THE UNKIND PATH TO FREEDOM.
Disclaimer: This is a true story of my lived experience. Some names and details have been changed.
“Look, Mommy! A rooster!”
I hear my five year-old son’s gleeful exclamation from way down on the second floor landing, while I’m navigating impossible laws of physics, balancing bags full of groceries and a 20-pound load of laundry. I finally make it up to the fourth floor landing and my eyes lock with the beady ones of a multicolored rooster—living, breathing, cock-a-doodle-dooing, perched atop a wicker chair stained with lord knows what! For a moment, I had considered that my son was teasing me with his child like imagination, but then I remembered the discarded chicken carcasses I frequently avoided on the climb up to the top of the building.
I sigh, “Right! A rooster!”
The squalor we were enduring was undoubtedly a worthy price to pay in exchange for the freedom from the crippling emotional abuse of our previous captor, my son’s father. Our first New York City apartment without Roy was your typical urban dwelling: building’s front door casually taken off its hinges, laying against the outside wall, your neighborhood drug dealer running his business by the mailboxes and an army of cockroaches waiting at our door, silent crawling fanfare of our return home.
On this specific day, I am still muttering incomprehensible epithets to myself in regards to the fourth floor rooster, when another set of beady eyes meets me in the front of my own landing. A very out of breath middle-aged lady greets me with a smile, an untucked lavender dress shirt and a skewed pencil skirt.
“Good evening, Miss Matteini.”
The familiarity with which the complete stranger greets me doesn’t shock, bother or worry me. I am accustomed to finding ACS agents waiting at our door or asking to be buzzed in at inconvenient moments and ungodly hours. Numbly, I utter a colorless “good evening” in return.
The very first time I met with an ACS agent was a crisp fall day. I remember because earlier that day, on Thanksgiving Day, I had taken my young son to the nearby park to collect branches, leaves and rocks. Now we are sitting at the dining room table assembling a poster with all these natural finds as a tribute to our extended family in New York. There is glitter everywhere and my son’s bouncy laugh is abruptly interrupted by the disharmonious ring of the doorbell. My brother-in-law Paul hears the bell and moves sheepishly away from his task at hand in the kitchen, towards the front door. He is a big man both in stature and heart who embraced us in his home immediately following the break up, with no expectation of payments or time limits. He growls like a lion pulled away from his comfort zone, letting the intruder on the other side of the door know that they are being watched and that they are definitely not welcome; not at this time, not at this family time. As long as I can remember in the past 30 years I have known him, he has always been extremely vocal about his responsibility and commitment toward his family and neighbors as well as the sanctity of family events and togetherness. The intruder emerges on the other side of the red framed door, smirking at the “wipe your paws” doormat while diligently following its heeding. He is tall and thin, suspiciously handsome; he is smiling broadly flashing perfect teeth and an official badge from ACS. My brother-in-law’s annoyance transforms into confusion, then suspicion and finally resignation; he lets him in and points him my way, shrugging his shoulders and distorting his face in a troubled grimace.
As per the ACS agent’s request, I take him upstairs to show him our living space. My son and I are sprawled out over a large two bedroom suite in the second floor of this large craftsman suburban home, saturated with memories of a family centered around an adored mischievous matriarch and a slightly absent patriarch who could be there if really needed to be. We are living in my estranged husband’s childhood home, now home of his sister, her husband and their three children. I remember walking in that very bedroom suite for the first time after I left him. It was sunny and warm outside, a bee buzzing dangerously close to the fly screen of the window over the day bed I was sitting on. The very same day bed I went to purchase with Roy for his mother after returning from one of her many hospital visits to deal with a bad heart. Here, crossed legged on the slightly warned mattress, absently tracing the white contour of the wrought iron design of the headboard, I felt terribly sad, but also comforted that the block of marble crushing my chest for so many years was no longer there. Underneath the sadness, unobstructed breath.
“When was the last time you took a deep breath?” Paul prods with a fatherly tone. He has helped me carry all my suitcases full of toddler’s toys and mismatched dance clothing up to my new room, he is slightly out of breath and wiping the beads of sweat off his forehead with a Meat Loaf handkerchief; Meat Loaf the singer, not the dish (although I am not sure which one he prefers over the other).
“I can’t remember,” I say. “And I can’t understand how I am feeling right now. It is something I can’t put into words,” I continue. “ It’s not sadness or fear, nor happiness, nor vengefulness.”
“It’s freedom,” he suggests.
“Freedom”, I repeat mechanically, unaware that I might have ever fully grasped the meaning of the word.
I show this very room to the ACS agent, Mr?…. “Jake, please” he offers. I show him the enormous bathroom with the light pink tiles surrounding the claw foot tub and the view of the verdant backyard from the double-hung window; I open the bottom sash, just to make sure he can see how much outdoor space is accessible to my son. I go as far as to add “It’s all fenced in; it’s safe.” He nods, still smiling.
I show him my son’s room attached to mine by a small corridor adorned with photos spanning three generations of cherub babies. The high quality mahogany crib is tucked diligently in the corner opposite another large window, too high for him to reach and secured with window guards and blackout Roman blinds for a peaceful sleep. Jake seems satisfied by this impromptu tour, because he suddenly asks a couple of mild questions about my career. When we land on the professional dancer emigrated from the Old Country for love bit, his expertise shifts from committed social worker to handsome man on the prowl. He flirts with me long and hard, until my brother-in-law, concerned about all the time we are spending looking at the small wing of his house, appears out of nowhere. Jake takes two steps back releasing his long tapered fingers from my elbow and reclaims the professional posture he had walked in with. My brother-in-law, amused, invites him over for dinner, but he graciously declines, because his wife is waiting for him at home. His gaze lowers as he outs himself of his own deception; I am too exhausted to be irritated or to report him either to ACS or his wife. I am just happy to see him walk out on the front porch, towards his car and to return to my glue and glitter duties.
Jake and the lady on my stoop past the boisterous rooster are Child Protective Specialists. Their main responsibilities are to ‘respond directly to reports of child abuse and/or neglect. Using investigatory and social work skills, they engage and partner with families and community resources to ensure the safety and well-being of children throughout New York City.’ The law is extremely serious in regards to children’s safety, and supposedly it has “no sense of humor”. If someone makes false reports fueled by their own vindictive agendas towards an estranged spouse, lover or family member, they can be charged with a felony and jail time. Even so, very few people are ever arrested for their false accusations because of ACS’ strongest claim to fame: the anonymity of the calls, which encourages people to reach out.
This sixth home visit must have shown my emotional strain, because the agent, unprompted, offers a bit of comforting news about the DA tracking down these criminals, investigating them and charging them. Alas, Roy, who filed consistent false reports with ACS against me for over 5 years, was never summoned, fined or punished for his blatant criminal behavior. It is also worth mentioning that as I am writing this, in 2024, over ten years after my latest case, the legislation that ends anonymous reporting and lets agents concentrate on the cases that need their full undivided attention has not been passed.
Once I moved out of my in-laws’ posh Long Island neighborhood and into the questionable urban one, I started to worry they would find it unsuitable for my son and take him away from me. Every time they interviewed a neighbor on my behalf, I would agonize over all the conversations and interactions I had ever had with them and hope I didn’t say anything to antagonize them. What if I wasn’t making enough money? What if they discovered I had crippling anxiety problems and struggled with panic attacks? What if my son’s school teacher saw me tugging at his backpack too vigorously? Each day I would worry for a reason to be separated from my child and the only constant partner I had in life was fear. The overtaxing of my sympathetic nervous system for such an extended amount of time manifested itself as chronic illness, dumfounding the most educated doctors and still plaguing my life decades later. The harassment from my ex only ended when he became homeless and had more pressing affairs to occupy his time. None of the systems stepped in to address his abuse, mental illness and drug use — the ACS experts, the family court lawyers and judges, the police officers who served the Orders of Protections and the mental health practitioners appointed to our family care. Domestic violence is not always seen as a human rights violation that requires a collective response by governments, communities and professional services. Even the definitions of terms related to intimate partners abusive relationships are blurry and inconsistent.
Deborah Thomson in her memoir journaling her survival from domestic violence titled ‘Whose life is it anyway?’, describes domestic abuse as
due to what is termed the cycle of violence. This cycle is typical for most perpetrators in that there is a build-up of tension within the abuser which leads to belittling, criticism and blame directed at the abused. The abuser then explodes as the tension reaches a critical point in their psyche and they feel a massive release in the form of screaming (verbal abuse) or physical abuse of the victim. Finally, there is the honeymoon phase as tension dissipates and endorphins flood the brain. At this point the abuser may become ‘loving’, promising ‘it will never happen again’ (that is if they refer to the incident at all).
I remember one of the first times I felt this hopelessness and tucked it away with my humiliation. I had bought Roy tickets for a hockey game to his favorite team and together we took a weekend car trip to the event. I grew up in Italy watching soccer with my father; as my eyes would glaze over the tiny screen in our dining room, my dad would invariably curse at some play or player that did not abide by his fool proof commands. I was used to a man who loved me scream at a sporting event. What I wasn’t used to was a man who loved me scream at me at a sporting event, because I simply asked him to sit after inciting a fight with fellow spectators. Not even 6 years priors to this hockey game, the Hillsborough disaster counted 97 Liverpool soccer fans’ lives in a stadium crash and I was still reeling from the shock of such indefensible violence. He was neither touched nor understanding of my fear for his safety, rather furious at my betrayal for “standing up for them” (his irate fellow fighters) rather than him! He yelled at me so viciously that the impending riot dispersed; grown men slithering back to their black and gold seats, kicking away discarded hot dog wrappers and focusing their undivided attention to the next play on the ice requiring their hollering feedback. I am in shock. I shrink silently in my seat trying the best I can not to breath too loudly. Roy remains in a foul mood for the entire game notwhistanding his team's eventual win and only speaks to me sporadicly, in rapid fire bouts of anger for my disrespectful behavior. Only on our way out from the arena, he pulls me into a quite alcove, grabs my face with his hands and gives me a prolonged wet kiss. “You got me angry, but I forgive you!”, he whispers, brushing my hand on the growing bulge in his pants, “I will show you when we get back to the hotel.”
The above incident, is a poignant reminder that “silence in the face of injustice is complicit with the oppressor” (Ginetta Sagan). To illustrate this point, in 2017 White Ribbon of Canada, a chapter of the world's largest movement of men and boys working together to end violence against women, partnered with the Toronto Maple Leafs, their local professional hockey team on a PSA titled “Men of Quality”. In the two minute message, burly, jersey-clad athletes look straight at the camera reading their prepared statements pledging to end all forms of gender based violence, harassment and discrimination. As they speak, their names, roles and team logo appear clearly on the screen as images of their families or their latest appearance at a Pride event splice in and out of view. “Men of Quality”, they assures us, are “measured by more than just their hockey ability. Men of Quality strive to be great leaders, fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons”. What I have never appreciated about hockey is the raw savagery allowed amongst the players and the ensuing wave of collective orgasmic cheers by the tens of thousands of fans following a fist fight on ice. I have always found it reprehensible that young boys in the stands are made live, unsuspecting witnesses of the archaic stereotype equaling violence with manhood. After all, in their eyes, who is more mainly than a professional athlete who banks millions of dollars to play a game?
The PSA then, is an important step forward in “teaching new generations about gender equality for all women” because it shows men in public view, who have influence and a vast platform taking action, affirming that “this is not just a women’s issues”, but rather “a problem for all of us to solve.” I am glad these athletes “pledge to promote gender equality, the importance of consent and inclusion and to speak out against homophobia, transphobia, racism and all forms of bigotry”. It its important for those with privileges (men, white people, economically privileged people) to partner with those being oppressed (women) to make true change. If the men who did nothing to aid me from that vicious verbal assault had been educated by the same athletes they were fighting over on what men of quality are, would they have intervened? Would Roy have been cornered in conceding to his degrading behavior towards me? Would he have realized that the pleasure he found in my discomfort was a learned and normalized behavior? Would I have realized that our relationship was abusive? It’s irrelevant to my life at this point, but it is key for those reading, who may be wondering about their own home life.
Domestic violence is complicated. Victims must first recognize that what they are experiencing is abuse. The perpetrators are skilled at having rules in place aimed at confusing and masking violent behaviors, maintaining financial or emotional dependency and promoting low self esteem in their partners. I only realized after years of therapy that I misconstrued my ex’s overly attentive behavior at the beginning of our relationship as genuine love for me rather than recognizing it as the systematic grooming of a teenager (I was eighteen when I met him). His controlling behavior was designed at obtaining my absolute loyalty, which he mostly received. I was always confused or embarrassed by how he made me feel, and for the longest time, I choked it up to my immaturity; after all he was a man in his thirties with many romantic experiences behind him and I was a shy little girl who barely knew what it meant to be intimate with a partner. My sense of reality was distorted by his consistent need for my full attention while my emotional security was mostly ignored and vilified.
After escaping my childhood, I couldn’t fathom of landing in another cruel relationship and all the doubts I felt were shamefully squirreled away in some dark and unaccessible recess. Having unresolved childhood trauma compounded the newly traumatic experiences entering my life in emerging adulthood. When Roy’s verbal and psychological abuse began, I was not sure how to make sense of it. I had fallen in love with his joyous spirit and his kindness; his warmth was a stark contrast to the clinical and aloof relationships I had experienced growing up. He seemed like he was honestly interested in listening to my fears, understanding the world I was inhabiting and in doing so he momentarily filled that gaping hole in my heart with his own interpretation of love. My emotional attachment to him was one of the many reasons why the decision making process for my journey to safety was so delayed. I also agonized over my inability to help him. I kept blaming myself that it was undoubtedly my unworthiness which kept him sad and sick. Instead his mental illness went mostly undiagnosed, but what were easy and plentiful were prescription drugs from greedy psychiatrists who put their profit over his health. Eventually the legal drugs ran out and he is now addicted to cheap and dangerous street drugs and booze, keeping him emotionally and physically numb. It also took me over 20 years of exhausting hard work as a freelancer in the performing arts field to land a full time job allowing for my financial independence. No easy feat, since Roy had swindled a false sense of independence in me by procuring a series of credit cards in my name which he used lackadaisically without my knowledge and left me with a $30,000 financial debt to burden.
Research shows that the reasons for nondisclosure in women experiencing DV are plentiful and complex. A qualitative study held in Australia in 2016 highlights a widespread and common barrier dubbed “the culture of pretense” in which “abuse is not acknowledged, identified or recognized” not only by the victim themselves, but by those around them. Even if I had become skilled at minimizing the gravity of my living situation, I was often met with vocal sarcastic remarks by family members in regards to the dark moods I was carrying around while in public with Roy. Public space was his kryptonite; ever so charming, friendly and soft spoken, he would make his rounds, gracefully running on tiptoes from friend to neighbor offering a light-hearted joke and a stabbing apology for my demeanor. The few times I opened up to my parents about my unhappiness, would be met with a business-like “Non sono affari nostri” (“It’s none of our business”) and the doctor I first approached in regards to the crippling panic attacks invading my health, reassured me that “all will pass, it’s not like he is hitting you”.
The aforementioned research covers a dual objective: to explore the experiences of women in domestic violence situations intersected to their reluctance to leave and to encourage service providers to use non judgmental practices as a mean to support women whether they disclose DV or not. This is another fundamental step in the right direction, because if victims make the desperate leap to leave, they are faced with many tremendous barriers, such as fear of a violent retaliation against themselves or their children, financial stressors, lack of support from family or services, judgement and shaming for either leaving or having taken too long to leave. In my case, leaving Roy encouraged him to find new ways to violate me such as creatively abuse the systems designed to protect me. He tormented me relentlessly by playing psychological and manipulative games involving the well being of our son all the while absconding by all parental responsibilities that fell solely on me. Was this the freedom I was so desperately seeking?
The volatile situations of DV I survived in my own childhood left me scarred and crippled with angst, but also stubbornly determined that my son would not experience the same desperation. I now know, after years of consulting research that children’s exposure to DV causes a range of adjustment problems including poor peer relationships and engagement in risky behaviors (Evans, Davies, & DiLillo, 20028; Wolfe, Crooks, Lee, McIntyre-Smith, & Jaffe, 2003), higher rates of physical ill-health and poor-quality sleep (El-Sheikh, Buckhalt, Mike, & Ace, 2006), unmet health-care needs as missed immunizations (arts et al., 2014) as well as negative health outcomes in adulthood (Russell, Springer, & Greenfield, 2010). Back then, all I knew, was the cavernous pain I was feeling and the wretched desire to have that one person on my side to see me through. Turns out I needed to fill that role for both my child and I. By saving him, I finally saved myself.
Today, my son and I live in a building without roosters or chicken carcasses and we are both thriving. I smile while I watch him run to the kitchen, the cat excitingly jumping around him, enamored and faithful. Then he walks back to his room, cat in tow, carefully holding a tall glass of iced tea with his slender fingers. I think back at his chubby hands as a toddler. Back then, when ACS would barge in unannounced, he would retire to his room and build what looked like the love child of a spaceship and an Irish castle with his Lego blocks. Even as a young child he knew it was best to let me handle the common intrusions by myself.
I waited many years to fully disclose this chapter of our lives with him. Through his childhood and teen years I’ve tried to shield him from the pain and unfinished journeys of both of his parents. But eventually, his abilities to read all the unfairness of life in my glances and to recognize the continuous erratic behavior of his father forced him to draw up his own conclusions. I decided to share the truth with him by framing this experience with the positive spin it deserves.
This was the first time I transformed my grief into an act of love: when I decided that the cycle of violence would end with me.
If you or someone you know needs help, please visit the National Domestic Violence Hotline.
