I Am Not Your Victim

Anatomy of Domestic Violence

Beth M. Sipe, Evelyn J. Hall

• Publisher: SAGE Publications, Inc
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781483322346
• Edition: 2
• Topic: Psychology
• Subtopic: Interpersonal Relations in Psychology
• Index: Psychology

I Am Not Your Victim: Anatomy of Domestic Abuse, Second Edition, vividly details the evolution of domestic violence during the 16-year marriage of author Beth Sipe. Encouraged to publish her story by her therapist and co-author, Evelyn J. Hall, Beth relates the background and events leading up to and immediately following the tragic act of desperation that ended the life of her sadistic perpetrator. Beth's subsequent mishandling by the police, the military, a mental health professional, and the welfare system illustrates how women like Beth face further revictimization and neglect by the very systems that should provide support and assistance. Insightful commentaries written by experts in the field follow Beth's story and deepen readers’ understanding of the causes and process of spousal abuse, why battered women stay, and the dynamic consequences of domestic violence.

This updated edition includes new commentaries and an epilogue that tracks what happened to Beth in the years following the book’s publication. Author Beth Sipe would love to hear your comments about the book. She is also available for speaking engagements and can be reached at [email protected].

1

A FINE ROMANCE

On a cold, wintry night in January 1971, I first met Steven Sipe. Susan, a good friend of mine, had been pestering me for weeks to meet him, but my standard reply to her was, “I’m not interested.” On that particular night, I went out with Susan and my sister, Nancy, to the 18-Club, a hangout mostly for young people. Soon after we arrived, Steven, or Sam as he liked to be called, came over to our table with one of his buddies.

They introduced themselves politely enough, but to me, Sam seemed cocky and obnoxious. They were both Air Force guys, stationed in Blytheville, Arkansas, about fifteen miles from Steele, Missouri, where I lived. I deliberately gave him the cold shoulder, but for some reason, Sam and his buddy hung around us all night. Sam acted smug and superior, mouthing off things like, “All you southerners are racists and that’s stupid.” Many of his words still echo in my mind. ‘‘You girls from the South have never seen anybody like me,” he bragged, “You just don’t know what you’re missing until you’ve had a lover like me; I’m the greatest.” As soon as I could get Susan alone, I made it clear to her that I did not like Sam and certainly did not want to date him.

Up to that point, I would say my life had not been easy, but it was not terrible either. I was born April 6, 1951, to Ethel, age thirty-five, and Aaron Nunnery, age fifty-five, in Holland, Missouri, about eighty miles from Cape Girardeau. It was Dad’s second marriage, so I had two grown half-sisters. I also had a brother, Ronald, age five, and a sister, Nancy, age three. My dad was a sharecropper on forty acres of land, and although we were poor, we had a good name. It was always said “Mr. Nunnery doesn’t have to sign anything; his name is good enough.”

The house we lived in had four rooms—a front room, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. The yard where we played had no grass, just dirt which we swept clean every day. There were three big cottonwood trees which provided shade and tons of white fuzzy stuff in the fall which made me scratch until I drew blood at times. There was a black coal stove in the front room and a kerosene heater in one bedroom for heat. When it got very cold, we all slept in the bedroom with the heater. We had no electricity until I was five and no indoor plumbing ever. There was an outhouse, and we pumped water from a well in the backyard into a lime-treated barrel for all our water needs.

My parents were strict, but I never remember feeling abused by them. If Momma disciplined us, she used a switch on our legs and we had to cut the switch for her. If Daddy disciplined us, which was rare, he gave us a couple of swats on the bottom with a belt. In total, I recall being spanked only three or four times—and each time, I deserved it.

My parents had an old-fashioned marriage; that is, Momma pretty well did what Daddy told her, and he made all the big decisions. If they disagreed with each other, Momma usually just got quiet. In a lot of ways, their relationship resembled that of Archie and Edith Bunker except that Daddy was constantly hugging and kissing Momma. I’m told that before my brother was born, Daddy was a heavy drinker, but he quit when my brother was born, so I never saw any of that.

All in all, we were a close, loving family. I was especially spoiled by Daddy because I was the baby. I was a tomboy and followed Daddy around as much as I could. By the time I could toddle, it was my job to take him a jug of water, morning and afternoon, out in the fields where he was working.

From the time I can remember, we grew cotton, soybeans, wheat, corn (enough to feed the animals), plus a vegetable garden large enough for us to can food for the winters. Until I was about six years old, we had two mules to do the field work—no tractor and no car. Then we got a tractor, and it was used for field work and as transportation anywhere we went. We also had a cow, a few pigs, and some chickens. We started to work early on the farm and were usually in bed by 8:30 p.m.

School was let out in the fall so we could pick cotton full time. The going wage for cotton was three cents a pound. We worked for Daddy, and he paid us two cents a pound. When we were waiting for the second opening of the fields, we worked for neighboring farmers; then we got three cents a pound. Cotton picking was hard for us kids. The cotton burrs broke off in our hands, and the morning dew on the cotton, called poisoning, got into these scratches so that our hands were always infected. At times, we picked barefoot with our pant legs rolled up, standing in water up to our knees. The black edges of the cotton bolls stayed in our hands like splinters for years.

Sitting around trying to pick these out of our hands was a common evening pastime. Cotton picking makes you old before your time. I watched my daddy become on old man with skin cancer on his hands, face, and ears. I remember wishing my momma didn’t have to pick because she still had to come in and cook and clean after a full day in the fields. I knew how weary she must have felt because often we were too tired even to eat.

Momma held each child’s money and kept records for us. She gave us a small amount each week to spend for candy or junk, but we used most of the money to buy our clothes and school supplies. On Saturdays, we went to Holland or Steele to buy groceries, clothes, or other necessities.

Across three fields from our house stood the Samford Church of Christ. It was named for Boss Samford, a big land holder and store owner, noted for being honest and a very good man. The church was built on his land, and it was comforting to be able to see it from home. We belonged to this church and attended regularly. I never remember a time during my growing up years without the church.

When I was about twelve years old, we moved to Steele, Missouri, because our farm was rented to someone else. That first summer and fall we worked on other farms, chopping and picking cotton. Then I found a job in a small ice cream stand, making fifty cents an hour.

Living in town meant hard times for us because we had to buy all the things we had previously supplied for ourselves on the farm. We all had to pitch in and work at whatever we could find. Once I turned thirteen, I began working in a restaurant and tried to continue school. I finished grade school in Steele. Then the junior highs of Holland and Steele were combined to form South Pemiscot, so we were bused to Holland every day. I always liked school and made good grades, but the working and going to school got to be too much for me, and I dropped out in the tenth grade.

Growing up was no bed of roses, but I think working hard and being raised this way taught all of us some good values. Mainly, work for what you get, do the best you can at your job, and don’t be ashamed to sign your name to your work if you’ve done the best job you can do.

While I never fancied myself beautiful, I knew the boys liked me. When I finished growing, I stood five feet four inches and weighed about a hundred pounds. I had long honey-colored hair and big blue-green eyes. Everyone said I had a beautiful smile and a low, sexy voice. Although I had plenty of chances, I never dated much because I didn’t have time.

In January 1968, I visited my sister, Nancy, who had moved to Memphis. I was seventeen and felt quite grown-up. While there, I found a job as a coupon clipper for a gas station. On the job, I met and soon married John Theodore Walker, the station manager. Terry, as he liked to be called, was older, twenty-four, and I was impressed by his air of confidence. I guess you could say we had a whirlwind romance. We married on May 4, 1968, but I only lived with him a couple of months. He got drunk and hit me one time. That was it for me; I left immediately and went back home to my parents even though I was pregnant. I was hurt and scared, but as time passed without a hassle from Terry, I was relieved that my marriage had ended.

Back in Steele, I found work right away, keeping house and baby-sitting three children, ages six, five, and two, for a recently widowed neighbor man. His wife had broken her leg and died of tetanus. I stayed with my parents and worked during the days until one month after the birth of my first son, Roland Matthew Walker, on February 8, 1969. I only missed five days of work when I had Matt.

Matt’s birth was an ordeal for me at eighteen with no husband. The doctor had planned to do a caesarean if the baby was larger than five pounds, but the doctor was not available when I checked into the hospital. I was alone in hard labor for eighteen and a half hours, and since I refused any drugs out of concern for possible damage to the baby, I felt every pain. Only when the baby’s hand and arm were hanging out did someone begin to pay attention. I heard them whispering, “We can’t get the baby back in or out.” So when they strapped me down—my wrists, my elbows, my ankles, even my thighs—I knew I was in for something bad. I kept praying they wouldn’t kill the baby as they delivered him with forceps. Matt was blue, not breathing when he was born, and it took several minutes for them to get him started. Then I could relax. Although the doctor had told me I couldn’t deliver a baby larger than five pounds, Matt was seven pounds three ounces at birth.

I lost my job when our neighbor remarried. I had always been interested in nursing, so I took the training for Nurse’s Aide in the spring of 1969 and began work for Pemiscot Memorial Hospital. I worked there for about a year, but I was barely getting by, and my parents’ two-bedroom house was overcrowded with Matt and me staying with them.

I had heard there was a lot of work in Chicago, so in May 1970, I decided to make a new start there on my own. Right away, I got a job as a waitress and found housing in a condemned building. Matt and I had a three-room apartment on the third floor, and we were allowed to keep my dog, BoBo.

Conditions were so bad there that one morning I found a rat in bed with me and the baby. Of course, everybody else in the building was more or less in the same boat, so we tried to help each other. One of the welfare mothers baby-sat for me while I worked.

After a few weeks, I found a job in a jukebox factory and did some part-time modeling for the Patricia Stevens Modeling Agency. We walked to the nearby grocery where everything cost twice as much, but since we had no vehicle, there was no other choice. We all shared one ancient washer and hung our clothes in our apartments. I saw no one outside work except the other people in my building. On my off time, I baby-sat for others.

My parents were constantly asking me to bring Matt back home. Mom especially missed him. I found myself getting homesick and increasingly concerned about the city’s bad influence on Matt.

I decided to return home after a neighbor, pouring coffee into a cracked cup, scalded my thigh. I couldn’t work, I was broke, so I had to go home. Within two weeks, my leg was better, and I was back working as a waitress at the Drumstick, a small restaurant in town. I had the early-morning day shift and walked back and forth to work. My mom baby-sat Matt along with several other children.

After about a month, the manager of the truck stop out on the highway hired me and arranged for my rides to and from work. This was a big boost for me because I made more than twice as much money, and by the first of 1971, I was able to rent a one-bedroom house on Main Street for Matt and me. I had the night shift at the truck stop, which allowed me to spend more time with Matt during the days. Soon I was made Assistant Manager on the night shift.

I felt great, finally making it on my own, reunited with my family and friends. Occasionally, I went out on my nights off with my friends, Marilyn and Susan, and my sister, Nancy. My life was peaceful; everything seemed in order.

This was my life when Sam came into it. As I said, at first I wasn’t interested in him at all. Over the next few months, I seemed to run into him every time I went out with my girlfriends. But we were always in a group, and I really didn’t notice Sam that much.

About mid-April, Susan planned a Sunday excursion to Crowley Ridge, a state recreation park with a natural swimming lake, sixty miles from Steele. I thought this outing was just a random group of friends, but Susan pulled a fast one on me. Only after I was in the car and we were on our way did I learn it was just two couples—Susan with her date and me with Sam. This was my first date with Sam.

During the ride to Crowley Ridge, I felt resentful and sat quietly as far away from Sam as I could get. Even after we got there, I kept my distance. I remember trying to sleep on a blanket under a tree, while Sam kept putting ants on me. He made me laugh, and I began to like him a little. We kissed for the first time on the way back from our third outing to Crowley Ridge, about a month later. Sam was so sweet, so romantic about it. We were holding hands in the back seat when I felt a slight flutter on my cheek. As I turned to look at Sam, he grinned and said, “That’s a butterfly kiss.” I giggled and he did it again, blinking his eyelashes against my cheek. To me, it was a beautiful gesture, reminding me of all the times I had held a butterfly in my hand. I hadn’t seriously thought of dating him until that time, because I knew he was seeing other girls. But from the first kiss, I was hooked.

Then Sam became a regular at the restaurant where I worked. Often he would come in with Susan and her guy, leave to take them home, then come back to the restaurant, staying to give me a ride home after I finished work. He was so thoughtful and caring, talking, laughing, joking. Soon he told me he loved me, and although I wouldn’t say that to him, my spirits were higher than the clouds. He gave me lots of romantic cards, usually with a poem he’d written for me. In one card, he wrote:

I love you because it’s so easy to do
There’s no one for me that’s more natural than you
To me you’re so real, yet in only a dream
Could exist one so perfect as you, it would seem
I think you are real, but if you’re a dream it’s OK
’Cause then my mind is a friend to deceive me this way
But it really doesn’t matter if you’re a dream or for real
’Cause you’re mine and I love you as I always will.

No one had ever written poetry for me, and his words touched me in a way nothing and no one else had. I was totally in love although I wasn’t ready to admit it to him.

In May, when Matt got sick with anemia and had to be hospitalized in Hayti, Missouri (a small town sixteen miles north of Steele), Sam drove me to the hospital every day for five days. He was so good with Matt, he really won me over. When Matt came home from the hospital, I left him with my folks quite a bit while I worked, so of course, the family met Sam. My dad told me, “I don’t like that guy, there’s something phony about him. It’s so obvious—you go after the calf to get the cow.” My sister, Nancy, called him a “cocky little bastard.” I could see my mom didn’t like Sam either, but she didn’t have much to say about him.

I began to feel that no one understood Sam but me. He talked about how lonely and discriminated against he had felt during his first weeks in Blythe-ville. The more he talked, the more I could sense him letting his barriers down with me.

I had told him many times, “I’m not interested in sex,” and his reply always was, “You’ve never slept with the right man yet.” It was after another outing at Crowley Ridge that Sam and I made love for the first time. The day was magical, filled with laughing, swimming, and picnicking. By that point, I was enchanted by everything he said and did. When he pulled into a motel on the way back from our outing at Crowley Ridge, I was shaky with fear and desire all mixed together. But I didn’t say no. I had never enjoyed sex before Sam, but with him, the earth moved and bells rang. More than anything, he was gentle and patient and seemed concerned only with satisfying me. I began to see him as my one true love.

I was excited but scared by the strong feelings he brought out in me. So at breakfast the morning after our first night together, I told him I was getting too involved, that he would be around only a short time, and that was just about as long as I wanted the relationship to last. “I’m not going to see you every day,” I said. He just said, “We’ll see.” I had a strong premonition not to get too involved with him and refused to go out with him for several days.

Sam’s reaction to this was to show up at my job every night; there he was, right under my nose, hanging around during most of my shifts. The song, “Let the Devil Take Tomorrow” was popular then, and I heard it played so often, I began to think like the song. After almost a week, I broke down and went out with him again.

We talked a lot about the Vietnam war. One of my friends from school had died in Vietnam, and two others had returned home severely wounded. I had tried to organize a welcome-home party for one of them, but the reaction I got from other people was, “You want to give a party for a baby killer?” It bothered me deeply to see these Viet...