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Health

Living and Leaving an Abusive Relationship

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Living and Leaving an Abusive Relationship

Everyone wonders why the abusee stays. I wondered for several years after the conclusion of my relationship… why did I stay those 3 years, my college years? The simple answer may sound banal: I loved him. The convoluted answer is that love was worth fighting for, no matter the costs.

I thought that I could fix him, that I was the only one who could or would understand him. And for a long time, that made me feel special and important. But sometime between the belittling insults, the punching and shoving, the time he spit in my face, the time he dragged me across the carpet and threw me out the door in the middle of the night, and the time he cancelled my cross-country airline ticket home without my knowledge, leaving me stranded, penniless, and hopeless in the JFK Airport, I stopped feeling special.

The end started at that exact ticket counter. Andrew and I had spent four painful days in Manhattan visiting his sister, an NYU sophomore at the time. Our return flight to California was scheduled to leave early Tuesday morning. After nearly a week of yelling at each other, we both figured it was finally over, but despite my better judgment, I agreed to share a cab with Andrew to the airport. We hopped into a cab at 4 am with the plan of beating early rush-hour traffic and checking in early for our flight. The cab ride was particularly painful because after four days of fighting, we couldn’t even make eye contact. All I wanted to do was get home and away from him. Something in me told me that this was it: all I needed to was to get home and then I would be safe, with my family and friends there to help me through whatever storm was brewing.

We arrived at the airport with several hours to spare before we were allowed to check our baggage and print our boarding passes. I piled my suitcase, backpack, and purse into a makeshift cushion and tried my best to nap after the exhausting previous days. I was so close. I didn’t even need to sit next to Andrew on the flight. I could make it home on my own, without him, as long as I had my belongings and my plane ticket. I slipped into a light sleep for an hour or so before it was finally time to drag myself and my things to the ticket counter.

The airline employee at the ticket and baggage check-in counter asked for our ticket confirmation number and our IDs. He typed in our information, checked and double-checked his computer screen, handed Andrew his printed boarding pass, and looked up at me sympathetically, “I have one flight reservation for Andrew, but it appears the other ticket on the reservation, the one for you, miss, has been cancelled.” My knees buckled, my mouth dropped open, and tears immediately flooded my eyes. I looked at Andrew, pleading for an explanation, for his help. Andrew had booked our tickets, and sometime in the previous few days, he had intentionally cancelled mine. After days of arguing and fighting, he was exerting his final act of control over me, this time financially.

Andrew stared expressionless at the airline employee, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t cancel that ticket.” I looked him straight in the eyes and whispered, “You motherfucker.” The one-way, last minute ticket from NYC back home was $800, and I was a broke college student. The employee said, “Sir, it states right here that only her ticket has been cancelled. You cancelled it.” Andrew shrugged his shoulders and grabbed his boarding pass and his baggage. “Well, I better make it through security,” he smirked at me. “Good luck.” And he walked off toward the TSA security line.

I ran after him, not even bothering with my things still parked at the ticket counter. Grabbing his arm, I pleaded, “What are you doing? You’re leaving me here?! How am I going to get home?! Andrew, I need to get home.” I started to beg, my voice shaking, along with my hands. He had complete control over me and my ability to get home. “Andrew, please. I can’t pay for that ticket. My credit card can’t even accept that charge. Please.” The passengers waiting in line to pass through security stared at me and whispered to each other. I looked delusional and crazed. I was panicked, and Andrew was smiling. He was enjoying this. He loved the manipulation.

By this time, I was on my knees sobbing. He looked down at me condescendingly and replied with a smile, “You have that Coach purse I gave you for Valentine’s. Sell that. It’s gotta be worth three to four hundred dollars, easy. You’re half-way there already.” He shook me from his arm and headed off again in the direction of the security line.

Looking back, why didn’t I call my family back at home for help? There was a way to get out of this: all I had to do was use my phone. But that’s the scary thing about abuse. I was so afraid and so wrapped up in Andrew’s manipulative game that I felt completely isolated. He was my one and only confidant. You’re supposed to be able to rely on your partner when things get rough, right? But what the fuck do you do when the person you love is the person who will openly humiliate you in public, just to see you suffer?

Somehow ignoring the surrounding crowd, I picked myself off the floor and walked back to the ticket counter and back to my belongings. The airline employee was fully aware of my pleading attempt get Andrew to help me. I looked at the employee, hoping that there was some magic button on his computer that would reverse Andrew’s manipulative trick and restore my reservation on that flight home. “Please, sir. I have no money. He cancelled my flight. I need to get home.” And this man somehow knew that I was telling the truth and that I was hopeless. That I was forced to stand in front of an audience of airline passengers and employees, pleading for help on my knees to a guy that was getting a rise out of the whole dramatic scene. And somehow that airline employee knew something was wrong. He sighed, “Okay, miss. I can restore your seat.” He typed some commands into his machine and printed my boarding ticket with a concerned expression.

I inhaled deeply and thanked him repeatedly. I wanted to hug him. To this day, I wish I had recorded his name in my memory. He was a stranger who might have risked his job by taking a chance on a young woman who, in that moment, clearly could not help herself.

It took another three months after this incident in the airport to finally leave Andrew.

Revisiting the entries of my journal from those last few months, I now realize how I omitted all the specific events involving physical, emotional, or mental abuse. Maybe writing them down forced me to face them, made the feelings real. What I did write was, “When am I going to be enough? When am I going to be worthy of me?” It took three years to lose my self-confidence and my self-worth, and it’s taken me just as long to gain it back. Now, I know that I am worth more.

Photo by Sara Slattery

Photo by Sara Slattery

Transportation

Successfully Disputing a Ticket (aka Beating The Man)

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This is a story about having a vigorous—some might say pathological—need to fight a broken system. In case you didn’t notice the article’s title, I’ll tell you right off the bat that I ultimately won this months-long dispute with the New York MTA. And you can, too! The easiest thing to do, of course, is to not to get a ticket in the first place—this is not a how-to for criminals. But sometimes, these things are unavoidable.

Photo by Sara Slattery

My story begins on a relatively mundane evening in January. I was rushing out of my office—a startup in Chelsea—so I could get home for a scheduled work call. I headed to my regular subway station, where I pulled out the creased monthly MetroCard I’d been trying to iron out (mostly by putting it between two credit cards and sitting on it). The first time I swiped it, the turnstile told me to “Please swipe again.” The second time: “Just used,” with the smirkiest of smirks on its mischievous nonexistent face. It wouldn’t let me in.

This is not an infrequent occurrence, as I’m sure New Yorkers can attest; generally when this happens, one shouts some brief exasperated explanation to the station attendant, who then unlocks the emergency door. At that particular station, though, there is no attendant; and a rush-hour crowd of straphangers (doesn’t that sound like an old-timey sex term? Straphangers. Straphangers.) amassed behind me, their irritation palpable. So, I stepped over the turnstile. Whatever. And I was immediately greeted by a plainclothes cop—which is fine: it’s their job, after all. I explained the scenario, not thinking that it would necessarily end with us laughing over a couple of beerskies, but at least expecting him to let me go with a warning! It must have been quota day, though, because I got no sympathy from the cop, who issued me a $100 ticket.

I asked him, “Sir, I know you saw what you thought was me flouting the laws of this city and you were required to take action, but do you understand why, as a civilian, this feels very unfair? For me to purchase a MetroCard every month, never deceive the system [which is true, by the way], be in a rush to get home to continue my workday, and be punished for that?” To which he repeated some stuff about being a “Police Officer of the City of New York” that clearly indicated he was not about to toe the blue line for me. So, furiously, I got on the next train, commiserating with a bike messenger who noted the yellow slip in my hands with a knowing smile and was immediately subjected to my blustering all the way to Essex/Delancey.

I don’t consider myself an angry person—“excessively vengeful” may be a better term for it. I knew, on principle, there was no way I was going to pay $100; also, I’d told the cop in the heat of my excessive vengeance that I would “absolutely fight!” the ticket, and I felt obligated to follow through.

So I called the wrongdoers’ hotline on the back of my ticket, found out where the Transit Adjudication Bureau is (Brooklyn Heights) and the best time to go (8:30 am, preferably not Mondays or Fridays), and began the long slog of disputing the ticket.

A few mornings later, I found myself in a large room at the TAB waiting to be called for my hearing. I had no idea what to expect—behind that metal door, were there a bunch of little courtrooms? Where would I sit in the little court? Would I be held in contempt if I texted a photo to my boyfriend? What about my parents? What if I just took a photo and didn’t text it until I left the premises?

As it turned out, I was seen by only one hearing officer, a very nice lady, in a small room with a tape recorder on the table. After verifying on the record that I was telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Oprah, I explained the scenario (see above). She sent me back to the waiting area while she deliberated. After a few minutes, my name was called again and a man behind a very thick glass window told me the case had been adjourned until I could get a record of that dastardly MetroCard’s activity on January 10.

Now, here’s where it gets really fun: I sent the necessary paperwork to an MTA vortex, including handwritten requested dates. The adjournment was through April 30, which seemed like plenty of time, except that an entire month passed before I got a report back from the MTA. The report indicated that my request was processed on February 14, and attached was a list of the MetroCard’s full activity… on January 14. Which was completely useless except perhaps as a nice walk down Recent Memory Lane, because, as I mentioned, the incident occurred on January 10. Excessively vengeful words were uttered. I thought about just giving up and mailing in a $100 check, but at this point, I was too invested in probing the bureaucratic inner-workings.

A few mornings later, I found myself in a long line at some MTA building in the Financial District—incidentally, also where you can go if you lose your MetroCard, as I found out from the 60 people in front of me who had all suffered that plight. I was eventually seen by a clerk who seemed very angry, presumably because he was going for the company record in MetroCards-replaced-per-hour and my unrelated request was slowing him down. After scanning the first activity report and the ticket, he finally agreed to re-process. Off I went to wait some more… another month, in fact.

Version 2.0 of the MetroCard activity report finally came and I opened it with my heart pounding, like someone receiving their STI test results. Success! No MetroCard swipe was registered on the evening of January 10, but the swipe number jumped from #13 on the morning of January 10 to #15 on January 11. Glitch! Don’t get too excited, I told myself. Just because you had a nice hearing officer the first time doesn’t mean some jerk won’t throw this report aside and say that you should still pay a fine for setting a bad example. Good point, self.

Again, a few mornings later, I was back at TAB. I greeted the security guards on my way in, now old friends. After a brief wait, my name was called by a different hearing officer (thankfully, another nice lady) and the process was much the same as the first, except this time with Exhibit B. The officer reviewed the report, raising an eyebrow at the missing swipe number just as I’d dreamed she would, and twenty minutes later the clerk behind the thick glass told me with a smile that my case was dismissed! “You’re a free woman,” he said, in my imagination. I left the building with my head held high, and spent $10 of my hard-kept money on an extravagant breakfast. Take that, somebody!

Food

Getting Your Brunch On

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Having lived in New York City for almost seven years now, brunch has become a weekly staple in my life. Before moving here for college in 2005, I never really understood the concept of the word “brunch.” In my younger years, it was more of a fun combination word (breakfast + lunch).

BrunchHero

Photo by Anastasia Heuer

But then I discovered some things: I could eat a full plate of delicious breakfast food (and not just a quick bowl of cereal or a bagel before class/work during the week) alongside a lovely cocktail long before Happy Hour and not feel guilty whatsoever. I could do so after sleeping in until one o’clock in the afternoon (I hate when delis and fast food restaurants stop serving breakfast at eleven o’clock in the morning. What is that about anyway? For the record, I am not a morning person). All while catching up with anyone and everyone after decompressing from the work week.

When I talk to my family members in Florida about “brunch,” their reaction is often an intrigued “ohhhh,” with a raised eyebrow or side smile. It’s like they assume I’m trying to be fancy. That’s just not the case. People assume a lot of things about brunch—it’s expensive, pretentious, and difficult to coordinate. Those things can be true, but they don’t have to be! Every brunch is different depending on the restaurant, cuisine, group of diners, and the intentions of the individuals involved.

A couple things to keep in mind when planning a brunch date:

Beware the Food Coma: Sometimes I’m in the mood for a truly hearty and filling brunch. After a long week of eating on-the-go and stuffing my face with takeout, I like to sit and eat something that will fill me up and make me want to pass out in my bed afterwards. A few months ago, I had the Jerk Bacon and Eggs at Red Rooster in Harlem. The bacon and eggs are served in a skillet on top of beans with a side of grits. It was seriously delicious, but I went into a food coma as soon as I got home. This should not be your go to option if you have grand plans for an afternoon activity or an evening at the gym. Okay, maybe eating those grits, too, was overdoing it. Sometimes, though, you just need a day of food and rest. Let me tell you—after that four-hour post-brunch nap—I felt much better.

If you’re in NYC, my picks for “fill-you-up” brunches are great at Balthazar, Alice’s Tea Cup, and Kitchenette.

The Joys of the Boozy Brunch: My friends and I will often get together on a weekend to enjoy an excuse to start drinking well before five o’ clock. But, to really take advantage of this concept, one must find a restaurant with “unlimited” brunch cocktails, like mimosas, Bloody Marys, Arnold Palmers, bellinis, Irish coffees, and more. Generally speaking, your party has a 2-3 hours to drink up as many of those cocktails as you want.

I have grown to love a good Bloody Mary (especially when it’s spicy), and I had my very first one at the Sunburnt Calf on the Upper Westside. We ended up drinking for several hours before we had to leave (brunch ended at four o’ clock). Because the servers keep refilling your glass, be careful that you don’t lose track of just how many drinks you have consumed. I find this usually leads to either passing out by six o’ clock in the evening or getting an early start on that night’s “going out.” Either way, in my experience, it leads to a satisfying day… and night.

If you are in NYC, this and this are both lists of great spots for a boozy brunch. My favs are the Sunburnt Calf, Calle Ocho, and Yerba Beuna. They all offer the wonderful “unlimited brunch cocktails” option. Intermezzo is another “unlimited brunch cocktail” establishment that sometimes has a drag show later in the afternoons for those who like to keep the party going.

The “Prix Fixe” and The More Adventurous: Some restaurants have a “prix fixe” brunch menu that includes one or two brunch cocktails, coffee or juice, and an entrée. It’s the best of all things brunch in one tidy package. Others might try to wow you with their unique menu items or food combinations. These can be fun places to try but warn your guest in advance just in case they have picky pallets. In terms of a more adventurous brunch, in NYC, I recommend Talde. I’m still thinking about their brunch menu many months later. (Key Appetizer: Pretzel Pork and Chive Dumplings. I mean, who can resist?)

Don’t Forget about Price: Some of those upscale, four to five “dollar sign” restaurants can charge a pretty penny for brunch. Going to a bar-type establishment, or a “hole in the wall,” can give you a great meal and end with a modest bill. This varies greatly depending on the establishment. But you can do yourself a favor and plan ahead. Find out if a brunch place is for you by reading reviews on Yelp, or taking a pre-look at the restaurant’s menu online. This will also help you predict which kind of brunch you are in for.

No matter how you do it, brunch can be exactly what you need for whatever mood or occasion it happens to be.

Comment and let us know what your favorite type of brunch is! Do you have any great brunch spots in your area?