“Goin’ to the chapel and we’re gonna get married.” 

That was the tune that played in my heart and in my mind on February 15th,  1992. I originally wanted to get married on Valentine’s Day, February the 14th , but the chapel was booked. I had to accept the date of February 15th. 

I woke up early that morning to the sound of rain. It was my wedding day and I wanted everything to be perfect. As I looked out the window, at six months pregnant, and listened to the sounds of whooshing cars driving on the street, I became worried. I wondered how my hair would hold up. 

Flash-back to 1991. It was a quiet Saturday evening. I had been living with Robert less than a year. His nephew Eddie had been living with him too, he was 20 years old. Eddie would be the one to help Robert win my heart. 

Eddie and I were playing Scrabble, one of my favorite board games. I had my pj’s on and I was wearing Robert’s robe. I loved Robert and I loved relaxing in his robe. 

When Robert arrived home from work, you can only imagine what he was thinking. His eyes were fixated on me, and he said to me, 

“What are you doing?” The stench of booze was in the air. 

“Come here,” said.

I arose and followed him to the bathroom. He grabbed me and yanked the robe open and said, “What are you TWO doing?”

“We’re playing scrabble, what do you thing we’re doing?” I answered.

Without any warning, I was shoved in the bathtub, hitting the back of my head and landing curled up in the tub. When Robert called out to Eddie, I heard silence, and then a door slam. I guess he bolted. Eddie knew his uncle so well. Robert had a temper. 

After that incident, Robert apologized and wooed me with flowers. Back then I was a petite 30-year-old woman weighing 120 pounds. Robert was six feet tall, weighing 165 pounds, with muscular arms, hands strong enough to break concrete, and rightfully so, because he was a construction worker. He could hoist a sledge hammer with one hand if necessary. 

Now fast forward to February 15, 1992, on that rainy day, I married Robert and I was married to him for 18 1/2 years. In all, we were together for 20 years. But I would endure much more abuse from him in the marriage. It would be physical, verbal, emotional, and mental. 

Why would I take that abuse from him? Because I loved him and I thought that was his love for me. The more he beat on me and the more he yelled at me, I would think, “This man really loves me.” 

But why would I think or believe that? Was I that naïve? Or stupid? Why would I think that was his love for me? But that’s exactly what I thought. I know now that’s not what love is. 

Most of the time I felt trapped, especially after having our children. When I was a young girl growing up, I witnessed my own parents arguing and yelling at each other. Maybe that’s what caused me to think, or believe, that that’s what a relationship should be like. 

There were good times in our marriage but there were just too many bad times, awful times. Each time the dust would settle or the storm would pass, after a huge fight, we’d go back to square one, arguing and yelling at each other. I thought the marriage would get better but it didn’t, it just got worse, and worse, day after day, month after month, and year after year. 

Until one day without any warning, I divorced Robert. I’m not proud of that but in order to save myself, I had to divorce him. But it got even worse. 

Ever see the movie “The War of the Roses?” Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas? That’s exactly who we became. Our lives were in shambles and with our children watching in horror, the war of the Gonzales’s continued during the divorce.

But please don’t pity me because today I’m a strong independent woman.