Like Rihanna, I Returned to an Abuser

By Lea Lane, Huffington Post. Posted March 13, 2009.

Meanwhile, to distract me he let me choose his new apartment overlooking the East River, and we furnished it together. That kept me busy, and kept me there. And 99 percent of the time, he appeared charming. What's a bit of sadism when he has such nice friends and is such a great guy, deep down?

But one afternoon, when I had missed lunch and had the nerve to say that I was hungry, he pushed me out of a parked car onto the grass, and punched me in the face. Two teens saw this and called the police. I debated pressing charges, but thought he might get disbarred. He kept staring at me. So I didn't.

He profusely apologized later, but we moved our stuff out of each other's homes and I stopped seeing him. Then came months of major apologies, supposed "therapy," notes and emails, more lavish gifts. He played on my positive nature and my hopes, and my needs.

I wavered, and sorry to say, gave him another chance. I know, you must be thinking, "Why? He's bribing you. He's not going to change" I'd think that too, now. Abusers rarely change. Statistics show that violence escalates rather than ends as these relationships continue. But I retained magical thinking.

Things went well for a couple of months, with more good times and better behavior. But on a Caribbean cruise, in a cabin together, he blew up. Cursing. Hitting. Even at one point closing both his hands around my neck.

I fled to a friend's room and told her all, left him at the Ft. Lauderdale pier and hopped the first flight home to New York. I immediately escaped to New Hampshire with another girlfriend who was kind enough not to tell me 'I told you so.' It was over, and I finally got it.

A few months later, arising from the nadir, I met the wonderful man who became my second husband. And not long after I remarried, I took courses and volunteered to be a domestic violence counselor at an organization called My Sister's Place. Eventually they had me speaking to groups about the sometimes disguised face of domestic violence, and I felt some closure.

Lenny immediately glommed onto another perfectly nice professional woman. When he read about my marriage he emailed me as if nothing had happened, without a trace of guilt.

I saw him by chance last year in Miami at a ballet. His hair had turned silver and he was with a stunning, much taller, much-younger Latina. He sputtered some clichés, and I felt disgust. I was alone. My loving husband had died in 2001.

And so it goes. I do feel for Rihanna. I understand how she can rationalize the battering. But I do suspect what's coming.

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