Headlines don’t tell the whole story of domestic violence.
Once again, allegations of domestic violence have coming roaring from behind closed doors to give us a glimpse of what is happening inside.
The disappearance of Jennifer Dulos and her statements in court filings that she feared her husband — and for her safety — before she went missing has gripped the nation.
It has all the lurid details to keep the fascinated glued to what’s coming next — wealth, a love affair and a trail of blood.
By now, we know Jennifer Dulos, 50, filed papers to divorce her husband, Fotis Dulos, 51, in 2017 after 13 years of marriage. In court papers, the breakup of the marriage erupted into a bitter custody dispute with allegations by Jennifer Dulos of living in fear and intimidation.
She disappeared and was reported missing on May 24. Police and search dogs have followed a bloody trail that has yet to lead to her or her remains.
Her husband and his girlfriend, Michelle Troconis, 44, have been arrested and charged with tampering with or fabricating physical evidence and hindering prosecution in the first degree.
And as the days go by, the headlines continue.
But headlines don’t tell the whole story.
I wonder how many people drove past Jennifer Dulos’ home before she disappeared and envied her life?
My longtime readers know about my history overcoming domestic violence under a man who ruled with an iron fist and let intimidation do the talking.
In 2014, I wrote how difficult my journey out of domestic violence had been. I wrote about how hard it was to rebirth myself, how hard it was to find worth in myself and how PTSD from those years broke me down.
In 2018, I wrote again how I was left emotionally scarred. I wrote how it took decades to shake the horror of the physical blows, the emotional trauma and the psychological scarring before I began to see the James Walker everyone else saw, and began to care what happened to me.
And as I have written, those columns gave readers the short version because the long version of the journey was not fit for newspaper print and the words would not have rested easy on reader’s eyes.
And I know from those columns that I am not alone as comments poured in from around the United States. People in their 90s wrote to tell me the memories of the abuse they withstood from their fathers and mothers still reverberate.
More than 5 million children every year witness domestic violence — and those disturbing images replay over and over. And as that slideshow mars their vision, many children of domestic violence mentally retreat, hiding from themselves and even turning on themselves.
Experts say children exposed to domestic violence are more likely to attempt suicide (I did, twice), abuse drugs and alcohol (been there, done that) and engage in teenage prostitution (I did that).
It took that and a lot more that I probably will never write about in a newspaper to become comfortable in my own skin.
Domestic violence is back in the headlines to remind us of the evil hidden behind the vows.
I will always write about domestic violence and the torment of its long-term effects. I guess it is because I still search for the why — and that part of me that needs reasoning and resolution has never healed. And I know it never will because there is no reasoning as to why parents would bring children into the world and then abuse them.
Somehow, I survived and eventually thrived — as did my brother and sisters, who have their own stories to tell.
But it was a long, complicated journey.
We buried my father on Aug. 18, 1970. I won’t recount his final, ugly moment on Earth, but you can read what he did in my column on my journey back.
We buried our mother on Sept. 6, 2004.
We still become emotional when talking about her death, and you can read why in my column, “Mothers? I had the greatest.”
If not for her “one moment of
Domestic violence is back in the headlines to remind us of the evil hidden behind the vows.
courage,” when she gathered her nerve and left my father for the unknown at a time when women were still considered gifts to men, I don’t know where we would be or what eventually would have happened.
We walked the streets at night dragging garbage bags stuffed with our meager belongings behind us as we looked for a place to sleep. We slept in abandoned storefronts and on park benches; we were hungry and desperate and we cried a lot, but we made it.
And that is why our mother remains a hero to us.
I have never been able to find a place in my heart for my father, despite what I now know are some of the good things he taught me.
Because when I think of him, all I can hear is my mother screaming. And I know, I always will. Domestic violence? Headlines don’t tell the story.