parenting can come in quantities of “too much of a good thing.”

I have no time for regrets. While my first attempt at marriage did not turn out as I planned, I would not trade that experience for the world because I have Emerson – and Allen. He and I, it turns out, are much better friends and parents than we were husband and wife. Who knew?

Because of all his eccentricities, my ex-husband is one of my closest friends. He quotes lines from my favorite movies and makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. We wax nostalgic about the good ole days of grad school and weep for the future of English as a course of study and a professional aspiration.

Things could have been horribly ugly between Allen and I, but to his credit (and mine I suppose), we handled our separation and divorce like adults knowing that a petty finger-pointing tug-of-war between us would only hurt Emerson. When I remarried and had Ella, Allen treated her like his own daughter and has ever since. Likewise, Brian has loved and cared for Emerson since she was only a year old. 

Allen and Brian are not BFFs. They don’t participate in social male bonding and there is no budding “bromance” – though I have encouraged them to see Green Lantern together because Allen loves comic book heroes, Brian enjoys movies about comic book heroes, and, frankly, I have no interest in either.

But we will be celebrating Father’s Day together along with other friends and family members who can testify to the fact that however unique our family might be, Em and Ella are happy and well-adjusted children.

As an adult, I have only two memories of spending Father’s Day with my Dad (there might have been others, but none that I can recall). Geography seemed a treacherous barrier to the development of the Daddy’s girl kind of relationship I have always dreamt of sharing with my Dad. Thankfully, Em and Ella do not have to contend with the same obstacle. Brian lives with us (when he isn’t traveling for business), so the girls spend time with him every day, and Allen spends time with them 3-4 times a week. Growing up without a father-figure is never going to be a concern for them.

In recent years I have made peace with the relationship I have with my father. There are many things I wish were different: I wish I saw my Dad more often; I wish my Dad and I talked more about everyday things; I wish I knew more stories about his life and family growing up. My Dad and I are different people, and the ways we express love and emotions differ. This fact, however, does not change the love I feel for my father. He is the only father I am ever going to have and I love him immensely.

Fathers play a vital role in their children’s emotional, mental and spiritual well-being. As a daughter, I can tell you the presence or absence of a father figure has a tremendous impact on a girls sense of self and the choices she makes throughout her life.

Emerson and Ella have been blessed with “two dads” who love them without condition, who champion their interests, who encourage their dreams, who emphasize the importance of education and experience, who kiss scraped knees and tickle tummies, who tell stories and listen to knock-knock jokes. They have dads who teach them about gardening, cars, bugs, books, super heroes, camping, fishing, swimming, kindness, courage, generosity, honesty and integrity.

Whether the mere mention elicits eye-brow raises, head scratches or general confusion, Em and Ella having two daddies is an odd and unexpected gift that I value beyond measure.

Life is What You Make It

When I picked Emerson and Ella up from their first day at Y camp yesterday, my first question, of course, was how’d you like it? Ella was the more excited of the two, which was unexpected considering our tearful morning good-bye. She announced that she had three new friends named Madison and another friend whose name she never quite figured out.

Em, who already had friends in her age group, and whom I assumed would be most excited, said it was hot and she had to walk. A lot. All in the whiney, yet terribly bored tone of a seven-going-on-thirteen-year-old girl.

Based on her response, you’d of thought we enrolled Emerson in some outward bound wilderness program for oppositionally defiant teens that are given some flint, fishing line and a sleeping bag and told to rough it out in the wilderness and decide which is worse: home life or trying to fend off grizzly bears in the darkness of night.

As an elementary aged child, I spent my summers at Muss Park – one of the many in Miami Beach’s parks and recreation division. The only air-condition at Muss park was a wall unit in the coaches’’ office where our lunches were kept in refrigerators and we campers were prohibited from lingering for any length of time unless there was some life-threatening circumstance requiring adult supervision.

I loved Muss Park and the friends I would reconnect with only during the dog-days of summer. Of course I was hot. We played outside in the heat of Miami’s summers all day long. We had one shelter in the center of camp equipped with multi-colored picnic tables and water fountains, but there weren’t fans or air conditioning.

Our camp counselors provided us with organized games like kick ball, dodge ball and jumping rope contests. We created all sorts of arts and crafts with way too much Elmer’s glue, beads, feathers and paint. Mostly, we invented our own games to play. We would sneak water from the drinking fountains so we could make mud pies or construct dirt villages for neighboring lizards and tickle bugs.

When my mom picked me up from camp in the afternoons, she always had a towel to protect her car seat from my filth. Pig Pen from Peanuts had nothing on this girl! My dirt and metallic smelling sweat were badges of honor I wore with the pride of all I had accomplished that day. After all, when you’re a little kid, playing is your job in the summertime.

I left Emerson in tears this morning. As a mother, this always makes me feel about two feet tall. I never want my children to be unhappy – especially when there is something I can do to prevent it.

At the same time, however, I want Em and Ella to experience what it should be like to be children – to play out of doors without having to fear some stranger swooping down and scooping them out of their own front years.

To laugh and giggle without having to worry about being disruptive.

To learn about life through controlled experiences like making new friends, going on field trips, following rules, team work, playing well with others, coming to the realization that the world does not revolve around them completely and totally, and that even when situations are not ideal, it is how we choose to see them and respond to them that ultimately define our successes or failures in life.

Helping Em get ready for her second day of camp this morning, I was struck with the realization that I am more like my mom than I ever imagined. That epiphany made me smile. As I sat on the corner of her bed, I asked Em if she had ever heard the saying that when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. Her response, of course, was I don’t like lemonade.

I took a God-grant-me-the-serenity kind of breath I needed and continued: Em, Grandma taught me this a long time ago. Sometimes she still has to remind me. You have complete control over whether or not camp is fun this summer. If you decide it isn’t going to be fun, then guess what? It isn’t going to be fun. If, however, you decide that you are going to have the most fun possible at camp, then guess what? This is going to be the best summer camp experience ever!

Life is what we choose to make of it. Yes. Sometimes when we least expect it we are pummeled with a crop of lemons when what we really wanted was an ice-cold pitcher of sweet peach tea. It is what we decide to do with the lemons that matters.