National Domestic Violence Awareness Month Commentary: Domestic abuse, going from victim to victory

  • Published
  • By Ellen Hatfield
  • 349th Public Affairs
TRAVIS AIR FORCE BASE, Calif. --  "Promise me you'll always remember: you're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think." Christopher Robin to Winnie the Pooh

January 19, 2004: My drunk and enraged husband, Bubba, screaming and cursing, lunged for my eighteen year old son, Joel. In a desperate and frightened effort to slow him down, and give Joel a chance to run for the nearby front door, I reached out and hit him on the shoulder with my empty wine glass. The glass shattered, and like the proverbial bull, he didn't slow down a bit. As he threw Joel up against the door jam, I leapt on his back to pull him off.

Before I knew it, Bubba had pressed me down on the couch, his hands were around my neck, and he was shaking me, and continuing to rant. Within moments, Joel was on him, pummeling him with his fists, "Get off my mother, let her go!" I saw the murder in his eyes, as my once beloved husband turned on my son with a vengeance. A nimble 155 pounds to Bubba's solid 220, Joel flew out the door into the chilly winter night. I was alone in the house with someone who could snap me in two, and he was drunk and mad enough to do it.
Bubba packed up some things, including a bottle of whiskey and a loaded pistol, and took off in his truck for Tennessee. My daughter, Miranda, came home from work, and upon hearing what had happened, she put into my hand the phone he had snatched away from me as I dialed 911. "Call them, Mummy, you have to stop him. I don't care if he kills himself, but he could kill an innocent person in his condition."

So started our journey from abuse to recovery... I say "our" because my children, who were from my previous marriage, endured the most horrific verbal, emotional and mental abuse, right along with me. I hung in there for 10 years, Miranda endured six, and Joel, four. It might as well have been a life sentence, because that's what it feels like. When he tried to kill my child, I was done.
I hardly slept that night, but still dragged myself out of bed the next morning to go to work at Dobbins Air Reserve Base, where I had been for eight years. I was numb, and in a depth of pain that I cannot describe. In a building as small as 22nd Air Force headquarters, it's like the tiny village where I grew up in New Hampshire, word spread fast.

You see, the perpetrator of this abuse was a chief master sergeant in the Air Force Reserve who, in spite of his personal demons and chaos, had risen through the ranks with hard work and devotion to the job. But he'd go home every day and drink until he was morose, passed out, or, the worst, raging and abusive. The next day, he would have forgotten most of what he said, and beg remorsefully, for forgiveness. Because I've spent my whole life helping the broken and wounded in this world, I'd relent. Poor Bubba, he suffered so much abuse as a child, wasn't shown love from his parents, left home at age fifteen to make his own way in the world, a life so different from mine. How could I turn my back on him?

The night he hurt my child and tried to kill him, I found the strength to turn away from him and toward my children. My priority became finding a safe place for them. I had some time, thanks to the laws where we lived.

In the state of Georgia, the Family Violence Act helped to change the cycle of abuse. The minute I called the police, and Bubba was arrested. He became the perpetrator. Joel and I were the victims. He was under the jurisdiction of the county district attorney; we were in touch with the Victims Advocates for Bartow County.

He was bundled off to detox, and, from there, to a place away from us. He was allowed no contact with us, and had to pass messages regarding bills and finances through an appointed person at the base. He was monitored to make sure he showed up in court when needed, and for his group therapy sessions.

He had six counts charged against him, one was a felony. He could have lost his job, his retirement, his right to bear arms and to vote. He had already thrown away his right to respect, trust, and love.

I believe in second chances, so I went to the county courthouse, and asked that they drop the felony charge to protect his career. Altruistic fool that I am, and narcissistic sociopath that he was, I let him assign responsibility to me for his mistakes because, after all, the world did revolve around him.

In their infinite wisdom, the court system thought four months separation was enough, so Bubba returned to our home in April, and went right back to his evil ways. He managed to not take a drink for a bit longer, but that didn't last through that October. Professing to still love me, he said I could stay, but my children had to get out. He went back to unpredictable rages, and the barrage of abuse. Only the threat of jail time - he was on probation for a year - stopped him from touching us.

Miranda went to London for six months that December; Joel and I used the opportunity to find a place to live. I promised Miranda she would never have to return to that house, and I made good on it. We moved out in May of 2005, when I was financially secure enough to know I would never go back. That's one thing that keeps many women imprisoned, the fear of having to return. No looking back is sometimes the best thing.
When I asked my children later why they stayed, and didn't go stay with their grandparents or dad in South Carolina, their response was swift and strong: "We weren't going to leave you alone with him. We had to stay with you." I owe them so much for their courage, and devotion. It's our duty to protect our kids, but if you end up dead, that's no help at all.

You never know who you help with telling your story -- I shared before, and gave an Airman, here, the courage to take that step away. I've never been one to stay silent, but I did during my 10 years with Bubba. Little did I know that most of my co-workers either suspected, or knew. I discovered what an amazing family I had in the Reserve, and at home. Thank you, my children.

Please encourage victims, their loved ones, and concerned citizens to learn more, or to get help by calling the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE, or by visiting www.TheHotline.org.

             *Editor's Note: Names have been changed for privacy purposes.