July 13, 2010

WHY A REAL MAN NEVER HITS A WOMAN, AND I MEAN NEVER EVER

I usually don't even want to talk about celebrities (unless to make fun of them or use them to illustrate a wider point), and I really, really don't want to talk about Mel Gibson. I mean, the man made Braveheart, and I conside that movie on the best historical epics of all time, regardless of... personal connections to the movie's sujet.

But he admits on a tape that hit the mother of his child while she was holding said child.

And I have read up on the numerous comments throughout the web, and I find them... frightening, really. They range from "well, he only called her a cunt" to "well, she deserved it, gold digger that she is".

And the big thing that sets most people off is that he mentioned "niggers".

I mean, that makes him a bigot and a racist, sure, but I think things should be put in perspective here. He admits to punching the mother of his child, gold digger or not. He admits it. He laughs about it.  He says she deserved it.

No woman deserves to get hit. Whatever they do (and I mean anything short of attacking you, at which point you may have to defend yourself. And that is not the same thing, now, is it? And no, I'm not one of those pussy-whipped male feministas), you do not hit a woman.

No matter how angry you are, you walk away. You try to get out of the situation. You. Walk. Away. Unless you are able to defuse the situation, you walk away.

I have only been angry enough once in my life to have actually hit something. It was a brick wall near Broughton Street in Edinburgh. The woman I loved had just told me that she wanted to go back to her then ex-boyfriend's (so, not me... never again would it be me) apartment to sleep with him one more time, even though she had told me that he had stalked her, gotten into her home, frightened her.

She had told me that this was something she needed to do.

And left with him.

As I walked down the streets from the pub we had been, down Broughton Street, towards my old neighbourhood. And I wanted to hit... something. Not her, never her. But I was so hurt, felt so angry that here I was, trying my best to be supportive, to carry her as a friend, if I was no longer in her future as her lover, breaking my heart every moment of every day.

And she went back to sleep with a guy who had supposedly stalked her?

Yes, I wanted to hit something. Mostly myself, really. The wall of a Mews was a pretty good start to do that. I walked up and down the street  couple of times, hurt and confused. And then I could feel it. It travelled from the back of my neck and into my arm. It was as fast as lighnting. Knuckles that crunched against stone. Pain that travelled back up my arm again. Flooding back into my brain.

I didn't scream. Not then.

I did it a second time. My skin cracked open.

Then I screamed. Dropped to my knees and screamed. Then I sobbed. Then I cried. Then I walked all the way across town to the apartment where she and her sister lived at the time. There I lied to her sister about how I had hurt myself.

The next noon, when she returned from her night of revenge or whatever it was, she met me at a pub & restaurant. I could barely look at her. I could barely talk to her. I lied. That's what you do when you are hurt. When you have given a promise that you will try to see her happy, no matter what.

You lie. You lie a lot.

You smile and you lie.

You lie and inside, you die.

Piece by piece.

And you try to walk away. As far as you can.

So that she doesn't see your bleeding hand.

Or your bleeding heart.