I was on the board of a Abie House, a home for abused women. what you describe is text book, Tonya. I know you know this. I think it's time to delete his voice from your phone.
I still remember the first time I let myself look up those "how to tell if this is abuse" lists online. I stayed a lot longer after that than I should have, but it was still a first step. I'm so grateful places like that exist, and that good people like you are helping women find a way out. Thanks so much, Tabby.
Oh how easily we are manipulated when we are young and hopeful. You tell so brilliantly the pain so many of us have felt, trying to make a love gone wrong work. What's really maddening here, though, is how he strung you along, making you the one causing the problems, relentlessly. He death was yet another manipulation. "See what you've done to me. You've killed me." Oh Tonya, I know how difficult it is to remember all these painful things and write about them. The purging of them with every word. To read here how you take upon the guilt for his death, his choice of shooting you down again, is so agonizing. Some day you will be free of it all. May it be soon that you will be flooded with joy. It is your due.
Thanks so much, Sue. I love this kind, intuitive comment. I think the act of writing it down is how I get free of it. Somehow, after each of these pieces is done, I feel I've moved past another hurdle. Soon I'd love to feel like I'd written everything I could possibly write on the subject, and then it will really be over.
Here's to that day when you look at your screen and can't think of a word to put on it. You're getting closer all the time. And there are so many things I wanted to comment on this piece, but neither of us has the time or space in our lives. One thing, though, I do believe he lurked on Juke and saw how well you wrote and built that page without him. Bravo! Must've really pissed him off.
"He knew what that did to the people you left behind." Although I cannot say for certain, I believe that this recognition and acknowledgment--and specifically the person's ability to reason their future-action beyond that eventual trauma--is actually what convinces the person that they have no other option. That is when the person truly no longer cares for existence and is beyond any mortal argument to the contrary. How did that become as eternal as the desire for living? This was a compelling read.
Such an achingly beautiful piece, Tonya, with your signature evocative imagery: you in the hair color not your own & the "tight, tucked away" expression that I have (happily) never seen on you. & your current tendency to "bend toward happiness like a plant toward the sun." I always admire your profound, aspirational empathy but I am so glad you opted for the life & love you deserve. Bravissima.
This piece of writing about the end of your marriage hit me way differently than the previous ones. Way more sorrow, more undertow of dread. I did not want to respond in any way at first, because it hurts too much. So I sat on my response like a fouled egg and let it mature. And what I react to most are the small details that tear at me--especially the gun. And the gun under the bed. My family has had bad luck with guns for a couple generations, and then we quit keeping guns in our houses. Nobody said Let's Quit This, we just all stopped harboring weapons, with no comments shared. We are still a wacko extended family, we still have nasty tempers among us, but the accidental shootings and suicides have let up. I am ok with guns in general, but I really don't see the point of having one around. It is a locus of fear. And it is a potential response to fear. In a previous piece on the subject you said the police offered to keep the gun and melt it down. I hope they did.
I was also disturbed by his importuning you to change your hair color. I always wondered why you'd gone blonde in the photos I saw, as I always thought of you as constitutionally a red head. You think and act like a red head. So why would he want you to change? It's a screening off of a loved one's person. A walling off of their heart, behind a facade. I just don't get that move. I never will.
And though you don't mention it here, I was reminded of a detail from an earlier writing, the obliterating of your bylines from the Z website. This is really an aggressive move to Blank Out a person. They were yours, your words, and not many things are more personal than our words. And in journalism they constitute our work, our career. I did not know what to think before, as this blotting of a person's work is so vindictive. It didn't seem like the guy I knew before, the generous side of him. But I believe you. It means there was a part of this person that was invisible to me, that had been obscured in a very dark corner. How mean, in the sense of being small, ungiving, narrow. It seems like a critical footnote to this essay.
Thank you for keeping on at trying to express your feelings about all this stuff. Rooting through dark corners. It cannot be easy for you. But it has been very educational for me. (People. What is it with people? . . . ) Not pleasant to learn this way. but necessary, crucial.
I hope you are healing still. Get on with life among humans. No small task. Thank you Tonya, from the bottom of my heart. Hope this is not too long.
Reclaiming my hair color was one of the first things I did after I left, and it was a wonderful feeling, taking control of my own appearance again. Not being someone else's doll. It's interesting to me that that detail stuck out to you, because it was an important one for me.
He was a lot of things--very smart, very funny. He could be a wonderful friend. But yes, when he felt threatened, he was the most frightening person I've known. Vindictive, blinded by rage, filled with self-pity. I had expected him to delete my work when I left. That was cruel, but not surprising. And it was a kind of gift, freeing me to start something new. I think he realized it, which is why he re-published it all two years later with my new/old name and links to Juke. He wanted to make sure I was always tied to him somehow. And he truly believed that, if readers saw the old work stacked against the newer pieces, they would conclude that I was nothing without him. Anyway, he, more than most people, shouldn't have had a gun. I tend to feel the same as you and your family. People are crazy, regardless, but life gets less eventful if there aren't firearms around.
Anyway, time passes and we're all given our lessons to learn. I am in a good place now, and I realize I was brought here by everything that came before. I'm just hoping if I can get it all the darkness written down, then I can stop thinking about it.
Thanks so much for your kindness and your insight, Tim. Hopefully I'll run into you sometime back in the Hills.
Heartbreakingly beautiful writing. I'm glad that you're done writing this particular series too, but I'm mighty glad that you did. You emerged intact and as beautiful as a butterfly. Thank you once again.
I was on the board of a Abie House, a home for abused women. what you describe is text book, Tonya. I know you know this. I think it's time to delete his voice from your phone.
powerful, honest writing. bravo
I still remember the first time I let myself look up those "how to tell if this is abuse" lists online. I stayed a lot longer after that than I should have, but it was still a first step. I'm so grateful places like that exist, and that good people like you are helping women find a way out. Thanks so much, Tabby.
Oh how easily we are manipulated when we are young and hopeful. You tell so brilliantly the pain so many of us have felt, trying to make a love gone wrong work. What's really maddening here, though, is how he strung you along, making you the one causing the problems, relentlessly. He death was yet another manipulation. "See what you've done to me. You've killed me." Oh Tonya, I know how difficult it is to remember all these painful things and write about them. The purging of them with every word. To read here how you take upon the guilt for his death, his choice of shooting you down again, is so agonizing. Some day you will be free of it all. May it be soon that you will be flooded with joy. It is your due.
Thanks so much, Sue. I love this kind, intuitive comment. I think the act of writing it down is how I get free of it. Somehow, after each of these pieces is done, I feel I've moved past another hurdle. Soon I'd love to feel like I'd written everything I could possibly write on the subject, and then it will really be over.
Here's to that day when you look at your screen and can't think of a word to put on it. You're getting closer all the time. And there are so many things I wanted to comment on this piece, but neither of us has the time or space in our lives. One thing, though, I do believe he lurked on Juke and saw how well you wrote and built that page without him. Bravo! Must've really pissed him off.
"He knew what that did to the people you left behind." Although I cannot say for certain, I believe that this recognition and acknowledgment--and specifically the person's ability to reason their future-action beyond that eventual trauma--is actually what convinces the person that they have no other option. That is when the person truly no longer cares for existence and is beyond any mortal argument to the contrary. How did that become as eternal as the desire for living? This was a compelling read.
That's an interesting way to think about it, Anthony. I'm always puzzling over these thoughts--the "how" of how it happens.
Wow, Tonya, such a heartbreaking/hopeful/beautiful/devastating piece of writing. Thank you for writing and posting it.
Thanks, Nina! I'm so glad it resonated with you.
Such an achingly beautiful piece, Tonya, with your signature evocative imagery: you in the hair color not your own & the "tight, tucked away" expression that I have (happily) never seen on you. & your current tendency to "bend toward happiness like a plant toward the sun." I always admire your profound, aspirational empathy but I am so glad you opted for the life & love you deserve. Bravissima.
Me too! I'm so grateful for everything I have now, and I'm so glad to have you as a friend. Thanks, Ellen.
This piece of writing about the end of your marriage hit me way differently than the previous ones. Way more sorrow, more undertow of dread. I did not want to respond in any way at first, because it hurts too much. So I sat on my response like a fouled egg and let it mature. And what I react to most are the small details that tear at me--especially the gun. And the gun under the bed. My family has had bad luck with guns for a couple generations, and then we quit keeping guns in our houses. Nobody said Let's Quit This, we just all stopped harboring weapons, with no comments shared. We are still a wacko extended family, we still have nasty tempers among us, but the accidental shootings and suicides have let up. I am ok with guns in general, but I really don't see the point of having one around. It is a locus of fear. And it is a potential response to fear. In a previous piece on the subject you said the police offered to keep the gun and melt it down. I hope they did.
I was also disturbed by his importuning you to change your hair color. I always wondered why you'd gone blonde in the photos I saw, as I always thought of you as constitutionally a red head. You think and act like a red head. So why would he want you to change? It's a screening off of a loved one's person. A walling off of their heart, behind a facade. I just don't get that move. I never will.
And though you don't mention it here, I was reminded of a detail from an earlier writing, the obliterating of your bylines from the Z website. This is really an aggressive move to Blank Out a person. They were yours, your words, and not many things are more personal than our words. And in journalism they constitute our work, our career. I did not know what to think before, as this blotting of a person's work is so vindictive. It didn't seem like the guy I knew before, the generous side of him. But I believe you. It means there was a part of this person that was invisible to me, that had been obscured in a very dark corner. How mean, in the sense of being small, ungiving, narrow. It seems like a critical footnote to this essay.
Thank you for keeping on at trying to express your feelings about all this stuff. Rooting through dark corners. It cannot be easy for you. But it has been very educational for me. (People. What is it with people? . . . ) Not pleasant to learn this way. but necessary, crucial.
I hope you are healing still. Get on with life among humans. No small task. Thank you Tonya, from the bottom of my heart. Hope this is not too long.
tim, deep in the Hills
Reclaiming my hair color was one of the first things I did after I left, and it was a wonderful feeling, taking control of my own appearance again. Not being someone else's doll. It's interesting to me that that detail stuck out to you, because it was an important one for me.
He was a lot of things--very smart, very funny. He could be a wonderful friend. But yes, when he felt threatened, he was the most frightening person I've known. Vindictive, blinded by rage, filled with self-pity. I had expected him to delete my work when I left. That was cruel, but not surprising. And it was a kind of gift, freeing me to start something new. I think he realized it, which is why he re-published it all two years later with my new/old name and links to Juke. He wanted to make sure I was always tied to him somehow. And he truly believed that, if readers saw the old work stacked against the newer pieces, they would conclude that I was nothing without him. Anyway, he, more than most people, shouldn't have had a gun. I tend to feel the same as you and your family. People are crazy, regardless, but life gets less eventful if there aren't firearms around.
Anyway, time passes and we're all given our lessons to learn. I am in a good place now, and I realize I was brought here by everything that came before. I'm just hoping if I can get it all the darkness written down, then I can stop thinking about it.
Thanks so much for your kindness and your insight, Tim. Hopefully I'll run into you sometime back in the Hills.
Heartbreakingly beautiful writing. I'm glad that you're done writing this particular series too, but I'm mighty glad that you did. You emerged intact and as beautiful as a butterfly. Thank you once again.
John from Cortez
Thank you so much, John.
You chose well. At the end of the day, you chose well. Never forget.
Thanks, Matthew. I agree.