My First Time

When I think of saying , "My first time...", it is not about a kiss, sex, love, driving a car, etc.  It is about filing for divorce.  It is about attempting to save my own life.  The first time, my first time, was in 1995; shortly after my first son's Bar Mitzvah.  I had tried so hard to hang on until then.  The abuse was just getting too unbearable, as Robert was hitting me more than ever.  You see, he was charged with a felony - an FDA case for which he plead guilty - and he took it all out on me.

When he would lock me in the bathroom, lock me in a closet, he started involving my sons - asking them, "How long do you think we should keep her in there?"  All I would hear from the other side of  the door was laughter.  All three of them were laughing.  It was as though a Boys' Club was formed.  My sons were recruited and groomed to participate in abusing me. 

The violence, the threats, the blatant cheating - I couldn't take it anymore and began voicing my desire to get out.  I started to realize that so many of Robert's behaviours were extremely bizarre (as were those of his family members -  his parents and sisters).  It took me years, like a slow death, drowning in a pot of boiling water - years of abuse.

It was like living in a cult.  

A friend recommended an attorney and Robert was soon informed of my desire to end the "marriage" legally.  The day we were to appear before a judge in the Westchester County courthouse of New York, in the courthouse lobby before both of our  attorneys, Robert started crying! He told me he didn't want the divorce.  What he really didn't want was anyone looking into his finances during a divorce.

And in the next breath he took, he  told me that if I followed through with a divorce filing, my youngest son would never see his own Bar Mitzvah and would never have all that his older brother had.  After Jared, my younger son, saw all that his older brother Jason had just enjoyed, his celebration was in December of 1994, Robert announced that it would be my fault that Jared would always remain deprived.  

Next strategy:  Robert said I would never see my children again.  This was stated matter of factly as a threat in front of my lawyer at the time, Joel Bender and his attorney, Sandy Dranoff.  Joel told me not to believe anything Robert said, that it was impossible for Robert to carry out his threats.

Joel Bender also told me that if dropped my divorce filing, it would give Robert more time to set me up for disaster - but Joel was referring to financially.  I don't believe he realized the abuse that was about to escalate and the alienating of my sons that Robert was about to accomplish.

My children were my world.  They were my priority.  I feared that Robert would carry through on his threats regarding my sons.  I withdrew my petition for divorce.

Always too scared to tell others about the abuse I endured at the hands of my husband, there was only one time when I reached out to Donald, my father in law.  It was after a terrible beating.  I got to the house phone (no cell phone), called him (he lived 5 minutes away in Armonk). I told him what happened, and my condition - bruised and weak.

All he said was, "You must have provoked him."

That was it for me.

I didn't reach out again for quite some time - not to anyone.  Not until 1998.

The abuse heightened.

Leaving an abusive relationship is complicated and can be very dangerous. It typically takes 7 attempts to leave an abusive relationship. The moment someone tries to flee is when they – and their children, pets or other family members - are at the highest risk of violence.

I tried to leave 7 times.

I filed for divorce 3 times.

He kept me in court for 21 years.

 

Shame on Who?

For over a decade, I worked at a local Jewish preschool.  I absolutely loved it!  I put my heart and soul into it as I enjoyed the children endlessly.  Don't get me wrong, it was a lot of work, and I would get home at the end of the day totally exhausted.  

After exhibiting my undying dedication to my position, one day the director of the preschool called me to her office.  She was never warm nor friendly toward me, so I was surprised at this request.  Needless to say, I immediately went upstairs to her office.

As I sat across from her at her desk, she certainly took me by surprise.  What she wanted to and proceeded to address was something that had absolutely nothing to do with my job position nor the children in my care. 

It was "brought to her attention" that I was a rape and domestic violence survivor.  Most people who know me knew that already.  But she went on to tell me that she was informed that I had written articles for the New Jersey Jewish News and often referenced my history.

Going on and on, I looked at her dumbfoundedly when she told me that the parents of the children in the preschool would not want their children in a classroom with a teacher that was raped or was a survivor of domestic violence.  Shocked and shamed at once, I felt like I was having an out of worldly experience.  

I thought victim blaming had ended when I was put on the witness stand of a Westchester County New York courtroom during my divorce, years earlier.  The harmful attitude that victims are responsible for their assault appeared to rear its ugly head as this preschool director continued to talk at me.

She reiterated that the parents of the preschoolers would not want a teacher with my history.  Without ordering me, she let me know that she did not want me to write about my past abuse experiences again.  The fact that I got out of an abusive marriage as a survivor did not signal an ounce of strength to her.  Instead it reflected a shameful past that should be kept to myself.  Here was yet another person in my life's path that wanted my silence.

Why am I writing this today?

Maybe because I recently watched the movie, "It Ends With Us."  Maybe because I woke up this morning thinking about the position this preschool director put me in years ago, and I beat myself up for not running to the head rabbi at the time - to report her.

And maybe I'm writing this at this very moment because I still want to scream that the shame should not be placed on a victim, but on the perpetrator.....

Shame on anyone that blames a victim for rape and domestic violence.

I continued to work at the preschool for a few years after that "talk."  I certainly regret not speaking out then and allowing that woman to demean me.  She broke part of my spirit then, but I loved the children so much that I stayed for them.  For years afterward.

Silencing a victim can manifest in many different ways.  I pray the parents of the preschoolers are not all so closed minded as the director portrayed them to be.  I never did find out who initially brought such a complaint to the preschool director.

Shame on that person who "reported" me.  

Shame on the preschool director.

Not on me.

I'm healing out loud because I nearly died in silence.

Rape …R-A-P-E

​R-A-P-E 

Some words are better spelled - they lose their intensity. And sometimes you spell them out so others don't know what you are talking about.  You know, like when you have small children present. There are some words, though, that don't diminish in audacity or alarm when spelled.  Rape is one them.  I have had a difficult time saying the word. Writing is often easier than speaking.

 I know the date of July 4, 1978, in the same way one remembers a birthday, an anniversary, or a death....After years of therapy, I am finally able to recall what happened to me in a way that assists other women in realizing the danger signs leading up to the trauma. The man who raped me - he planned it.  And he was not alone in his plan of sexual violence. For some reason, realizing that it probably was a premeditated violation of my personal being, made it that much worse.

There have been studies conducted nationally as there seems to be a debate on the "semantics" of rape.  It was once believed that a woman could not be considered a reliable narrator of the sexual violence she had endured.  I however, do not believe this to be so.  Suffering and surviving such a crime leaves the victim traumatized.  Such trauma usually results in Post Traumatic Stress.  And Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (referred to as PTSD) unfortunately allows a woman to recall the most minute details of a rape.  I know this for a fact.  Just ask me a question about what happened to me on the evening of July 4...over 30 years ago.

I was raped by a young man, a neighbor, who was soon after to become my abusive husband of 20 years.

It was the summer of 1978.  I had just graduated from the Hartford Art School, at the University of Hartford, and returned home - to Surrey Drive in New Rochelle, New York, to live with my parents.   I came from a comfortable financial background.  My father was the art director of IBM.  He specialized in set designs and entertainment show productions that were sponsored by International Business Machines.  From the earliest years in my life, I was exposed to chauffeur driven limousines, suites at top hotels (we had the Presidential Suite at the Waldorf Astoria on a regular basis for when we frequented Manhattan), and a life filled with famous people.  I played piano while Ella Fitzgerald sang her heart out during rehearsals in Bermuda, practiced piano with Duke Ellington's Orchestra, and sat on Joel Gray's lap as he belted out a Cabaret tune in San Francisco (I was almost as big as he was - and I was a youngster!)....Many travels included annual stays at all the top Miami Beach establishments of the 60's and 70's, as well as a waterfront 6,000 square foot house in Port Antonio, Jamaica (equipped with a driver, cook, and housekeeper). So I lived a charmed life.  But my mother always let it be known that I wasn’t “wanted”, via verbal attacks on my character or appearance…or via physical abuse.  It’s sad what you can get used to.  I was an inconvenience to her lifestyle and travel plans.  No affection there.  That's just a little background.

My parents had a boat at the Castaways Yacht Club in New Rochelle.  And so did the family up the street from my childhood home - the Levines lived within walking distance from my family, the Greenbaums.  I knew of Robert , the family's son, from school - but never had anything to do with him.  As I was accustom to stating back then, he hung out with the hoodlums in high school.  On my return to New Rochelle after college graduation, Robert approached me while we were both enjoying our memberships at the Yacht Club.  One day in May, he asked me to a movie.  I remember Donna Summers was in that movie - and I also remember explaining to Robert that it was in no way considered a "date." And I paid for myself.

After that movie, I attended his cousin's Bat Mitzvah with him.  Robert even came to my college graduation ceremony. He wasn’t invited to attend but was very pushy in inviting himself.  We went out a total of three times as friends when he pulled the car over one evening, with me in the passenger seat of his car.  He turned to look at me and said that after going "out" three times, people are supposed to consummate their relationship.  I don't know whether it was a nervous reaction, but I cracked up laughing.  I remember laughing so hard!  I did think he was nuts because I was so NOT dating him....at least that was in my mind.  And for further information - a kiss of any sort was never even exchanged.  I had never let him touch me. As Robert seemed to anger at my laughter, he said nothing.  I assumed it was a joke.  He dropped me off at my house and we called it a night.

The following week was Independence Day.  Little did I know that Independence Day would brand me for life - as a rape victim.

Robert invited me to see the fireworks at Harbor Island, in Mamaroneck, along with him and his friends Tad and Leslie.  Tad was his high school buddy, but I had yet to know him personally.  Tad drove that evening and picked me up at my home.  July 4th fireworks were followed by a meal across the street in a Harbor Island restaurant.  I had a burger...and a glass of wine.  I remember the drive home - or the attempted drive home.  Tad dropped off Leslie first, at a home in White Plains. Looking back, I realize that was a bit strange.  Then Robert asked me if I wanted to see the stereo equipment he had just gotten.  He said it was special as it was set up to record his older sister's phone conversations.  I don't know why I did, but I agreed to go into his house to see it.  Tad pulled into the Levine driveway.  No one was home in the Levine house....his parents lived on their boat at the yacht club during summers.  I followed Robert into the house, but Tad stayed outside the door.  Strange......

As I entered Robert's bedroom behind him, I saw a wall of stereo equipment on one wall.  He turned it on. I saw an opened window (I remember it was open even though I had expected air conditioning to be on), and a plaid bedspread on his bed......blue carpeting and then a shove!  I was pushed down on the twin bed.  His weight was heavy over my 110 pound frame.  I had on white jeans and a navy and white striped top.  He was wearing a printed top and jeans.  And then, with all the force he could, he kept me down and pulled open my pants.  At first, I had no voice.  I didn't know where it went.  My head was telling my throat to scream, but it came out on a delay.  I did finally yell "no", "stop"....and all the while, Tad was waiting outside that bedroom window which overlooked the driveway.  Tad must have known what was happening - and he did nothing to help me.

Relaying my experience last weekend, someone said that the entire episode must have been planned between Robert and Tad.  In my mind, that makes the crime even worse.  And I do know how bad it is.  It effected my entire life.

When it was over, Robert made a horrible comment to me.  He told me that he wanted me to shower first next time!  I cried and cried as he steered me out of the house and into Tad's car.  No words were spoken in that 2 minute car ride back to my house.  I was branded.  And Tad drove away.

For weeks, I isolated myself.  Couldn't eat, drink or sleep.  I told no one of what happened.  I blamed myself - that glass of wine.  Would I have been stronger if I hadn't had that glass of wine....would my judgement have been better without it?  But nothing I did warranted being

R-A-P-E-D.     

Years ago, I heard from my younger son's then fiancée, Tanyha (but they broke up without marrying)....another story for another time.  She had asked me via email (which I saved), why I abandoned my sons (which I never did) and how special it was that Jared's father and I were childhood sweethearts (NEVER NEVER NEVER - I was raped and felt branded, hopeless, helpless and married the abuser).  I corrected the stories she was told.  If it weren't so sad, it would be funny.  And I can't imagine what kind of stories my older son, Jason, might have told his wife. Awful.

Back in the 1970's, a rape shaped my future.  It was also a time in New York history where rape victims were put through the ringer to testify against the rapists.  Rapists were avoiding imprisonment, because their victims were too terrified and traumatized.  I did not have the support of a loving family to run to.  They would have blamed me.  Decades later, as I sat on a witness stand during my fault trial for divorce, my ex husband's attorney made statements citing that my choice of underwear was the "reason" for a  brutal marital rape I had experienced (this form of abuse was used to assert dominance over me and demean me ) as Robert continued his violent mindset to humiliate, control and victimize me for years. Attorney Michael S. Bank has stated in court transcripts that Robert raped me due to my own actions.  Again, it would be funny - if it weren't so sad and absurd.     

No one has the right to take away a woman's right to say NO - and no one should ever try to break my spirit. 

Rape is rape.  We need to be able to say the word, and spread the word.  The clarity of that phrase should never be disputed.  And No means No.

Naples is a Never

 Last month, I had a brief hospitalization due to a doctor's misdiagnosis.  It was terrifying.  A form of sepsis was the culprit.  Treatment alone was brutal as antibiotic IV's came with their own side effects.  But I survived it and am feeling so much better today.

When I returned home, a friend told me I needed a vacation.  I have not been on a vacation since my 2013 trip to Israel with my synagogue community.  My first thought to my friend's conversation wasn't that it would be a welcome distraction.  Oh, no.  My first thought was that I did not want to leave my precious pup.

And to my surprise, my friend offered a solution.

She and her husband have a condo in Florida.  She suggested I go down for a few days and bring my dog.  I did not know where in Florida her condo was, but seeing palm trees again would have been wonderful.  Then, within a matter of seconds, her offer was invalid in my eyes.

I asked her, "Where in Florida?"

Naples, Florida.

Immediately my skin began to crawl.  Goosebumps appeared on my flesh.

Naples, Florida.

There are some things that I know.  Some things that are not just my opinion.  And one such knowledge includes the fact that real monsters exist and they are disguised as humans.

A monster lives in Naples, Florida - Robert.  My abusive ex-husband.

There is something known as body memories.  Victims of trauma can actually feel the results of the abuse years later.  I was triggered just thinking of his existence.  The town that he now calls a place to live.

Robert still has his hand in his business of Foodirect in the Hunts Point Market of the Bronx, checking in sometimes physically and mostly virtually; always putting in his two cents and controlling our adult sons who work there. But he has made his main residence Naples, Florida.

Naples will never see me.  I live my life doing safety assessments.  Anywhere he is, is not safe!  Robert sold our property at 11 Piping Brook Lane in Bedford last year - and even though he still owes me my half of it from a divorce so many years ago, I got zero dollars.  That's what happens when I couldn't afford a lawyer and he has a team of them to drown me.  He brags to everyone about that.  He relocated to Naples, Florida. And that town will never be safe as long as the monster abides there.  

If you live in Naples, Florida, it should come with a warning.  

So much for my little get away - but I am more than content where I am.  Home with my beloved dog.