The Other Side of Fear

In 1997, I was trying to reclaim my life after a horrible divorce. Trust was not something that came easy to me. When I met John, it came as quite a shock to feel such trust from the very beginning. We were like two souls that seemed to mesh together effortlessly. I now had a friend and companion in John. Laughter filled not only the lonely rooms of my apartment but my heart as well.

For years, John struggled with addiction. When we met, he was clean and sober for over a year. John was creative with an immense talent for woodworking. He could craft beautiful pieces of artwork out of scraps of wood. He called me often, typically at the end of a hard workday. Our relationship deepened with time. John became someone I felt I could rely upon in life. That is why what happened on September 19, 1998, was all the more of a surprise.

It was a Saturday. I went about my chores. You know the typical things you do on your day off; laundry, grocery shopping, cooking meals for the week. I began trying to contact him when I started dinner. I got the message machine. I kept trying every ten or twenty minutes. Still no answer. I began to get that feeling when you know something is wrong. Years before I met him, John had a car wreck that left him blind in his left† eye with occasional seizures. I was worried that he was ill. I called a couple of his friends, no one had seen him. I turned off my cooking and got in the car to check on him.

When I arrived at his apartment, I could hear his stereo blaring from the street. I climbed the stairs that went uphill to his apartment. The door was cracked open about an inch. It was pitch dark, except for the blue light that illuminated the dial of the stereo system. I pushed the door open, calling for John. He didn’t answer; I saw him lying motionless on the sofa. My heart sank as I ran to put down my purse on the floor; I turned down the radio. As I turned on the lamp, I saw beside him an almost empty half-gallon bottle of Jack Daniels. I knew he was drunk.

Hindsight tells me I should have picked up my purse and left. That very moment I should have walked away. Instead, I raged at the situation with shocked disbelief and anger. My anger got the best of me. I snatched the bottle off the floor and smashed it against the edge of the coffee table. The remaining alcohol spewed everywhere. Shards of glass were flying into the air. Before I knew what was happening, he was awake, and his hands were around my neck. Never seeing him drunk before, I did not know the depths of his anger. His grip physically raised me off the ground. Like a little girl’s ragdoll, my body dangled in the air. I still had the remains of the bottle in my hand. I knew if I just dropped it, he could pick it up and slash me. I threw the neck of the bottle behind the sofa. I grasped his wrist to try and free myself from his grip. I continued to dangle as he walked me across the small living room toward the fireplace.

The whole time he was cursing me. As his rage increased, so did his grip. He was beginning to choke me. I mouthed the word, “Mandy.” He knew how much I loved my child. My plea went unanswered. He slowly released his grip. I closed my eyes for a moment only to open them and see his fist. His full-force blow threw me into the front edge of the brick fireplace. I struck the fireplace with the base of my skull and fell toward my left side. When I hit the floor, I felt an oversized oriental porcelain pot that sat in the corner shatter. I could see the outline of the peeling plaster on the wall as my body tingled with an electric jolt of energy. I felt as if I was drifting away. This time I pray, “God take care of Mandy, take care of my child.” As quickly as the feeling left my body, it came rushing back with a wave of intense pain. I hurt all over. I could feel blood streaming down my neck. The room whirled with confusion. I began to seize uncontrollably. My entire body twisted and contorted with painful jolts down my spine.

I could not focus, but I could hear John screaming, “Let me find my gun, and I will end this shit!” He saw my seizing, “That’s it bitch, lay there on the floor and die!” I knew if he found the gun, he would kill me. I was terrified he would find the gun! When my body stopped seizing, I could hear him throwing things in the back of the apartment. I knew I had to get out of there. My focus was returning. I managed to pull myself up to my knees. I grabbed the purse that was sitting across from me on the floor. I got to my knees and tried to run. It was hard because I was so dizzy. He grabbed me by my hair and yelled, “No way bitch, you ain’t going nowhere.” He threw me on the sofa and walked back toward the kitchen.

I reached in my purse and pulled out a twenty stuck in an inside compartment. “Here, John, I’m so sorry, “I cried. “Here, go buy another bottle.”

I knew I had a head injury; I had to go to the hospital. I pleaded, “I’m going to the hospital now, John.” He recoiled at the thought, “Oh no, you are not!” He kept looking for the gun. As he entered the kitchen, I sprinted for the door. He followed. As I got to the staircase, I began to holler for anyone that was around to help me. I was pleading for my life to anyone who would listen. Nobody was there, no one answered. I got to the top step, and he lunged for me, falling on the concrete landing. I made it to my car, struggling for keys. I got inside and quickly locked the doors. My trembling hands put the key into the ignition when he began beating on the windows, trying to break them. I endured waves of sickness as I pulled away from the curb. John behind me was cursing and screaming. I drove as fast as I could. I felt a warmness on the left side of my head. I wiped the blood away from my eyes as I pulled into the fast-moving traffic of I59 West.

The steering wheel was covered in blood. Waves of nausea were increasing as I drove for my life. Tears mixed with blood flowed down my face as I raced toward Bessemer Carraway Hospital. No one was around. It was a Saturday night in September in Central Alabama. It was still warm for this time of the year. I parked my car in the parking deck. When I got out, I could see blood on the door of the car. It was such surreal to see my bloody handprints. I made my way, staggering to the elevator. I pushed the button, leaving droplets of blood behind. The doors opened an older woman began to scream at the ghastly sight of me collapsing in front of her.

The next thing I remember, I was on a gurney heading into the emergency room. The room was filled with movement as the nurses started IVs. Doctors were examining me. I could hear them questioning if I had been stabbed. The doctor asked how much I had to drink. I reeked of alcohol from busting the bottle on the coffee table. “Nothing,” I cried.” I broke a bottle against a table, and it got on me.” I explained what had happened to the best of my ability. They looked at me, questioning my story. I was crying hysterically. I was still in shock and emotionally numb. They sent me to CAT scan. When I returned, a Birmingham police officer was waiting on me. I explained the story to him. He explained that given the facts, I had entered John’s apartment without consent, so I could be charged with breaking and entering if I pressed charges. I couldn’t believe it. I was shocked. I had a concussion, cracked ribs, and jaw, a head full of sutures, and I could be charged with a crime. He took photos for the record and gave me an information card with a case number. The card also had the number of someones I could speak with about the matter, just in case I needed to talk to someone. I still have the card to this day. I keep it as a reminder of a time in my life I thought could never happen to me. It is a reminder of how quickly life can change.

Before this happened, I was beginning to trust again. Afterward, I was filled with anger and self-doubt. I didn’t trust my instincts. I doubted myself. After all, I had thought John was one of the good guys. I began to question all my decisions. Filled with anxiety, I moved to the other side of Birmingham. This time I chose an apartment that had security at the door at all times. I was living my life in fear. This event occurred some 23 years ago. Since this event, I have moved back to the quiet and safety of my childhood home. I care for my Mother, who has Alzheimer’s. The attack left me with nerve damage in my neck and jaw. I have physical, emotional, and mental scars, but my spirit is beginning to heal. A friend told me John passed away in 2011. Time has given me clarity, peace, and strength. Strength to speak out, share my story hoping that someone who identifies will reach out before it is too late. If you or anyone you know is going through a similar situation in which they are unsafe and secure, now is the time for action. Seek help; it’s out there. Do not let yourself or someone you love become a victim. Speak up and speak out. I no longer look behind me everywhere I go. I have crossed over to the other side of fear, where healing begins. Memories linger, but life is good again.