Crawling Out: One Woman's Journey to Break the Cycle of Abuse

Author’s Note

Domestic violence is on the rise in many communities, destroying families, affecting millions of our children, often leading to history repeating itself. By sharing my story, I hope to nudge you, the reader, to a new awareness, no matter where you are on your journey of life—moving you to take action and to a more peace-filled square.

Each of us can do something to help decrease domestic violence statistics. Make it personal. Think about how you can help in your neighborhood, your children’s school, or your church community.

Please get involved. Learn from the many resources listed at the back of this book or visit my websites, www.caseymorley.com or crawlingout.net. With awareness, as a society, we can help reduce this devastating epidemic.

Together we can make a difference.

Hugs,

Casey

Foreword

Baring your soul in public requires courage and a strong sense of self-worth.

Casey Morley had proved throughout her life that she had a deep well of the former, but she had virtually none of the latter when she began writing her story, longhand, on a yellow legal pad. What drove her to commit words to paper was determination—to heal, to break the cycle of abuse and domestic violence she had lived for fifty-plus years, and to try to make a better life for her young son, Michael.

I did not come to the process until several years later when the script on the pile of legal pads was transcribed to computer files. By that time, I’d known Casey for about twenty years and considered her a casual friend. When she asked me to edit her manuscript, all I think I asked her was, Are you sure? I’m known to have a heavy hand with the red pen. I quickly realized that the red pen had very little place here. What makes this story that’s so difficult to read or imagine palatable is Casey’s voice, the tone with which she writes. It’s as if you and she are sharing a cup of coffee and she’s relating her story.

Casey and I worked for about three years polishing the book. During that time, we shed tears beyond imagination, shared her grief, bolstered each other.

I watched Casey move through the cycle of growth as she read the book to me, page by page, many times, as I edited on the computer, asked questions, brought out more stories. She progressed from barely able to speak because of the tears to anger to acceptance to moving on.

Where she initially had no self-worth, now she holds her head up high and proud. Courage is still an innate part of her. She relies on her strong spirituality and sense of right and wrong to call attention to the horrors that are abuse and domestic violence. Working to curb those horrors is her goal.

Crawling Out tells of a life no one should ever experience. Casey did. Casey survived. Casey thrives in her new life.

I’m proud to call her my dear friend, my sister.

Nancy Hooper

Hooper Editing Services

January 14, 2014

Acknowledgments

Thank you to Beth for your assistance with the outline and your labor of love typing my first handwritten draft, at the time, a task that would have taken me a lifetime to accomplish.

Sweet Brittany Knowles for your helpful, patient nature as I struggled with my limited computer skills. If it weren’t for you, I would still be stuck on attach.

Karen Bernetti, my friend, client, and website designer, your work amazes me. You always remind me I have something to say.

Thank you to all my family, friends, and clients who have believed in me—supporting me, lifting me up with encouragement along the way. Thanks, too, Sandy, Joanne, Dolores, Anne, Marcy, Deborah, Tina, Crystal, Marie, Nancy S., Marianne, Karen, and Don who read my manuscript in its various stages, taking time out of their busy lives to establish how on track this project was and give me their feedback.

My brother Bruce Morley for his ever-encouraging words and pride in the journey I have made.

My brother Keith Morley for loving and supporting me all through life and his enthusiasm and positive feedback during the days of the first handwritten rough draft.

Ruth Harris, who taught me about alcoholics and that I’m not the fool. In her words, Alcoholics play themselves for the fools.

I cannot omit Dr. Beth Giurelli. She continually reminded me, You must never forget what an incredibly strong woman you are. Thank you for your belief in me and knowing I had what it took to crawl out.

I especially want to thank my hardworking, sharp-eyed editor Nancy Hooper of Hooper Editing Services for her expertise, but, more important, for her nonjudgmental, unwavering, unconditional love, friendship, and support through the many grueling hours of me reading my story to her, often through tears, so she could edit my work and still keep my voice. Often encouraging me through all my fears and self-doubt. For hanging in and standing by me from start to finish. Nancy, I’m not incorrigible!

Finally, I would like to thank my son Michael James, my impetus for taking this journey, for his love, support, and patience through all the hours I was not present to him physically or emotionally while I worked on this project. Michael, I’m so very proud of you.

The Proposal

Where is he this time? Some hole-in-the-wall I don’t know about?

When I didn’t hear from Tony one day after work—after a period of promises kept—I went looking for him. I found him at his favorite club. Drinks were cheaper there. He appeared fine and said he had just gotten there. He could see I was upset he was at a bar. My stomach felt sick. I thought, Here we go again.

He pulled a bank envelope from his flannel work shirt pocket, handed it to me, and said, Count this for me. I assumed he was proud of his paycheck. Instead of money, inside the envelope was a diamond ring.

Where did you get that? I asked him incredulously. Why do you have it? Did you find it? Whose is it?

Tell me he hasn’t done anything illegal, I thought.

Obviously annoyed with my questions and irritated, his response was, It’s yours, asshole.

Never once did I consider it was an engagement ring. And never in any of my dreams had I envisioned a proposal at a local bar. And, certainly, being called an asshole was never part of the picture.

I was twenty-eight years old when I met Tony. I had been on my own for twelve years. I had paid my way through cosmetology school, had a cute little three-room apartment, and worked hard at the salon.

Tony was tall and handsome with brown, curly hair, but his blue eyes had me—they melted me instantly. With him, I was carefree, probably for the first time in my life. I played, I danced, I sang, in a way, enjoying a childhood I never had. In hindsight, being with him helped me to begin to mourn a life unlived. I was having too much fun to notice or care about the red flags that popped up now and again.

Looking back, I now know how naïve I was. I believed in my heart that one day Tony would get tired of the bars and the late nights and would settle down with me to a life with a yard, a picket fence, and a baby or two. They’d resemble both of us—get their height, blue eyes, and curly hair from their dad and a little bit of sassiness from me. On the nights I didn’t meet him at the bar, I nourished that dream as I waited for him to call or come over.

Except that most nights, he never seemed to get out of the bars and find his way to my home. After a while, we spent more time fighting than having fun.

I worked every day. He was in and out of work constantly. Money was always short. I couldn’t keep up with my household expenses and, now, our social expenses. One paycheck didn’t go that far.

After about five years of this, I tired of that lifestyle and began to wonder, Have I become an alcoholic? What am I doing? This isn’t working out the way I’d dreamed.

I don’t remember what part of the story I shared in my two-minute introduction at my first Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meeting, but, oh! I was so relieved when I heard the facilitator say, You poor thing. You need to go across the hall to Al-Anon.¹

I tried those meetings for a while, frustrated, thinking, He has the problem and I’m the one at the meeting, a typical thought until you learn you can only change yourself.

I couldn’t accept that, though. All my life, I’d longed to be held, wanted to be loved. I couldn’t give up my dream. I couldn’t give up on having a normal life, my babies. So I tried to get Tony out of the bars. Often, I tried to finish work early to get to the bar and head Tony off before he got really wasted and nasty.

But, I couldn’t judge whether he was drunk or not. He could change in a blink and, often, going home was not fun. He could get ugly— swear, yell. We would fight. I didn’t realize at the time I was fighting for normal, but he was fighting for nothing to change.

At first, he just yelled and swore. After a while, the abuse became physical—a shove or two. I left him. I went back to him.

He was always sorry. His promises grew. He’d get a job. He’d go to the gym and work out. He’d not drink so much. And, of course, he always promised that he would never hurt me again.

Despite ample evidence to the contrary, I always believed him. Dreams die hard.

Then a shove became a punch. And one punch always followed another. One night he hurt me so badly, he drove me to the emergency room—out of town where no one would know us. He apologized all the way there. And, of course, made more promises.

On the drive to the ER, Tony convinced me to tell a story he came up with about what had happened to me. The ER staff was suspicious but I stuck to it. Unfortunately, one of the nurses recognized me, though. I was so embarrassed and scared when she asked me privately if he’d done this to me. I lied. I wanted to hide. I thought, Just get me out of here. I’m so exhausted.

Of course, he didn’t keep his promises, and there was always a next time. I finally reached my breaking point. Thinking more clearly and more courageous, I called the police. I never realized Tony’s father, who was on the police force, would or could hold up the paperwork.

While I waited for the charges to go forward, Tony worked on me constantly. For weeks on end, he made every promise in the book and kept them—trying to convince me to drop the charges.

During that time, the officer who responded to my original call came back to talk to me about the case. I remember him telling me that someone kept holding up the paperwork. He kept saying, Don’t drop the charges. I’ll be there for you. He added, I’m not like them. I wanted to trust that he would follow through, but it had gone on too long. I was exhausted and drained from the emotional strain and the promises. I just wanted it to end. After all, Tony was behaving like the kind of guy any girl would dream of. I dropped the case. Deep down, though, I worried I had blown my chance to be rescued.

Shortly after I dropped the case, Tony did get a job. I thought once again that perhaps my dreams would come true.

¹ Al-Anon, a twelve-step program based on the AA model, works to help change the attitudes and behaviors of those closest to active alcoholics, believing that alcoholism is a family disease and that when family members participate in recovery, the whole family can heal.

A Flare-Up

I didn’t see Tony for three or four days. When we did meet, he apologized, telling me that he went about the proposal the wrong way. He said he’d never proposed before.

I forgave him once again and accepted the ring, believing that now that we had made the commitment, he would change, that I would have the house, the fenced back yard, the babies, the love and respect and someone to hold me. After all, I asked myself, how difficult could it be for him to just go to work daily, to save money and to grow to be the best he could be?

Just days later, I had to track him down again. When I found him, I insisted he come home with me. He did but wasn’t very happy about it. He started in on me in the car, getting nastier and uglier by the minute. At one point I said, You promised! Plus, we had such a nice week. Don’t you want that kind of life?

I’m not drunk! I was only hanging out with my dad. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m never going to stop meeting my dad.

All you ever do is drink with him!

I knew that eating usually helped sober him up, so I tried to calm him down and suggested getting something to eat. But he was beyond listening to me and told me, with his typical drunken, crude language, that he wasn’t effing drunk and he didn’t want any effing food. He was just pissed off for having to leave the bar and that I made him angry.

Once back at my home, I decided to put a pot of water on for pasta, despite his protests that he wasn’t hungry. He loved pasta and I hoped that it might soak up some of that alcohol. Just get some food in him and our afternoon might calm down, I thought.

While waiting for the water to boil, I decided to get comfortable in one of my favorite robes. After I had changed, I went back downstairs, and he followed me to the kitchen, attacking me verbally. He kept saying that he didn’t want to effing eat. I remember telling him, You’re insufferable. Your mouth is disgusting.

His anger elevated with each moment. I certainly was paying the price for interrupting his afternoon drinking plans.

By this point, I was extremely distraught. I took off the ring and held it out to him. I am not doing this again, and I’m not going to live this way. This is not what I want. You promised!

He struck my hand and the ring fell into the disposal. That enraged him further, to the point that he hit the pot of boiling water, knocking it over onto me. Most of the water hit my now-exposed lower left thigh and knee, hit the floor, and splashed my ankles. The pain was instantaneous and horrific. I gasped and screamed. I literally watched my skin roll off my body. It took all of my will not to become hysterical. I remember not wanting the neighbors to hear, thinking, How do I bear this pain in silence? Even though Tony and I didn’t live together, the neighbors were well aware of his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality.

I gasped for breath and started to tremble, not knowing what to do or where to go. Oh, God, where do I put myself? Think! Think! I kept repeating. Think! The pain sent all rational thoughts—and any of what Tony might be doing—out of my brain.

Making it across the room was unbearable. My favorite soft, cozy, terrycloth robe rubbed like sandpaper against my burns and was now too much for my traumatized body to bear. I let the bathrobe fall to the floor. Each step caused increased nausea. I was weak, lightheaded, in shock.

To take the now-necessary flight up the stairs became a grueling task. I felt I would pass out after every second or third stair. I had to stop, rest, try to catch my breath, becoming more and more aware of the increasing pain.

When I finally made it to the landing, I was sweating profusely, yet I was dizzy, cold, and clammy. My hair was stuck to the back of my neck, and my scalp was so hot that it felt like bugs crawling through my hair.

My next hurdle was to walk the twelve feet from the top of the stairs to the front of my bedroom closet. I had to find something to wear.

The incident seemed to sober Tony up. He had followed me up the stairs and kept telling me, It’s bad. It’s bad. It looks really bad. We have to go to the hospital.

I just want to lie down. I’m exhausted. The pain! Oh! The pain! I cried. I could barely move my leg. And I was so scared. I was worried that I’d be scarred; the burn covered such a big area.

I stood in front of my closet, rejecting this or that item for their textures—corduroy, flannel, wool would be intolerable against my raw leg. The strength it took to slide my clothes along the pole made me weaker and sicker by the second. The room started spinning. I was hyperventilating. I had to stop and rest. I moaned repeatedly, I need to lie down.

Tony kept repeating, It’s bad. It’s bad. We have to go. With a shaken voice, I whimpered, I can’t do this.

My whirlwind of emotions and anguish were as overwhelming as the pain. I cried. I shook. If I had the strength, I would have screamed, You bastard! Get away! Just get away from me!

I don’t know how much time passed. Ten or fifteen minutes, maybe. The doorbell rang. He ran to the upstairs front bedroom window. It’s the cops. Somebody called the cops, he said.

The police were at my door. I remember thinking, I need help. I felt sicker, more lightheaded, but also thought that I would get some help this time. Someone else had called the police. It wasn’t my word against his anymore. I had to get to the door—to get myself back downstairs somehow—to let the police in. But Tony blocked me, held me back. I tried to yell for help. He put his hand over my mouth, saying, No, no, no. Please, please don’t open the door. I’ll take care of you. It’ll be okay. No, no. Just let them leave.

I kept struggling to get to the door. But his next words stopped me.

You’ll be arrested, too.

Through the pain, I believed him. That couldn’t happen. So many people would read about this, and my shame and embarrassment would be greater than the pain I was in.

The police finally left, and all I wanted to do was to lie down. Just let me lie down. I need to rest. I’m so sick to my stomach. I felt incredibly weak and nauseous. I kept trying to convince myself, Maybe the burn isn’t that bad.

Tony knew better. He insisted, I’m taking you to the hospital. It looks really bad to me.

So instead of lying down, I continued to look for something to wear. I finally found a gauzy summer dress—white and clean like a gauze bandage. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt.

The time spent trying to find something to wear was debilitating. The pain was so excruciating. I was ready to vomit; it was in my throat. I trembled. I was hot. I was cold. I was frightened. I couldn’t bend my leg. The room spun.

I don’t remember how I made it back down the flight of stairs or how I was able to get in my car. Tony put the passenger seat all the way back so I could keep my leg extended and hold my dress away from the burn.

As soon as I arrived at another (out-of-town) emergency room, the questions started. How did this happen? Where did it happen? Was it an accident? Frightened once again but this time concerned that I would be arrested, I stayed with the accident story Tony programmed me to say during the ride.

My leg wasn’t good. The ER doctor treated the burns, wrapped them up for me. He said he really couldn’t do any more and that I needed to see a plastic surgeon in the morning. I was so upset. I cried and cried. This was too much for me. My leg hurt so much. I took the pain pill the ER doctor gave me, and when I got home, tried to get some sleep.

Tony didn’t stay.

The Aftermath

In the morning, I tried to get ready for my doctor’s appointment. Getting into the shower was horrible. When I attempted to lift or bend my leg to get it over the edge of the tub, the room instantly started to spin and I felt sick to my stomach once again. I knew I was going to pass out, going to vomit.

And the pain. I was shaking and trembling. I felt the heat rise, flushing from my feet to my face. I was sweating and clammy. I remember thinking, I don’t want to crash to the floor and crack my head open. I knew I had to attempt to sit down and get my head between my knees, but how? Keeping my left leg straight and hanging on to the nearby vanity, I barely managed to land on the closed toilet seat and put my head between my legs as far as I could.

After a while, the room stopped spinning. Still trembling, I found another way to get into the shower, my injured leg sticking out to keep it dry, and got ready. Even though I was alone and scared, I was relieved not to have to deal with Tony and his hangover. Now I was very grateful that he went home after we returned from the hospital last evening. I had more than I could deal with for the moment.

I called a good friend who didn’t hesitate when I asked for a ride to the plastic surgeon’s office. Kerri-Lyn also never hesitated to speak her mind about Tony, but this time, she kept her comments to herself. The surgeon confirmed the ER doctor’s assessment—first- and second-degree burns on my ankles and third-degree on my left leg. He applied Silvadene,² wrapped my leg up again, and told me I needed to return in four days.

I left that appointment crying; it took all my energy not to lose total control and become hysterical. Kerri-Lyn tried to console me, assuring me that I would heal and that everything would be okay, adding that the surgeon seemed like a good doctor and that he would take good care of me. I wasn’t so sure of any of it. All I knew at that moment was that the entire situation, but especially the pain, was unbearable. My unspoken thought was that Tony’s broken promise to never hurt me again was just as intolerable.

Once back home, Kerri-Lyn helped me get out of her car. I hugged her and thanked her for being there for me. I was exhausted, so tired, but I had to get to work. I had bills and no benefits like sick days or paid holidays. Besides, I had work responsibilities. I was the manager of ten girls. Most important to me, my clients counted on me being there as well. Responsibility was first and foremost in my world. I wanted and needed people to see me as someone who had value. Still looking for some kind of approval.

The next few days were very difficult. I had trouble with the simple everyday activities of living. Sleeping was near impossible. Climbing into and out of bed was difficult. Getting in and out of the shower. Walking across a room. And, oh, those dreaded stairs! And then, getting in and out of my car.

Getting dressed was torture. I absolutely could not wear jeans. I wore dresses and leggings to keep from putting pressure on my bandages.

But the most difficult part was standing behind my styling chair all day. Every move I made was painful. Putting weight on my left leg was difficult. Dragging it around all day, unable to bend it, exhausting. But I had no choice. Nobody else would do my work for me. Not telling my clients the truth about what happened to me was emotionally draining.

The few times when Tony was around when I changed my bandages, he would comment, Look how good you are healing.

The four days finally passed and it was time to go back to the plastic surgeon. I had to drive myself. By now, the excruciating original pain had eased up. But because I had to drive, I couldn’t take a pain pill before I left.

What Tony thought was great healing was actually another layer of debrided skin coming up to the surface. The surgeon had to peel it off—a process called debridement³—that he did right there in the examining room. To this day, I believe that pain was worse than the actual burn. Without my pain pill, I thought that I would never get through the procedure. The pain was just too much. I was sick to my stomach again, weak, shaking. I just wanted it all to be over. Then, when it was done, I wondered how I would get myself onto the elevator. Or out to my car. Thank God it’s my left leg, I thought. Trying to drive while keeping it straight had it been my right leg would have been near impossible.

I still had to get to a pharmacy to pick up Silvadene and covered spatulas and more gauze. The doctor made it very clear how important it was to keep the area as germ-free as possible to avoid infection.

I thought the hell I just lived through was over, but getting out of the car and into the pharmacy continued the torture. It had to be evident that I was in unbearable pain and distress, noticeably shaken and hurting, but the uncompassionate clerk didn’t see it. She told me, The spatulas are in the back as she pointed to the farthest spot in the rear of the pharmacy.

That walk seemed impossible. It was one of those old-fashioned pharmacies—long and narrow—with old, uneven wooden flooring. I worried the floor would make my walk even more unsteady, inducing more pain. I also worried that I would either pass out from the pain or vomit. Even the pharmacist seemed to be unaware of my pain and distress. To make things worse, I still had to walk back through that long, narrow pharmacy to pay and then get back to my car.

Every step I took, I felt sicker. I felt the pain taking over me. I prayed, Please, God, help. Help me. I need to get home.

I arrived home totally exhausted. All I could think was, I need help. I can’t take another step. I tracked Tony down at the club. I said, I need you. I can’t do this anymore by myself. I’ve just been through hell and back.

He said, It’s setback night. You know I play cards on Thursdays. Do you really need me?

I was so hurt, so furious. I yelled, Just get here!

He arrived about ten minutes later and stayed only long enough to get me a glass of water and hand me a pain pill. Then, as quickly as he arrived, he left to get back to his cards.

Sunday finally arrived. I was grateful for the day off. Tony showed up late that morning. I expected some help from him with the everyday chores I certainly couldn’t attend to, or perhaps a little pampering.

But, after he checked in on me, off he went to an annual clambake with his father. As he stood at the front door, he said, My dad already paid for the ticket. What would I tell him?

He walked out the door before he could hear me say, How about the truth?

My legs elevated, I sat there in total disbelief. He just walked out the front door as if he played no part in this nightmare.

The silence and emptiness of the house after the front door closed were heartbreaking. The tears rolled down my cheeks; I didn’t think I had any tears left, but I was wrong. Again, I had been dismissed and devalued. That moment was as emotionally paralyzing to me as was the situation and the pain. In that silence, the agony of my reality overwhelmed me, pushing me deeper and deeper into despair.

² Silvadene, a topical antibacterial ointment used typically to treat severe burns as well as to eliminate any existing infections and to help prevent bacteria from entering the bloodstream.

³ Debridement is the process of removing the unhealthy, lacerated, dead, or contaminated tissue resulting from severe burns.

Just Not Enough

Growing up in a house with five siblings—two older boys, two younger brothers, and a younger sister—wasn’t easy. It was often difficult for our mother and tough on us kids. We didn’t get to do much or go many places. It seems there was always not enough. Not enough money, not enough food or clothes, not enough help. Looking back as an adult, there was not enough love, or support, and certainly not enough encouragement. Just not enough. When it came to our grandmothers, one said we made her too nervous, and the other said that we couldn’t come for the holidays because there were too many of us.

We moved often—at least ten times—from when I was three years old to sixteen. If I had to take a guess as an adult, it was for nonpayment of rent. After she asked our