Betty Hafner - Not Exactly Love: A Memoir

Breaking the silence about the complex dynamics of abusive relationships is the most powerful act anyonevictim, bystander, or perpetratorcan take. Bravo to Betty Hafner!

Leslie Morgan Steiner, author of the New York Times best seller, Crazy Love

Betty Hafner eloquently writes about being in an abusive relationship... A powerful example of how people can gather the courage and insight to create a better life.

Rosalind Wiseman, Creating Cultures of Dignity, author of the New York Times best seller, Queen Bees and Wannabes

Why do women stayand how do they gain the courage to leave? Betty Hafners memoir is both a courageous portrait of a woman and her will, and a moving guide for women who are also dealing with the horrors of domestic violence. Her story will resonate with some and give spirit to others, and is an indelible document for readers and feminists everywhere.

Lizzie Skurnick, author of Shelf Discovery

Hafners deft prose puts the reader inside the story, revealing in intimate detail the anguish of ongoing physical abuse, the slow building of a victims agency, and finally, the redemptive power of boldly taking back ones freedom.

Robin Rinaldi, author of The Wild Oats Project

Betty Hafners intelligence is on display throughout. She shares such piercing insights that burst the bubble of attraction, enabling, love and marriage, family repression, the complexity of domestic entanglementsand her atmospheric elements do a wonderful job of giving fullness to the scenes.

Matthew Klam, author of Sam the Cat and Other Stories

For the literally millions of women who are physically abused and emotionally terrorized Not Exactly Love clearly explains the attachments, fears, and rationalizations that keep a woman trapped in a toxic relationship. Better yet, Hafner writes beautifully about how she took charge of her life and grew strong enough to break free. Both a gripping story and a manual for survivors.

Barbara Esstman, author of The Other Anna, Night Ride Home, and Sure Thing

Not Exactly Love is a brave and honest account of a domestic violence victims tense, unpredictable world. Illustrating many of the early warning signs that batterers typically display, it accurately describes the complex dynamics of an abusive relationship. Bettys story offers a raw, unflinching description of the tough choices and sacrifices survivors are often forced to make, but ends with an inspiring lesson on the cathartic power of letting go.

Lynn Fairweather, MSW, Author of Stop Signs: Recognizing, Avoiding, and Escaping Abusive Relationships

Copyright 2016 by Betty Hafner

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2016
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-149-2
E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-150-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016938339

For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707

Cover design Julie Metz, Ltd./metzdesign.com
Formatting by Kiran Spees

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

To the memory of Lynn

I have changed the names of many but not all of the people and places in this book, and at times I have altered identifying details in order to preserve anonymity.

I cannot recall exact conversations from decades ago, but I have attempted in every instance to convey the underlying truth of the scene.

Philadelphia, August 1970

O n the sweltering afternoon of my wedding I took one last look in the bedroom mirror, happy to see no sweat rings showing. My fake eyelashes felt loose, so I pressed hard on my eyelids and scolded myself for not reading the directions. Here goes nothing! I said out loud to make myself smile.

At twenty-five I looked like a skinny teenager with my long sun-streaked hair, dangling earrings, and freckles. I wore no veil, no flowing gown, just a white dress with lace on the front and wide gaucho pants that had shocked my mother. The sleeves hid a new bruise on my arm, but that wasnt on my mind as I stood at the door.

I grabbed my bouquetgardenias, not rosesand walked down the hall as if I were gliding down the aisle of a church filled with a hundred people, not just the ten who were waiting in the living room below. At the top of the stairs, I heard a rustling noise, probably Jacks youngest brother, and a loud Shhhh! I paused, took in a deep breath, and started down. But then it happened.

The heel of my satin pump clipped the carpeted edge and snapped off. My flowers flew up as I grabbed the banister and tumbled onto a step. No one could see me behind the wall, but they knew. I heard my mother gasp.

Im okay, I shouted and hobbled back up the stairs. In my childhood room, with a toy chest still holding stuffed animals, I stormed around in circles before throwing myself onto the bed. I clutched my pillow and hugged it like a life preserver.

The house was silent. No footsteps on the stairs. No voice calling, How are you doing up there? I could visualize our two families below, Jacks and mine. My mothereyeing the group and worrying about the reactions of the family shed met just minutes before and the minister whod be waiting with his prayer book in hand. My fatherhunched in his wingback chair, looking at his lap to avoid eye contact with Jacks parents as if they were uninvited foreigners not just my in-laws-to-be, on the couch with their four kids around them. Next to the minister would be Jackpale and shaky with a hangover from barhopping with my sisters husband.

I was sure that every face downstairs must be registering confusionWhats she doing up there? Still, no one came. My family didnt have that instinct.

Theyre all waiting, I told myself. Youve got to go down. Yet I didnt get up; I couldnt. My embarrassment was evaporating, making room for a chilling fear that trickled into my gut and worked its way up to my head. Maybe stumbling was a sign telling me I shouldnt marry Jack. I covered my eyes as though I could shut out the picture of his fist coming toward me.

I didnt want to choose between pretending he hadnt hit me and telling people what he had done. That choice was terrifying. My heart raced. Do something, do something, each beat said, do something.

Everyones expecting me down now, I whispered. I should go. So I took off my shoes and flung the broken one into the trash. I grabbed my flowers and pinched off a broken stem. Taking a noisy breath, I stood up tall and walked barefoot past the mirror without a glance. I relaxed as I descended; the decision was made. I would do what everyone expected me to. The other option was unthinkable.