When love hurts: The story of an abused woman

I was overcome with conflicting emotions when I heard the judge issue the sentence to Rob*: two years plus a day in a federal penitentiary for raping and physically abusing me for six months. Part of me felt guilt. I know it sounds crazy, but I still loved Rob and pitied him having to go to jail. I also felt rage. The sentence was too short. Will this really deter Rob from beating another woman? I also felt satisfaction. Justice, albeit not enough, had been served.

It started with romance
When I first met Rob, I had been a single mom for about eight and a half years. I have four children (then aged eight, nine, 11 and 16) and had full custody of them following my divorce from their father. My entire life was devoted to my two jobs -- security guard and store clerk -- and raising my children, trying as best I could to give them opportunities to succeed. I didn't date. I didn't have the time, nor did I want to bring another man into my kids' lives unless I was sure it was going to last.

Rob's stepmother was my youngest son's school teacher. For a year and a half she begged me to meet him, saying we would be perfect together. I hesitated because I didn't want to be set up with anyone, but her nagging eventually worked, and I agreed she could give him my telephone number.

When I first met Rob, it was electric and magical. He wined and dined me like no other man; he bought me chocolates, sent me flowers and left me little gifts on my pillow. He always touched me softly on the hand and the back of the neck. He made me feel like I was the most important person in the world. Even to this day, I never loved anyone as much as Rob.

The abuse begins
The honeymoon period ended the day after we were married -- six months from when we first met. He moved into my townhouse and brought his dog despite my explaining to him that we weren't allowed pets. When I came home from work, he was on the way out with the dog.

"Are you going for a walk?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "I'm leaving. You won't let me keep my dog."

"Well, maybe you should have married your dog," I answered jokingly.

Rob is about six foot three and 225 pounds. I'm five foot four and 100 pounds. He grabbed me by the waist and lifted me up against the wall. He wore big pewter biker rings on every finger and started smashing me in the face with his knuckles. He grabbed my hands and bent them backward, breaking one of my fingers.

I was in shock. I was stunned. But I didn't leave. A few hours after the incident, Rob broke into tears and told me how sorry he was. I loved him so much, so I believed him when he said it wouldn't happen again.

But life became hell after that. For the next two months the abuse was nonstop. Rob kept me in a constant state of terror. I'm not a drinker, but he'd toss a rum and Coke in my face and say drink. He'd punch me in the stomach or kick me in the thigh if I didn't. I started walking on tiptoes around him, fearful of everything I'd say and do. But it didn't matter; the abuse continued. He dislocated my shoulder several times. He'd lift me up by the ankles and bang my head against the floorboards in the living room.

A woman of two minds
A part of me wanted to leave, but another part of me hesitated. I've since learned that most battered women put up with an awful lot of abuse before they finally leave. Somehow I felt I was partially responsible for the abuse. If I hadn't made a particular comment or if I had just sipped the rum and Coke everything would have been OK. And for the first few months Rob was apologetic after the beatings. He'd say he felt rotten and that he didn't mean to hit me so hard. He'd cry and show such remorse that I'd forget my own pain. He'd become romantic and sweet, and I'd fall in love with him all over again.

I started to isolate myself from friends and family. I didn't want them to know about the violence. I covered my facial wounds with makeup. I put on a happy face with my kids and tried to act like things were fine. They knew about the violence but didn't know the severity. I was a security guard and worked most nights by myself or just one other person. I didn't have to do a lot of explaining. When my mom wanted to see me, I'd lie, saying I was busy. I didn't want her to see my bruises. I was embarrassed.

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