Smoking and Weeping

Photo by Delia Giandeini on Unsplash

It’s July. It’s hot. I’m sitting on a couch in my brother-in-law’s shop building smoking and weeping. I’m watching deer skulls watching me and I’m remembering things I haven’t thought about in a while. I’m remembering men and boys I haven’t thought about in a while.

I’ve just been chastised by a man for not expressing my anger and distrust towards men with more specificity, and now I’m angrier and more distrustful than ever. It will take me two full cigarettes to compose myself, and it will take me two full weeks to reach the point where I can begin writing this essay. 

It should be said that there are, of course, men in my life I love. There are even a few men with whom I’ve always felt safe: my brother, my grandpa, certain cousins and guy friends. But the way I feel about men in general isn’t unfounded — it’s earned.

Some of the worst things that have ever happened to me were at the hands of boyfriends, male dates, and male crushes, but I can sometimes go quite a while without remembering how, in nearly every area of my life — from family to education to work — I have experienced some form of male violence or harassment. Often of a sexual nature. Not every man I’ve come in contact with has hurt me, sure, but men in every stage of my development have. 

“She’s a very nice lady, but I’ve decided not to continue seeing her for counseling.”

“Alright, I’ll get these sessions canceled for you.”

I recently quit my trauma therapist after only two sessions, primarily because, when I asked her about it, she couldn’t clearly express support for queerness and the queer community. She smiled, but she said nothing.

I was less than surprised — her office displaying many Christian home decor signs, the clinic itself displaying a crucifix over its door — but I was disappointed. Some Christians loudly and proudly affirm the LGBTQ+ community, after all. Perhaps more importantly: research indicates that bisexual identity is a risk factor for experiencing intimate partner violence, so my intrinsic bisexuality is a piece of my trauma puzzle as much as my female body is, and I need a therapist who can talk about that openly and without condemnation. 

“The state of Missouri lifted the statute of limitations,” my therapist said at my first session, the information hanging in the air like an open invitation. It is true that there is no statute of limitations in Missouri for sodomy and first degree rape, but any thoughts I had of taking my abusive ex-boyfriend to court — not for revenge, but to protect other women from him — died when Amber Heard lost to Johnny Depp in Virginia in 2022. 

I was sexually, physically, emotionally, and psychologically abused by my ex-boyfriend. I’m also blonde and bisexual. But what hit me so hard about Heard losing the Depp v. Heard case wasn’t what we seem to have in common, it’s what we don’t have in common. Whatever Heard did or didn’t do to Depp, she has documentation of at least some of the abuse she allegedly suffered at Depp’s hands. Still, she lost. Not only did she lose, she was publicly humiliated, shamed, blamed, and vilified. 

I didn’t document the abuse I suffered at my ex-boyfriend’s hands. I had to get out of that relationship before I could even begin to come to terms with how abusive he was. I don’t have Heard’s money or fame, either. I’m an average, low income, Bible Belt bisexual. Certainly the trial wouldn’t be televised or dissected across social media platforms, but verdict-wise, I’m not confident I would fare better than Heard did were my ex-boyfriend to sue me for defamation. 

When the defamation trial was airing, anytime a friend or a coworker — from what I can remember, exclusively men — took Depp’s side, saying things like: “Winona Ryder said he was always kind to her,” I wanted to scream. I cannot overstate the energy it took to respond, “I’m sure there are women who could say the same thing about my abusive ex-boyfriend, too,” with the seeming levelheadedness of a diplomat. 

I didn’t watch much of the trial. But I did recently watch the CBS adaptation of Stephen King’s novel The Stand. Heard plays a tragic character, Nadine, hardened by childhood trauma and groomed from girlhood to become the queen of an older, gorgeous, violent man.

Nadine is beautiful and sad and at times violent herself. Her character is perpetually conflicted, at war with the destiny chosen for her. There’s a moment where it looks like she’s finally ready to abandon The Dark Man and his plans, but she doesn’t. Nadine is not a perfect victim, but she is a victim all the same. The series aired before the Depp v. Heard trial in Virginia, and I have to wonder how close Amber must have felt to Nadine. How close she may feel to the character still.

An abuser feeling wronged by a victim’s description — vague or otherwise — of the abuse they experienced is a type of mental gymnastics that baffles me. Yet, show me an essay, documentary, tweet, etc. alluding to male on female intimate partner violence, and I’ll show you an outraged man. In fact, if I hadn’t deactivated my Facebook years ago, I could quite literally show you.

In 2016, when my abusive ex-boyfriend started recognizing himself in some of my pieces — pieces in which he was neither named nor was his physical appearance explicitly described — the messages started. When his gaslighting didn’t work on me, his outrage followed. 

Brian Warner, AKA Marilyn Manson, keeps losing in court to Evan Rachel Wood, and I must admit it brings me joy. When I finally watched Phoenix Rising — the documentary detailing Evan Rachel Wood’s journey from victim to survivor of alleged abuse by Marilyn Manson — I felt a painful camaraderie with the bisexual actor and activist. Although my abusive ex-boyfriend was neither a rock star nor a much older man, so much of her story feels like a mirror image of my own.

Wood’s from the Bible Belt; I’m from the Bible Belt. She was home schooled; I was home schooled. Her parents fought in front of her growing up; my parents fought in front of me growing up. Her first serious boyfriend was abusive; my first serious boyfriend was abusive. She had nightmares; I have nightmares. And our similarities don’t stop there.

I’ve written in detail about some of the intimate partner violence I’ve experienced. There are memories of my abuse I’ve only ever described to my sister. Then there are the things I’ve never described to anyone. When Wood spoke of some of Manson’s most despicable acts, I found myself thinking of those things for the first time in a long time. I won’t describe them here.

I’ve only been with three men since leaving my abusive ex-boyfriend. One of them had sex with my body when I was far too drunk to consent. One of them — a man ten years my senior — was sexually aggressive and dominant, to be sure, but he still left me feeling amazed that a stranger could treat me better in bed than the man who claimed to love me for years. The man I would spend the most time with, however, validated a fear that — perhaps subconsciously — had long kept me quiet about the worst of my ex-boyfriend’s abuse. 

“It wasn’t every time,” I said. It was an autumn night. We were sitting in his truck.

“It doesn’t matter,” he responded — his facial expression unknowable, his voice angry. “If you want, I can get a group of guys together to disappear him.”

Also bisexual, Megan Thee Stallion has reportedly said her concern for Tory Lanez’ safety was the reason she initially withheld information from the police about the injuries he inflicted upon her. I can only imagine the trauma of being shot, much less by someone you care for. I can, however, relate to feeling responsible for my abuser’s safety. 

Our circumstances were quite different: I’m a White woman who wanted to spare my boyfriend from a brutal beating — or worse — at the hands of vigilantes; she’s a Black woman who reportedly wanted to spare Lanez from any potential police violence. Still, I felt — feel — a kind of unfortunate kinship with Megan. Even now, my reluctance to explicitly describe my ex-boyfriend’s physical appearance stems as much from my desire to spare him harm as it does from my desire to not be sued by him or his family. 

I refuse to feel responsible for my abuser’s emotions or his reputation, however. I resent the idea that women should feel guilty for writing about their romantic relationships in a less than flattering light, no matter how widespread and longstanding the concept may be.

Everything Is Copy, a documentary about the life and writings of Nora Ephron, touches on Ephron’s penchant for writing about her life and the people in it. As an essayist myself, it’s something I’ve always admired about Ephron, even if — and perhaps partially because — there are some people who criticize her for it.

A chunk of the doc focuses on how deeply Carl Bernstein was hurt by Ephron’s use of their split as creative inspiration. I remember feeling empathy for Bernstein while watching. What I remember even more, though, is thinking: “I wonder how different my life might look if the worst thing a romantic partner ever did to me was cheat.” 

I don’t mean to minimize cheating. Infidelity is a painful betrayal of trust. An emotional trauma. A transformative event. I just can’t help being curious. Would my relationship with men in general be better if they’d only ever broken my heart and my trust, leaving my nervous system untouched? I’ll never know.

What I do know is this: for better or worse, I am still attracted to men, which means it’s still possible I could have a healthy, healing, romantic relationship with a man — although I’m not sure I want one. Surviving the things men have put me through is, at least partly, what’s molded me into the woman I am today, and most of the time I like her. I like being single. I also like women. My future is full of possibilities, it seems; and I could have so easily not had a future at all.  

I’ve been healing from my ex-boyfriend’s abuse for nearly a decade, and I reckon I’ll be healing from it for the rest of my life. I don’t know if there will ever come a time when I can’t be triggered into smoking and weeping, but I do know that I’m far from alone — a fact that’s as comforting as it is heartbreaking.