A Chick in the Cockpit (18 page)

In the weeks and months after my return, I was a walking deprivation chamber. I honestly couldn't feel anything—good or bad. I didn't notice if the sun was shining or if the rain was pouring. Food had no taste; I couldn't smell fresh air, and my thoughts repeated over and over. I couldn't get the nightmare of being attacked out of my mind, and the transition of thought went from the attack, to the scene in the truck in which he told me I needed to apologize to him.

Like the characters of
A Nightmare on Elm Street
, I was even afraid to fall asleep because if I ever reached deep enough peace to achieve REM sleep, I had horrific nightmares about Brad attacking me. My husband. The one person in this world who promised to love and care for me. The same scene would replay in the nightmare, and I would wake up drenched in sweat with my heart racing. It was the beginning of sleep issues starting with insomnia. I was exhausted, but I couldn't get to sleep. My mind would not shut off.

I have never taken sleeping pills because it's not allowed in the aviation industry, and I didn't want to now because I had a little girl I was always listening for. I still can't believe how naïve I was. I refused to medicate myself, even though I was falling apart at the seams. In the reverse of a drug addict, I felt that by not taking pills I was still in charge on my life, which should have made me feel better. In truth, I wasn't in charge of anything in my life, and I should have found a way to at least get some sleep.

I knew the importance of sleep after working the red-eye for two years. I knew and viewed what lack of sleep did to a pilot's motor reflexes and focus. Even though we were fully awake, tired brains still try and shutdown if denied rest. To combat this, to the horror of public opinion, I used to tell my copilot and engineer to sleep once we were established at cruising altitude. I found that even a few minutes would refresh their focus and spirit. I would assign turns and told them to lay their seat back and rest, even if they couldn't fall asleep. But come on, these were men. They were out like a light in less than five minutes. I would let them rest for about twenty minutes and then let the other crewmember sleep. I never slept because I was the captain, but I felt this was safer than denying our circadian dysfunction. My advice: get some sleep. You need your strength and focus for the landing.

Two weeks after court, my orders came in to meet my parole officer and check in with him. I drove to the county offices and waited with the rest of the offenders. I brought a book with me and didn't look anyone in the eye. I had no idea what to expect when I met Sam. He was wearing a cliché social worker gray cardigan sweater and had the grizzled appearance of having seen the dregs of society. I was sure he'd seen it all, and after seeing the waiting room full of offenders, I figured he just wanted to get me in and out without any hassle.

I began the conversation like the game in the courtroom. Just comply and agree and get the hell out of there, but Sam asked me about my life and history. He looked at the court report, and asked, “Okay, now tell me what really happened. This doesn't add up. I ran a background check on you, and you haven't even had so much as a speeding or parking ticket in your life. That kind of person doesn't end up in a parole office without some help.”

With that question, I burst out crying. I told him the whole story. Reliving it again made me nauseous, and I was sobbing like a toddler by the time I was done. I was inconsolable.

“Erika. You're not the first woman to sit here. I've seen variations of this story over and over. You now belong to a secret society of battered women who have had the added insult of being tangled in the legal system. You will not find justice here. There is no easy way out, either. Actually, right now, there is no way out except one, and even that will leave you with the burden of having a record. Every time you apply for a job, the question will still be, ‘Have you ever been arrested,' and your answer will be ‘yes.' You plead guilty to a crime. Most people don't know that when they accept the diversion program.

“I'm going to give you a list of counselors approved by the county for the diversion program you agreed to. I have to remind you that you must adhere to these rules. They're strict, and your failure to follow them will land you in jail. If you don't show up, the counselor will call me, and there will be a warrant issued for your arrest if you don't have a medical reason. You better be in the hospital or in class. It's serious, so don't screw it up. Don't give anyone any reason to put you back in jail. If you even get a speeding ticket or have any type of police contact, you need to call me
immediately
. You also cannot leave the state. Do you understand all of this? You'll need to attend your classes and you'll also have to continue meeting with me for the next year.”

I nodded and quietly accepted his list of recommendations, including names of people I would have to meet with for the next thirty-six weeks. I had officially lost all control over my own life.

“Erika, do you have any family here in Colorado? Where are your mom and dad? Siblings?” I hung my head as the feelings of humiliation and loneliness penetrated even further.

“No, I have no one. My dad lives in northern Minnesota and my mom lives in Phoenix. She's sick and can hardly handle day-to-day life. My sister has disconnected from the family. All my other relatives live in Minnesota. I just moved to Colorado and have no close friends. I have a ton of acquaintances, but no one who can help me with this. I love my parents dearly, and I can't drag them into this.”

“You mean your parents don't know about this? The abuse?”

“God, no. I don't want
anyone
to know about this. I wish
I
didn't know about this. My parents wouldn't believe it anyway. Anytime my family comes to visit, Brad puts on the best show you can imagine. He helps cook, does the dishes, tells jokes with my dad...they are always saying how lucky I am. Both my parents were against my marrying Brad in the first place, so it would just turn into an ‘I-told-you-so fest.' I have to just live with this.”

“Yes, you have to live with this punishment, but no, you don't have to live with the person who did this, Erika.”

“For now, I do. I have a baby, I have no job, and now with this arrest, I can't get an aviation job, and it's the only thing I know how to do.”

My domestic violence/anger management counseling classes were on Tuesday nights. I told Brad that I needed to leave by 5:00 p.m. because my class was an hour away. The two-hour class was the closest class I could get, so I wouldn't get home until 9:00 p.m. He said to make sure that Lindsey was fed and bathed before I left, and that he would get her to bed.

The hour-long drive gave me a chance to work myself up into a frenzy of fear for my first intake meeting with the counselor. I imagined a room full of men smoking cigarettes telling each other how they enjoyed beating their wives and why should anyone tell them to stop? I figured I would be the only woman there, and that getting raped was a good possibility when our session was over each evening.

As it turned out, my fears were unfounded, since it was a women's only group. Gina, the owner and therapist for the diversion program, was not what I expected. She was five feet five inches of understanding and had a pure hatred of mean men. She had been in an abusive relationship herself and kept the passion of pain from those moments with her at all times. She had no tolerance for any woman who defended being abused.

I met with Gina privately and, through my embarrassment and humiliation, we completed my intake session. My face was red when we got done, and I was utterly exhausted. Sitting in an empty classroom for people who got arrested for domestic violence, Gina leaned her chair back and said, “Give it to me. What are you doing here, and what do you want to get out of this? I teach Domestic Violence and Anger Management counseling, but I mostly work with the women in these situations. Rarely do I have a woman who is an actual abuser. Don't get me wrong, I definitely have some women in here who are scary as shit. They'll throw a punch at anyone, and they do extensive damage. But if you listen to ‘em long enough though, you'll hear their story, and it ain't pretty. They have a reason to be mad at the world. What they're doing isn't right, but they've got a good excuse. Usually, I have women who have just had enough and tried to defend themselves, and got messed up with the cops. The anger management I teach is how to handle what's been done to you, because if you didn't have anger before, you're going to have it now. I know the state doesn't realize this is how it is, or what I teach. All they know is that I produce results, and my students don't re-offend because I teach them how to stay safe, even though these men will still abuse my clients. Your husband will probably switch from physical to mental abuse now—in every way shape and form—from holding or stealing your money, to isolating you. And the best part is that he'll use your kids to control you. Does that sound about right to you?”

I just sat there with my mouth open and tears clouding my vision.

It dawned on me at that moment that I was already in that world. He had already taken my money, but I had to remind myself that I'd given it to him. He had used my daughter to get me arrested, but the fault was mine for not defending myself better. I was isolated by circumstance. He had his family and familiarity around him, so even though he had no close friends, he had support and strength, and I didn't realize it.

Denial. It stealthily creeps in and, like a mosquito, you don't even know it's in your body until the poison has already been released. As Gina described the symptoms of abuse and the topics we'd be covering in class, I quietly told myself that I was too extraordinary to fit any of these categories. There was no way that I was so stupid to have chosen an abuser as a husband. I loved myself, and I loved my life, so why would I have done that? Nope, there had to be a misunderstanding, and I would learn how to fix this mechanical problem. Now, where did I put that checklist?

My first Anger Management class changed me forever. What started as visions of high school dropout, bar-brawling women picking fights with their men turned out to be eight other highly educated sophisticated women who were in situations so vastly different from mine, yet so identical that we could trade places.

Since everyone in the class has started at different weeks of the year, women were always coming into the program while others were close to leaving. The format of the class required that every new person had to share their story of how they got there before joining the group. Just the thought of telling strangers what happened made my insides turn to liquid. I didn't know where to begin, and since I hadn't heard any of their stories yet, I thought for sure I would be laughed at for sticking to the old prison adage of “I'm innocent.”

I methodically explained the fight that landed me in jail. I repeatedly explained how it was my fault, too, and that I shouldn't have pushed him away from me. I took ownership of my role in the fight, thinking that's what I
should
be saying. I explained that as a mother, there was something there that day that made me behave in a way I couldn't explain. When my husband swore at me and called me names in front of our daughter, a new emotion tore through me that told my body to get this predator away from my baby. I told my story looking at the floor. I couldn't bear to look up or into anyone's eyes; I was so ashamed of myself. Once again, I couldn't stop the tears from falling, and when I was done, I took a deep breath and looked up. Reflecting back to me were sixteen sad, concerned eyes, all with tears and an understanding that transferred through the moments of silence following my story.

Gina just let the room be silent and, per protocol, nobody made any comments. The next woman began her story, and I couldn't wait to hear how someone else got here, too. Just by looking at her, it had to be a joke that she was sitting in this class. She was a sophisticated, soft-spoken, silver haired grandmother from Evergreen. At five-foot nothing, Mary's story didn't need height.

Mary and her husband had gone out to the Little Bear (the local watering hole with great music and burgers) with her out-of-town family and some friends for some dancing and dinner. Shortly after dinner, her husband was tired and wanted to leave early. Since there was a large group, Mary decided to stay behind.

When she returned home with her family, her husband of thirty-five years accused her of having an affair. Several of Mary's family members wrestled her husband onto the couch, all while her husband called her a string of obscenities. She admittedly lost her composure and felt the only appropriate response was to bop him on the nose while he was pinned under one of her family members. This should have been the end of her story, but it wasn't.

Two days later, Mary's husband, still beyond angry about his humiliation, went to the doctor because he thought his nose “looked crooked.” The nurse asked how it happened, and her husband, knowing that by telling the nurse about what his wife had done would get her arrested, told the nurse every last detail. By law, the nurse turned Mary in. Mary was babysitting her grandchildren when two uniformed officers pulled into her driveway to arrest her for assault and domestic violence at sixty-two years old. Mary, a sophisticated, soft spoken regal woman was placed in the back of a cop car, in front of her grandchildren, and taken away. The arresting officer could have picked her up with one arm and carried her to jail, she was so dainty.

The stories were all similar. One woman had thrown a candle holder and was charged with assault with a weapon. One had pulled the phone out of the wall so her husband couldn't call his girlfriend (interfering with a telephone is illegal, too—I didn't know that). Each story had its own premise, but the end result is that the women were sent to jail.