The Real Story: Cezar


Man this sucks. I don’t want to really write about this.

Every abuse from Cezar in Anna Blair’s Visitors was true. There were only two times when I witnessed kindness from him. When I had the flu and fainted in his arms, and one time I didn’t come home when I said I would and he had tears in his eyes when I did get home. He said he was worried about me getting hurt, and I never could connect the idea that he would be that worried about me and yet do the things he did to me and my kids.

All the abuse of the children is real as well.

He did get a vasectomy and he did get an infection. It was one week I didn’t have to perform sexually, and I was grateful for it.

I remember watching so many romantic movies on television back then. I was desperate to see if I had those kinds of feelings for anyone, or was it just Cezar. When that burning passion sizzled after watching George Clooney in One Fine Day, I knew I still had it. After all those years and all those counseling appointments. The doctors and counselors who never said “Maybe something has happened that makes you not want to be touched by Cezar,” but instead they only looked at what was wrong with me. What had I done. Was it physiological? Biological? Spiritual? I sought out god then. It was a profound moment when I realized the only truth I needed: if I was messing up by leaving Cezar, god’s punishment would never be as bad as the anguish I felt living with Cezar. I knew I had done everything I could to better myself. Cezar never agreed to any counseling, but I got it and found the courage to finally scream “get out!”

I thought I was stuck forever in a torment that was indescribable. To be forced over and over again to have sex with a man I hated. No, hate is too mild a word. The torture of knowing I had to be on guard 24/7 where my kids were concerned. I couldn’t leave them with him even to go to the store. I held my breath and listened when I’d simply take a bath, just so I’d know if he was hurting them. He would tickle them until they urinated, whipped them behind closed doors while I stood on the other side, my head against the hollow wood.

I have often said he would be dead now if I had owned a gun. I still hold on to all that guilt. I don’t feel I deserve to let it go. All those times I didn’t/couldn’t protect my babies.

The only time I ever struck him was the last time he whipped my oldest daughter. He came out from the closed door and I hit him on the chest with both fists. He just laughed. Called me crazy.

Same as when I would get up enough nerve to meekly confront him on an issue I was upset about. He was so good at manipulation and I was so messed up with PTSD, that he could dance around any issue I had, and in the end, it was me that would apologize. He’d laugh then, too, call me crazy. And I believed him. Because I was mentally ill. I just didn’t know it.

When I did finally tell him I wanted a divorce, his first comment was, “God will never bless you in your life if you divorce me.” My first thought…who gives a shit.

Then for two agonizing weeks I had to help him get a job because he said he wouldn’t leave unless he had one. I got the paper every day and circled all the jobs he’d like or do well at. Finally, he got a job, got an apartment and was gone. I still had his two children from a previous relationship, plus our four. Then my pastor asked me what was I doing with his two kids. He said Cezar needed to be responsible for them. When I realized I had a choice, I was overcome with a peace I had not known since Cezar had brought them both home to live with us. He said they were his kids, I was his wife, so I had to raise them. And I did while he watched Bonanza and Twilight Zone reruns. He didn’t work more than 2-3 years sporadically out of our 8 year marriage. So I raised six children, cleaned the house, cooked the meals, allowed the rapes. He did nothing but take.

The first thing his two and my four kids did when he walked out our door was put on rock music. We danced all over the  house.

After I had talked to the pastor, I called Cezar and told him his two kids needed to go with him. He laughed and said, “I knew you couldn’t handle it.” I pressed the issue. “When are you going to come and get them.”

He came over a few nights later, after the kids were in bed. He had a legal document in his hand. He said, “my lawyer says that if you sign this, you can have my two kids.” I never had the heart to tell them that his father was ready to give them away.

It was heartbreaking when I sat them both down and told them they had to go with their father. They cried and so did I. No matter how hard it was raising them, how I didn’t want to share my love that I so naturally gave to my own four, it was still crushing to see that they would choose me rather than their own father. But I had to let them go. He was right. I couldn’t handle it anymore. Not him. Not his two children. I just wanted my four babies. Just me and them. It was all I had left in me to give.

I’ll probably talk more about Cezar, but for now, I just don’t really feel like talking about it anymore. I wince, sigh, feel pain when I write about it, just as if it happened yesterday.

Thank you all for listening.

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