Acceptance, Recovery and Rebuilding Trust
by Lisa Kapler as told to Melba Newsome

In June, 2004, Red Sox fans gathered in Fenway Park with the players and their families for Picnic in the Park, a fundraiser hosted by Red Sox wives to benefit Jane Doe Inc., a Boston-area non-profit dedicated to combating sexual abuse and domestic violence.  As the wife of Sox outfielder, Gabe Kapler, I was thrilled to be a part of such a worthwhile cause.  However, it wasn't until I heard a Jane Doe representative talk about the organization's mission really struck a personal note with me.

I nodded in agreement as she described how the abuse begins, its patterns and the tell-tale signs.

"Statistically 1 in 3 women is the victim of domestic violence," she said. "That means that someone in this room has either been victimized or knows someone who has."

In that room of 30 women, I was that person.  For three years, that had been my life.  "That happened to me,"  I wanted to say out loud but didn't have the courage.   People look at me and see a self-confident, fun-loving and devoted wife and mother, the last person most would expect to have suffered intimate violence.  That's truly who I am today but a dozen years ago, it was a different story.  And had it not been for my husband, Gabe, I have no doubt my story would have had a much different ending.

YOUNG AND BATTERED

I grew up near Los  Angeles in a loving two-parent home, free of domestic violence but my high school years were marred by abuse.  I was a freshman when Martin* asked me out.  Martin was a senior and I was jazzed that a guy three years older wanted to date me.

Our first months were fun and we spent almost every day together.   I liked knowing that he wanted me all to himself and I slowly began to lose touch with my friends.  Martin said this was how it was supposed to be and he made me feel guilty if I tried to spend time with anyone else.

"If you really loved me, you would only want to be with me," he said.  Martin was my first boyfriend and I accepted his version of what love meant.

After six months, the physical abuse started. One day we were sitting on the couch talking and Martin leaned over and bit my cheek so hard it bled.  I screamed and started to cry but he just laughed.  It was only the beginning.  Martin would start "play fights" that always got too rough.  Soon, physical violence was a regular part of our relationship.  I was his punching bag and if I fought back, he hurt me worse.  Once he got angry at me at school, grabbed me by the throat, slammed me against the locker, and screamed at me in front of everyone.  I was so humiliated, I went to my next class, put my head on the desk, and cried.  He always apologized and promised never to hit me again but he always did and blamed me for making him do it.  On one occasion, he even held a gun to my head.

I used make-up to hide my bruises and blamed whatever I couldn't hide-- black eyes, fat lips-on being clumsy or taking an elbow in drill team practice.  At school, I became known as the "beat up girl" but I managed to keep the abuse a secret from my parents.  I became more withdrawn and sullen, characteristics my mom attributed to the usual teenage moodiness.

They got a wake-up call one night when my screams woke the whole house.  Martin had sneaked into my room to hurt me.  My stepfather kicked down the door and Martin ran.  The next day, my parents got a restraining order against him but I was my own worse enemy.  After three years of abuse, I had become so addicted to him and to changing him that I couldn't imagine my life without him so I continued to see him behind my parents' back.

Fortunately, mid-way through my senior year, Martin moved 45 minutes away and got involved with someone else.  Occasionally, he would call to threaten and harass me.  The night before my high school graduation he threatened to shoot me as I walked across the stage.  It was an empty threat and the last time I ever heard from him.

In the meantime, Gabe had started asking me out.  I had noticed him for the first time in 11th grade.  Gabe was a star baseball player and really cute but I was too wrapped up in Martin to even consider dating him or anyone else.

Like nearly everyone else at school, Gabe had heard about my abusive relationship but instead of labeling me as damaged goods or trying to capitalize on my vulnerability, he treated me great.  I was the one who couldn't leave the past behind.  My physical bruises had faded but being battered for years had left gaping emotional wounds.  I became angry, aggressive and hell-bent on making sure no one would ever abuse me again.

Gabe took the brunt of my anger.  I picked fights with him, yelled at him constantly and even hit him.  Gabe was 6' 2", 210 pounds and lifted weights.  He could have easily hurt me but he never raised his hand to me or disrespected me in any way.  Gabe was raised  by hippie, pacifist parents who believed that any violence, including spanking, was unacceptable.

"I promise I will never hit you and it's not O.K. for you to hit me either," he told me in a firm, almost parental way.  His reaction was so weird to me.  We were the same age, yet he was light years ahead of me in terms of maturity.

We graduated high school in 1993.  Gabe went to Cal State Fullerton and I took classes at junior college in the valley but we saw each other as much as we could.  After a year, Gabe transferred to a junior college nearby so we could be together.

We loved each other but love alone does not conquer all, especially when you equate the turmoil of emotional and physical violence with love like I did.  On some level, I felt that if Gabe didn't act that way, he didn't really care about me so I did my best to provoke him.

About a year into our relationship, Gabe and I were driving down the freeway when we got into an argument about something I can't even recall now.  I began screaming at the top of my lungs and hitting him.   Suddenly, he pulled the car over, stopped and turned to me.

"That's the last time you'll ever hit me," he said.  "If you ever do it again, we're finished.  I'm going to get out of the car and when you've calmed down and are ready to talk to me like a normal human being, honk the horn and I'll come back."

I was stunned.  I sat in the car and watched him walking down the side of the freeway.  I knew that if I didn't stop, he would walk out of my life.  That day, I promised I would never hit him again and kept my word.  But my anger and insecurities morphed into insane jealousy and irrational behavior.  The only guy I'd dated had beaten me up and cheated on me, surely Gabe would do the same.

"God, you're crazy," he would say whenever he caught me following him or snooping for proof that he was cheating.  "I've never given you any reason to distrust me.  You've got to get it together and give me some space!"   I tried to quit but old habits die hard.

In 1995, Gabe was drafted by the Detroit Tigers and sent to the farm team, the Jamestown Jammers.  Being separated was torture but it also made us realize how much we wanted to be together.  I went with him to North Carolina when he was sent to play for the Fayetteville Generals the next year.

Being in the minors was a great professional experience for Gabe.  He made the all-star team each year and was named Baseball Weekly Minor League Player of the year in 1998.   The only thing missing was the money.  We lived on macaroni and cheese and care packages from our parents from our parents and we had never been happier.

"I want to marry you but I can't do it unless you get therapy," Gabe said to me.  I couldn't believe it.  I hadn't hit him since that day on the freeway and my angry outbursts were less frequent-yet it wasn't enough for him.  Sure, I was jealous and acted crazy sometimes but we were still together, so what was the big deal?

"You have some serious issues and either we deal with them now or they will destroy us later," he said.

There he was again, being Mr. Psychoanalyst and I hated it!  I also knew he was right.  At first I went to counseling just so I could say "see, I told you I was fine."  But once I got there I realized I was not O.K.  I still carried the emotional scars and anger from the high school abuse.  Unless I confronted my insecurities and self-esteem issues, I could never have a healthy relationship with Gabe or anyone else.

Therapy couldn't have come at a better time.  After five years in the minors, Gabe made it to the "Show."   We got married in April, 1999, the same month he played his first major league game with the Detroit Tigers.   Being the wife of a professional baseball player is not for the faint of heart, however.  The team travels constantly, groupies line up at their hotels and outside the locker rooms, ready and willing to do anything.  I doubt the old, jealous, irrational me could have handled that.

I relaxed even more when our first son, Chase, was born later that year.  I was so busy being a mom, I didn't have the time or energy to worry about Gabe.  And, miraculously, the more I let go, the closer we became.

Gabe has played for four major league teams but our best season by far was with the Boston Red Sox in 2004.  It wasn't only because the Sox won the World Series that year.  Our family became part of the Red Sox family and, for the first time, I realized that Gabe's name could help bring awareness to an issue we cared about.

When I left the Club House that day in July, I told Gabe I wanted to go public about the abuse.  He not only agreed, he encouraged me to speak out.  He had first-hand knowledge of what happens to a battered girl once the hitting stops and wanted to do whatever he could to keep it from happening to anyone else.

We recently started the Gabe Kapler Foundation, a non-profit organization that benefits two emergency and transitional shelters for victims of abuse in the Los Angeles area.  I've spoken about  dating and domestic violence to high school girls, women's shelters and anyone else who wants to hear my story.  Doing so puts a face on the statistics and demonstrates that no one is immune.

But I really want these women to hear what Gabe taught me about real love.  I want them to see that there is life after being abused.  I am the Cinderella story for domestic violence and Gabe was my Prince Charming.