The victim room

From Courtney Queeney’s 2013 Modern Love column

I had to go to court every two weeks to renew my emergency protection order. If the Respondent showed up to accept or contest the full order, I would have had to wait in the Victim Room, where you don’t have to see him until your case is called. If this happens, for the rest of your life you will know you once had to sit in a space called the Victim Room. But he never showed.


On my last day, the judge made me laugh by mocking the Respondent’s death-threat love letter for being so terribly written. Which was only funny because the Respondent called himself a writer. I dated a terrible writer who beat me and sent me death threats that were more terribly written than some child’s diary. I dated a violent substitute yoga teacher. It seemed like a huge joke, except it was my life.

I could laugh by then, because my jaw hinged open all the way; it was almost like my old jaw, the same way my face was almost my old face, and my ribs were almost my old ribs, and my back almost my old back. [link]


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