Nine of Hearts

December 18, 2008



Free Us Now


This is a very sad event. The George Hartwig’s of America really have no clue. They have been so educated with abuse that they can actually say things like this without a hesitance of  shame. 

George, after taking a shot gun to Louisa, his sister-in-law’s face, was in court today telling the judge that he wanted to see his terminally ill wife, Denise, before she dies. The judge denied his request and George’s reply was,


“That sucks. I didn’t even point a gun at her.” 


For the past 19 sober years I have lived free from domestic abuse. Years before this I lived with many Georges and was in similar Louisa and Denise nightmares. There are so many of them that I feel very lucky to be alive today. During those days I knew the number one way that I could die prematurely would be from domestic abuse, from my partner, from someone who said each night to me, I love you. I knew this in my head, yet I could not bring myself to take the action to stop it, to leave and not return. I was a very tough woman in those days. Nothing kept me down. Not you, not your fist, not the bruises, not the black eyes, not the two broken vertebrae I suffered from your jumping on me, not the gun you held to my head in that dark closet you threw me into. Nothing. 

As a child, I had not only watched my mother get physically beat by Keith, my step-father, but I participated in it. Me, a tiny little 9 year old, holding on to the skin on the back of this big naked bald headed man who was punching my mother in the mouth, in the head, in her belly. And when the cops were called (by neighbors) to our middle class suburban home in Orangevale, CA, they would take him a way. But only for a few hours where he would return and it would start all over again. My saving grace was the day I got pregnant, left school and was married, at 15. 

Six years later, I left my husband for Tim, a man who could and would participate in the dance of domestic violence. He would often drag me out of the house at all hours in the night and onto the street so that he could talk to me. He didn’t care that I was completely naked. He knew that nobody on my block would do anything. Finally one night, my next door neighbor, who was a pastor at a local church, did call the cops. They came and took Tim away. An hour later he showed up by my bedroom window whispering that he was going to kill me. That pastor wrote nasty letters and put them on my car windshield, calling me a whore and a slut.

I quickly planned to moved 8 states away from him but not before he gave me a terrible bloody beating the night before leaving. My best girlfriend found me that morning. Cut lip, two blacked eyes, arms and legs bruised. I was an absolute mess. My girlfriend flew out of my house and drove directly to his house. She found his mom and brought her back to look at me, to prove what her son had done. We sat in the car and I remember her looking at my face and my arms. I remember to this day her smell, sort of like a compost odor of dirt and decaying roots. My senses were heightened to that of an animal. She was crying, rocking, shaking, wringing her hands while I was trying to figure out how I could leave this town, Perry, Iowa, within the hour. 

I have years of these stories. Sad. To spend a good portion of your only life trying to survive. How many of us were murdered by loved ones? I know many, unfortunately.