The Smell of Fear

I woke up this morning with a feeling in my gut that I haven't experienced in a very long time. Fear.

It's that awful wrenching, twisted, aching feeling that something - somewhere - is terribly wrong. It's a feeling I just can't shake. But why?

I tried to forget it by logging into Gather where I was sure I would read something funny to get my mind off my stomach. Then I found Mimi's story about the abuse she suffered with a man who is now right here on Gather spreading his sweet words and charm around this network. To say her story shook me to my very foundation would be an understatement.

That's because I have been there. I can feel her pain and smell her fear.

Even as I write this, knots cramp my stomach and my heart pounds. Memories of Joe flood my being for the first time in many years. I thought I was finished with all that. Had I dreamt of him last night? Why now? Why did I wake up too terrified to face the day?

When I first met Joe, I thought I'd finallly found the perfect man. He'd worked 12 years at the same company, was very handsome and made me laugh every day. It wasn't long before we became an item, along with my daughter, who was then 7 years old. He seemed to love her as much as he did me, always lavishing his time and affection on both of us. I was ecstatic.

Joe and I decided to move in together to become that "perfect" family. We even planned on having a child of our own. Then things changed - slowly at first. Joe didn't want me having to bus it to work, so he drove me there and picked me up afterward. No problem. Then he didn't want me to leave the office for lunch - just in case some awful man got hold of me. Then he didn't want me delivering papers to legal offices, so he would leave his own work to drive me there and take me back to my office. Then he didn't want me in the back yard alone. One never knew what evil lurked nearby. Joe said all these precautions were because he loved me and his number one job was to protect me.

Then he didn't want the lights on in the living room in the evening. Someone could see in and I wasn't properly dressed, he said. One night, he left to go to the store or so I thought. I had forgotten about that living room light. Apparently, he'd just gone around the block - a test of sorts. When Joe returned, he yanked the lamp off the table, marched into the kitchen and proceeded to throw it down the basement steps letting it crash onto the floor. He told me I was bad. I was stupid. People out there were evil and not to be trusted. His solution was to nail down the blinds and from that day forward, I was a prisoner in my own home.

It's not that we never went out. We did and we had fun too. We laughed and we danced. We had a wonderful time, which made me forget that my home was my prison. Maybe, this is the way life is when a couple is together? Maybe, I just didn't understand it, because I didn't grow up in a conventional family.

It's a funny thing about loving someone. You always try to see the best in them and disregard all the warning signs that something is terribly wrong.

(Oh, this is so hard to write, so please bear with me. My stomach hurts. Sorry, had to take a break and catch my breath.)

Many months passed and over that time, Joe began to drink more than usual. He also had a car accident and was taking pain pills. Soon his protective ways accellerated beyond reason. Whenever we went out, he'd accuse me of looking at someone and it became my practice to sit with my head down. The price of looking up was too high. When we got home, he'd scream at me, throw whatever was near and I'd cower in fear.

It got to the point where he'd go out just about every night. He said he had a part-time job as a bouncer in a bar. With his bulging muscles, I believed him, but late at night I'd lie in bed terrified when I heard the key in the front door. I could almost smell my own fear.

One thing I could never understand was his exteme anger whenever he arrived home late and I was still awake. What was up with that? I just couldn't figure it out.

During this time, I also became pregnant with my second daughter. Needless to say, the toll on my mental, emotional and physical health was beginning to show, along with my stomach. I was a wreck - now stuck in a situation that I didn't know how to get out of. At the same time, my younger daughter seemed quite content. She loved her school and had many friends. Often, Joe would drive her to one particular friend's place or pick her up to bring her over for the weekend. Along the way, Joe would stop to buy them ice cream. He really is great with the kids, I thought.

Of course, all my friends loved him too. He was such a charmer, so handsome and funny too. They loved his company and in front of them, he treated me like a queen.

I remember vividly, the day my second daughter was born. Joe rushed me to the hospital and within hours, she was born. The doctors and nurses commented on what a wonderful, doting man he was and that I was so lucky. Shortly after the birth, he left to take care of my other daughter who would soon be returning from school.

Before I knew it, another year had passed. Joe, I and the two girls - the perfect family. Funny how life just goes on, isn't it? Despite the fights and flying furniture, we somehow get through it all, hoping things will calm down one day. I prayed every day that God would watch over me and my girls, and protect us from his vile anger. Joe was clearly unhappy and I was afraid to even speak out of turn.

One day, I mentioned to Joe that perhaps we shouldn't be together. Perhaps he would be happier without me. These comments stoked his fire even more.

"You're not going anywhere," he said. "If you even try to walk out that door, I'll kill you!"

Later, as I sat in my living room rocker watching my new baby girl smiling up so innocently at me, I wondered if I should ever take that chance. Should I put the lives of my girls at risk, because I wasn't happy? Should I uproot their lives for heaven knows what? How would I take care of them? So many questions.

Then, I had a thought that had never occurred to me before in my entire life. If I didn't like the situation, I had the power to change it. I made a decision. I'm going. I'm taking the girls. I'm leaving and I'm not looking back. If he wants to kill me on the way out, so be it! Immediately, I got up and called a mover. I arranged for him to come while Joe was at work.

Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans... Joe didn't leave the house that day. He must have known something was up. When the movers arrived, he got into an argument with them and they left. My heart sank. Need I add that I paid for that too?

Undaunted and determined to be set free, I called another mover. When they arrived, I spoke to them first and told them to ignore Joe, that he was all talk and no action when it came to men. Fortunately, they did and we got moved out that day. I was finally free. Scared - but free. I knew he'd follow us to find out where we were going.

For the next few months, life was very difficult. I couldn't go to work anymore, because he'd find me there. I was afraid to even venture to the corner store, without my girls by my side. Eventually, although I don't know how, Joe got my phone number and called me.

"I love you and I need you here with me," he pleaded. "I'm going to kill myself, if you don't come back."

My response: "Would you like me to bring over a rope? I'll tie the noose for you!"

That was the end of that conversation. Joe knew I meant it.

Three months later, a knock came at the door of our tiny apartment. When I opened the door, there stood two detectives. Now, what could they want? Were they here to tell me Joe had done it? If so, I'll celebrate.

"Now don't get upset," they said. "We just want to speak to your daughter."

"What? My daughter? Why would they want to speak to her? She's only 11 years old!"

Once they settled themselves at the kitchen table along with my older daughter, one of the detectives spoke up.

(Oh, God, this is hard. I just don't talk about this anymore.)

"We understand from your friend that your stepfather molested her and that he did the same things to you."

I think I died inside that day. At the very least, my heart broke for my little girl. I started to cry.

"No, no. Don't cry!" they said. "We'll never get a statement out of her, if you do that."

I don't even want to relate what she told them. There were words I didn't even understand. It was a horrid tale of abuse, deceat and threats against her life, if she ever told me or anyone else.

I sat in stunned silence as she related all that he had done to her. My mind was spinning and my gut ached - just like it did this morning. I wanted to get him, to hurt him, to make him suffer. How dare he victimize my child? How dare he rape her of her innocence - over and over again? In a flash, I knew why he wanted me sleeping when he got home. If I were awake, he couldn't do his awful deeds.

And remember that doting father-to-be? He left me in the hospital that day, went straight home and raped my daughter. I wanted to kill him and if he'd been there, I'm quite sure I would have.

Then my mind reeled, thinking back over our time together. How could I not have known? Was I really that stupid? Was my father right? Was I an idiot after all? Was I a bad mother - a bad person?

The detectives said they would have Joe in custody for the weekend and needed to move us immediately, because of his threats against our lives. My daughter was visibly shaken and of course, we agreed.

For the next year, my daughter and I lived in a fog of anger, resentment and fear. She said I should have known - that she tried to give me signs - all of which made me feel even less worthy as a human being, let alone a mom. At the same time, I had to keep my senses about me to care for my baby.

But the nightmares were horrid. Over the course of one week, Joe killed me in every way possible - a gun, strangulation and much more. It's wierd, because my daughter was experiencing exactly the same sort of thing. In fact one night, she came running into my bedroom terrified from her dream, just as I was waking from one of my own.

It got to the point where I couldn't sleep because I was too afraid to close my eyes. Then the daytime nightmares took over. I never knew there was such a thing. I'd rest for just a few moments on the couch, my eyes would shut and the terror began - so real it shook my whole being.

When would I ever get over this? Would I ever get over this? Was I going crazy? I really believed that I was and it was time to get help. After one year of visiting a psychiatrist, my daughter and I got past all that anger and fear.

Today, my daughter has been married to a wonderful man for 12 years and has two children. She works full time and is a great mom. She has moved on. As for me, I often wonder. Why have I never married again? Do I still have lingering fears that a man may not be what he seems? Do I still smell the fear?

Perhaps that's true. Perhaps, I still have reason to be afraid. After reading Mimi's story, I'm sure I do.