••• Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Walkin' The Blog: Part III 

Dear Former Neighbor and Alleged Perpetrator of Domestic Violence,

You probably don’t remember me. But I remember you. I’m writing this today for a couple of reasons. First, I’d like to thank you for the Best Stalking Story, ever. Now, don’t get me wrong. I do not think there is anything funny or cute about emotional terrorism, which is what stalking associated with domestic violence really is. But if you can hang with me a minute I will get to that.

It’s been over a dozen years now, since I divorced my first husband, received my graduate degree and took out my very own 30-year mortgage on a new life.

It was during my second summer in my new life neighborhood, that your lovely wife approached me as I walked past your house. She had heard I was a soshul werker and said she needed some help. Then she told me her tale. I won't go into specifics, because not only would that be a violation of trust, it really isn't necessary. You already know the story. And it’s a bad one.

Anyway, your wife had heard I was a therapist and wondered if I knew where she could get some help with her situation. She told me that before kicking you out, she had sought the counsel of her minister at the Church of the Blessed Waters of Baby Jesus, Flowing Through The Holes in Their Heads, who advised that God forbids divorce and that she needed to stay in the marriage. And submit.

Being the sweet, loving and charitable woman she is, she initially agreed to let you stay, as long as you both attended marriage counseling with the Holey Reverend. And as you know (and as many could have predicted, given the situation, holes in head notwithstanding), the ministerial approach did not go well.

::And just between you and me, I think you’re damn lucky to not be serving a life sentence of equal perpetration to that which you done perpetrated on the woman you once promised to honor and cherish. But I digress.::

The second thing your wife asked me was what she should do about the stalking. Even though she had a Order of Protection, she told me that you continued to harass her.

Me: Have you called the police?
She: Well, yeah. But they can’t do anything about it.
Me: That’s Bullshit.
She: Not really.

Then she pointed to the sky.

We both looked up, and there you were. Flying a little airplane,'round and 'round above our neighborhood. As we squinted into the summer sky, I saw you tip the wing, in a friendly “howdy do?” Your wife waved.

No way. I say.
Every day. She responded.

We quickly grew accustomed to the annoying drone of your little flying penis plane, as I gave her some resources to call for help in designing a safety plan and real therapy. I also empathized and gave lots of encouragement.

What your wife didn't know was that the help I offered was not something I learned in school, from a lecture or textbook. And since this story is not about me, I'll just say that I was one of probably thousands of self-emancipated women who didn't sleep well the days and weeks after Nicole Simpson was murdered.

Anyhoo. Back in the day when you were my neighbor, I recall that you were an avid runner. Obsessive even. I'd see you running every day, rain, shine or 90 degreed humidity. And I must say, you were quite the speciman of health and fitness. Taut, tan and maybe a little too handsome.

Since I started my walking regime this past spring, I've seen you out running about a half-dozen times now. Which takes me to the other reason I'm writing this. Dude, you ain't looking too good.

In fact, at first I hardly recognized you. You look crumpled. Bent. Broken.

Your stride is not what it used to be, either. It makes me think of doggy paddling, for the sidewalk. Desperate.

And I'm no doctor, but you might want to see someone about that emerging hump on your back.

I bet you think I'm going to poke fun of you now. Or say something about justice or karma. But I'm not. I really just want to tell you that I truly feel bad for you. Sorry, even.

You see, I don't know how many women you have brutalized, but I'm guessing it was more than one. To a person, I'm sure each is better off today than you are. Or ever have been.

By the looks of you today, I suspect that you missed the bus of enlightenment, which has no doubt parked at your stop hundreds of times.

By the looks of you today, it appears that you still equate fear with respect and love with obedience and control with happiness. In other words, you're lonely. Still.

I also suspect that you have no awareness as to the real reason you brutalize your body on a daily basis. So you might be surprised to hear that it's not at all about fitness or health or vanity. It's about redemption. It's your higher self seeking pennance for the lower parts; all driven by what remains of the shiny part of your soul ::And yes, I believe everyone has a light to shine.::

Wow. Have I digressed. Again.

You may recall that I started this post thanking you for the best stalking story ever. And again, this is in no way meant to trivialize a very serious and often deadly, social issue.

But what I really want to thank you for is encapsulating forever, for me, the image of a true bully. When I first realized what your wife was indicating when she pointed to the sky, I was very frightened for her. And for myself, a little.

But there is a part of the story that I left out earlier. The part where we laughed.

After the shock passed, and we watched you make a total ass of yourself in front of the entire neighborhood, I said to your wife, "Kind of pathetic,really." And she agreed. And then we laughed.

Because really, a bully is nothing more than a dangerous, insecure clown. But a clown nontheless. So again, thank you for that.

Oh yeah, I ran into your now ex-wife a couple of years ago at the grocery store. She has remarried. Her high school sweetheart. She looked glorious. Loved. Happy. And although you didn't come up in the conversation, I'm sure if asked, she'd wish you the very same.

Sandy Sky

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