5.18.2008 dangerous

The other night I was reminiscing about my misspent youth and commented about an ex-boyfriend He was so beautiful, the most physically gorgeous person I have ever been with - it is just impossibly sad he went insane.

My dinner companion replied Are you sad you didn't stick around to help him with his brain problems?

I was shocked at the question, and replied Do you know what he liked to do when he was mad? He would punch whichever of my wounds he could reach. He would grab my damaged arm and smash it. He would...

But the audience, of course, was too squeamish to hear more. I am probably too sensitive to know what happened, and I was there.

Of course I was never a passive victim - I was raised to hit back, and I did, with vicious force - breaking his nose once, smashing his head on concrete several times, along with who knows what other raging retaliations.

The years have been kind in dimming the memories.

When that beautiful boy appears in my dreams (and that is a rare event) his ghost is always mutilated, a ravaged burned bloody creature who poses no threat. Awake or asleep, all I feel for him is compassion mixed with regret that the very real love we shared was not sufficient to make a difference when the world fell apart.

I was hugely lucky to stumble into that relationship at sixteen: glorious, sumptuous passion and rapture - how many people, of whatever age, have such great good fortune? Before I met him I barely had the capacity to feel anything. With him the world became a shuddering intoxicating delight - for awhile.

His violence against me, and other women, and male friends, and strangers in the 7-11 parking lot, is not excusable. Though I can explain it: head injuries often cause horrifying behavioral changes in otherwise rational people.

The one I sustained in the accident certainly did not improve my mood - and the third passenger lost a whole element of her personality and most of her memory, along with her forehead.

Beyond that he had no other resources, living in a racist impoverished miserable town. His own family certainly did not sympathize; when I talk about running around with cholo boys please take that to mean, literally, gang members with tears tattooed under their eyes. His cousins were not exactly keen to discuss the fears or sadness of a messed up punk kid - though they did in fact, as recently reported in the press, love the Smiths just as much as he did.

They loved me too, and I loved them all in return. During those years I needed a family, and they took me in, earning my eternal gratitude.

Should I have stuck around to render aid, attempt to heal that broken boy? The answer is a simple and emphatic no - we were both far too damaged to help each other, and staying together would likely have ended in death. Breaking up was only slightly less dangerous.

I hear that he is married, with children and a career. For his own sake I hope he managed to find the perilous path to recovery, that he is surrounded by people who nurture and care for him. I hope he learned to seek out people who are strong without raising their voices or hands in anger.

When I left him I swore that I would never hit another person and I have kept that pledge. My children have most definitely been raised without violence intruding on their lives in any form.

I don't want to see him ever again, but I wish him well.

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