Living with the enemy
Cycle of abuse,drugs entraps young girl
By Kristen Vidulich, December 2009
Staff Writer

Photo Illustration by Ginger Hoil

As a naive, 19-year-old girl, Kristen Vidulich endured abuse and drugs while being trapped and isolated by her boyfriend. After a episode of abuse, Vidulich found the courage to leave her abuser and return home.

“I have to leave him, right? I have to go now… no waiting, right?” I asked my friend over the phone.

“Yes, you need to go now,” she said. “Don’t wait for it to happen again. Just go.”

She had heard too many of the frightening stories about what Devin had done to me and how he had treated me. She knew that not leaving at that moment could result in me losing my life.

I was 19 years old and naive. I would never allow those things to take place in my life now. I would never allow someone to treat me like that. But that is part of growing up. These events shape us to be who we become.

I remember so clearly. I can feel the anxiety in the pit of my stomach just thinking about it. I was living in Las Vegas and working at a call center. I had no place to live, so I slept on random friends’ couches or floors. Some of these “friends” I barely knew.

Devin worked at the same place as I. He was a couple years younger, and he was tall with short blonde hair and blue eyes. I thought he was hilarious. He happened to be friends of the people whose floor I was sleeping on. One day, two weeks after meeting him, he suggested I call into work and go to a rave with him and our two friends.

A Big Mistake

I decided that it sounded like fun, so I rode out to Los Angeles with them for a rave. I had never taken ecstasy before, but that night I did with Devin. It was fun. As the night progressed and the drugs worked their magic, he started to speak of his feelings for me and asked if I would move in with him. He seemed to really care for me, and I had no steady place to call home, so I decided to move in with him. This turned out to be one of the biggest mistakes I had ever made.

The first two months were amazing. He knew how to make me feel like I was the only girl in the world. He was funny and charming, and I believed that I was in love with him. I later learn that it was not him I loved, but the first time experiences I enjoyed with him.

After about two months, he started suggesting that we smoke meth together. For some reason, I obliged. The high was fun. I had never experienced anything quite like it. Sweetly we spoke of our love and relationship during these high times. Then on day four of being awake with no food and a head full of drugs, I caught a glimpse of who he really was.

Waking of the Monster

We got into an argument about something stupid. He started to call me terrible names. I was not used to such disrespect, so as much as it hurt, I told him it was over, and I was going to find another place to stay. He acted as though it was fine for a moment, but then started asking me where I was going to go and who I was going to call.

“I don’t know,” I said, “probably my friend Lawrence.”

This angered him. He grabbed my cell phone and shattered it between his hands. I was shocked. He rifled through my bags, and with intense rage, took my notebook I wrote in and tore it to shreds. 

Scared, I started towards the closet to grab my clothes off the hangers and place them in my bags to go. He followed me into the closet and blocked the exit. He ripped one of my dresses. Then he backhanded me right across the face, and I fell into the hangers against the wall. He had struck my ear, and I temporarily could not hear. It scared me, and I screamed. As soon as I did, all the people who had been in the other room left.

I felt so alone, like no one cared what happened to me.  His eyes turned from angry to sad, and he grabbed my hands and started to cry.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “How could I do that to you?”

He got angry and ripped his hands away from mine. The look in his eyes was terrifying. I watched his emotions change from angry and hateful, to sad and regretful, to annoyed and back and forth. I stood there looking at him with what I’m sure was a look of sheer horror. He stormed out of the room, and I followed trying to calm him down for my own sake. That’s when I realized he was not going to let me leave.

The next morning he continued his blatant disrespect. He was still angry. He ashed his cigarette on me and put it out on my leg. It burned a hole through the pants I wore. I was so scared of what he might do if I reacted, so I just cried.  He yelled at me for crying, which scared me as well.

A Cycle of Destruction

After coming down and getting needed rest, he seemed to be his normal, sweet self. He apologized profusely, and I was convinced it all happened because of the drugs we had taken. I would soon find out I was wrong.

My feelings for him grew. Not only did I believe that I loved him, but now I felt sorry for him as if he could not help being this way and he did love me. He was just a little crazy.

As time went on, these “freak outs” became more frequent. He broke things and made me clean them up. He threatened my life. He called me names and hurt me in many ways. Every morning, I woke up with a churning in my stomach from the anxiety he caused. He would not allow me to smoke until he woke up, so I waited for him, so we could smoke a bowl of weed, and I could calm down.

There were times I ran from him, banging on the other people’s doors in the apartment complex hoping someone would open up and rescue me. One time when no one answered, I sat down below the wall by the door and prayed to God that he would not find me. He did not, but as I made my way across the open area behind the complex to get to the gas station and a pay phone, he pulled up crying and demanded I talk to his mom on the phone.

Time and time again I tried to leave him, but I remembered that everything I owned was at his house. All my clothes and personal belongings, which meant so much to me, would be destroyed. Not only that, but I felt bad for him. Where would he be if I left? How would he feel? I did not want him to feel lost and depressed because I cared for him and felt sorrow for him.

Breaking Point

Finally, three months later, it was so bad that I couldn’t stand it anymore. I was miserable. I never laughed at his jokes anymore, and I never had a good time. I could imagine my family and my friends back in Phoenix who loved me, having a great time and being carefree. I longed to feel that again. Freedom. I felt as though I was locked inside a dark room, looking through a window at them but could not go outside and join them.  That’s when I decided that something had to change.

For my 20th birthday, my mom deposited $65 into my bank account.

She said, “You can buy some pants for work or you can buy a bus ticket home.”

I knew what I had to do.  I did not speak of the money to Devin. Slowly and sneakily, I started hanging up old sweaters that I did not care about and packed away clothes I did care about, so he would not realize that I was preparing to leave at a moment’s notice. Whenever he made me go to the store to get him cigarettes, I kept the change and put it in a Ziploc bag tucked away in one of my duffle bags. I discovered calling cards and saved them. I knew the day was coming when I would need to go, and I would need cab fare, calling cards, and bus and food money.

Some days I would try to go while he was at work, but my pity for him held me back, especially if he left in a good mood and kissed me goodbye. I told myself, “The next time he treats me terrible right before he leaves for work that is the day I go.”

The Risks of Escape

A few days later, that day came. Devin woke up and was getting ready for work. He was in a bad mood and took it out on me. He shook his pants out and made sure the ends hit me in the face.

I thought, “This is the day.”

My stomach turned and was filled with anxiety as I watched him turn to go. He left his cell phone with me, so he could call me from work.

All I could think was, “How is he going to feel when he tries to call, and I do not answer? What is he going to do?”

I knew I had to go before he called to apologize, and I felt sorrow for him again. I called my friend Ruth, who lived in California, to talk and make sure that I did not change my mind. I knew I would regret it if I stayed.
She answered, and I told her “this is the day!” She was anxious and excited with me. I was mere hours from freedom. She knew all about the situation, as did most of my friends. She told me that I had to go. No turning back, just go. My stomach turned.

Ruth stayed on the phone as I packed a few remaining things. We hung up, so I could call a cab, but I immediately called her back.

Left to my own mind, I may have just scared myself out of going. I had to wait 20 minutes for that cab. Twenty minutes and there would be no turning back, no changing my mind. I would be out of the house with all my things. I was so nervous and paranoid. I thought for sure that if he called and I did not answer, he would be on his way back to the house to see what I was doing. I prayed that he wouldn’t call, and he didn’t.

A Ten Hour Wait

My bus did not leave until 7:45 that evening, and it was 9 a.m. He would look for me when he got off work at 5 p.m., and I prayed that he would not find me. I could only imagine what punishment I would have to endure for trying to escape. I had about six big bags full of my belongings, and I was ready when the cab got there. I hung up with Ruth and left the phone by a brief note I wrote explaining I could not stay, and I was sorry I had to leave that way.

The cab ride was nerve wracking. I imagined him calling and wondering why I was not answering. I tried to focus on the idea that I was about to be free even though I did not yet feel it. Soon, however, I would be home with people who loved me and would never hurt me.

Nine hours and 45 minutes I had to wait at that bus station. I purchased my ticket and felt a little closer to freedom. I couldn’t call anyone; the calling cards were not to be wasted. I longed to talk to Ruth to take my mind off my nerves and to be reassured this was the only way. She was the only one who knew that I was making my escape.

I felt Devin would burst through the bus station doors and drag me back to his hell against my will where God only knew what would take place. Being surrounded by all the people there did not make me feel any safer since I had learned that people don’t jump to help you when you are being assaulted. They are afraid to get involved and possibly hurt themselves. I paced back and forth, thinking and feeling sick.
As I watched everyone around me, I felt what being alive was like again. People being themselves with no one telling them no. No one stopping them from living their lives and being who they wanted to be. No one telling them that what they liked or wanted was stupid or that they could or could not do something. I almost felt like a part of that again.

By 5 p.m., he definitely tried to call me. He was concerned by now. He would go home, find my note and come searching for me. I sat between a large group of people in the station hunched down with a hat on. If he did come to the bus station, I needed to blend in. My heart raced, but I tried to keep calm. I was almost free.
As I boarded the bus, I felt he burst through the station doors, see the bus that said Phoenix on it and take me. It wasn’t until the bus pulled out that my anxiety began to ease.

On the Way

The bus ride home was a long one, and no one knew I was coming back. I was so scared something would go wrong, I didn’t tell any one until I knew I was in the clear. Looking back that probably was not the brightest idea, but I was young and foolish.

A man across the aisle began to talk with me, but I was consumed with thoughts of what was taking place. I felt terrible and anxious still.

All I could think was, “How is Devin feeling? Is he looking for me? Is he crying or full of rage?”

“I just escaped my psycho boyfriend,” I blurted out to the stranger. He was intrigued, and I explained the details for the next hour. He was in shock and reminded me that I did the right thing. I felt slight relief talking about my range of emotions.

When the bus made a stop in Kingman, Ariz., I felt as though I should call and let someone know I was on my way. It was past midnight, so I did not call my parents. I arranged for a friend to pick me up when my bus came in.

I arrived early in the morning. A tired, grateful friend greeted me. Finally I was home and no longer trapped in a hell that sucked the life out of me.  My family and friends were so excited; they knew that everyday with Devin was a game of Russian roulette.

He found my number and called me in tears a day or so after I got back. He told me he looked for me, and he went to the bus station, but he never saw me. He told me he was sorry and wanted me to “come back home.”

He was hundreds of miles away, did not know where I lived and would never change.

A Lesson Learned

I learned a lot from that time in my life. I hurt my family by refusing to come home. They came to rescue me in Las Vegas, and I went back. Yes, I was foolish and concerned with my belongings and his feelings, not my life. My life was worth more than my clothes. My family’s feelings are worth more than my abuser’s.

It took months to regain the confidence and self-worth that he stripped from me. Now I know who I am and I love that person. When I look back at what I endured and overcame, I feel as though I can do anything. I find strength in knowing that I have been that strong before. To this day, it is the hardest thing I have ever been through. I see people and their manipulative ways much more clearly now, and I will never be in a situation like that again. When I have seen a couple friends going down that same road, I talk to them as someone who has been there and help them to see the light that for so long even I could not see.