The first time I ever struck my girlfriend, Renee, it was due to a lapse in judgment. I begged her forgiveness and vowed it would never happen again. At the time, I really meant it…
My second offense came when I shoved her to the ground and cast the blame down with her. My woeful sense of embarrassment made me deserving of pity, while the real victim apologized to her aggressor.
By the third time, the abusiveness had become a force of habit sparked by jealousy and anger. I believed that if I didn’t hit her, then I would lose her, which made undermining my integrity necessary.
Renee and I met on Halloween night, 1989. I was fifteen and hanging out at a friend’s house when she appeared from next door to borrow sugar. Renee was barefooted with piercing brown eyes, cropped cinnamon hair, and wearing thigh-high shorts and a fitted tee. She was tiny but feisty, with a daring personality and striking appeal. While pranks and sweets were the order of the day, the night was filled with promise as we sat cuddled up in a dark corner getting to know one another.
The next night served a crushing blow to my ego when Renee ran off with another guy. The two of them disappeared into the night for hours while I was left to sort through my suspicions. Snared by the thorns of her charming whispers, I continued to pursue Renee, though nesting in the back of my mind was a nagging skepticism.
Renee was thirteen with an infant son by a guy who questioned the child’s paternity. He showed up one day yelling obscenities and swore that he would never return. After that, becoming a father figure was the most exciting and important part of each day. No longer was I a kid who grappled with his mom over curfews and academics. Fatherhood had given me purpose. I began to skip school to spend time with my son and sat by his crib while he slept. I chipped in for diapers and formula when I could afford it, other times I stole. Being partly responsible for a life other than my own made me feel as though I mattered, and I couldn’t give that feeling up for anything in the world… so things had to work out between myself and Renee.
Once, after being scolded by Renee’s dad, I decided to stay away for a week. When I returned, I discovered that Renee had moved on with some other guy. Emotionally wrecked, I walked away toward a life without Renee until she started rattling off an explanation so earnestly that before I knew it, I was staying. Afterwards our relationship became brittle devotions laced with icy disputes. Loving Renee was difficult at times, but somehow, staying was easy.
Amidst continuous doubts of faithfulness, the violence of our sordid union arose. Renee and I had argued, our moods were tense and the dissension between us escalated. As usual Renee went into explanation mode, but it was becoming redundant. Her groveling and swift affection were no longer a remedy. I was getting out.
Agitated, Renee grabbed onto my clothes to prevent my leaving. Then she cocked her fist and socked me in the nose. I doubled over, thinking, ‘What the hell just happened,’ as blood and pride trickled to the ground. Even more confusing was her immediate sympathy as she showered me in apologies and kisses. Her show of cold/hot affection left me sifting through my head for answers and strangely enough, I felt loved. It was a critical turning point in our relationship and the seed of a fantastic delusion as I rationalized – a love that hurt was better than no love at all.
Some months passed before a guy popped up and claimed to be Renee’s boyfriend. Apparently the two were dating at school, and he had hoped to take things further. I was so furious with Renee for not denying his claim that I tried to leave, but I couldn’t. My entire world had collapsed at my feet while she stood blank-faced and busted. I demanded that she choose – either him or me. She hesitated. I became so desperate to prove how much I loved her, I lashed out and slapped Renee. My palm flared with the sting of indignity as I watched her crumble at my feet. I then turned my rage on the schoolyard beau as he hurried on his way.
Appalled by my disgrace, I immediately deflected the blame. It was all Renee’s fault, she forced me to hit her, and I wept with self pity and a little self-loathing as Renee accepted guilt. Even though I promised to never hit her again, I could sense a drastic change. I was deep in the throes of a twisted evolution, and the worst was yet to come.
Soon we were both cheating on love and committed to hurting one another, like the time she pressed a razor blade to my neck or when I clipped her across the head with a log. Ironically, the abuse didn’t seem egregious, just something we expected, typical behavior that was progressively volatile yet reinforced our love.
Renee and I did share wonderful moments together that made the pain worthwhile. Oftentimes she was my best friend and the person I trusted most. It was only when the trust was questioned that we tended to bicker and fight – except, Renee hadn’t thrown a punch in years… the fighting was all me.
Then one night, the illusion shattered and all that remained was the truth. It happened during a cheating allegation that I found myself plotting revenge. I lured Renee to an area that was dark and secluded, then I rehashed an earlier dispute. Renee was flustered and caught off guard, her responses rather dodgy. I then drew back my fist with all the love that I could muster, and I punched her in the face. She stumbled back, horrified, and attempted to bolt, but I grabbed her and struck her again, slamming her to the ground. I insisted on the truth but the truth wasn’t what I was after, it was that fleeting moment of gratification by reciprocating the hurt. Renee scooted away crying and pleading as my vicious love closed in. Then she looked up at me with her mouth filled with blood and said, “Please don’t hurt me, Duck.”
I stopped abruptly, guilt ridden and dejected as my fist fell limp at my side. I’d never considered that Renee actually feared me and to see such a thing was unnerving. I thought of our rambunctiousness as roles we played to indicate our love for one another, yet to see someone you love who’s afraid of you was utterly self defining.
I stood ruined, trying to recognize myself, but all I saw was a monster who would mask the brokenness inside me by victimizing Renee. I was caught in the cycle of unethical madness that mistook love and perpetuated cruelty. I’d already witnessed a tragedy at four when my uncle loved his wife with bullets. My daddy was known to love with his hands, but my mother wanted something better. And there I was, resorting to violence to salvage an aching love. I had become someone I detested, a man of wavering integrity. I abused Renee not because I loved her, but to scare her into loving me. It was a menacing tactic to manipulate her feelings while empowering my own. But a love that is fostered by fear and violence is hardly love at all, but simply the substance of shame and dishonor that never quite goes away.
Suddenly, I realized that life had more to offer us both, though it was unlikely that we would find it together. But I did love Renee enough to know I would never hurt her again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’ and lives on death row. He has always maintained his innocence for the crime he is incarcerated for, but often uses his writing to honestly confront the mistakes he’s made. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
