bertha schneiders existential edge
first I gave up men.
it wasnt easy but it sure as hell was obvious, you may want to
know, woman to woman, what it was that made me decide, well, it
wasnt the times I was raped by strangers. I mean christ you do the
whole trip then, nightmares, cold sweats, fear and trembling and a
not inconsiderable amount of loathing as well—but one thing you
cant do is take it personally. I mean I always figured that, statistically at least, it had nothing to do with me, bertha schneider.
now the two I knew a little bit, that was different. I mean, I felt
there was something personal in it. the man from Rand, that well-
mannered smart ass, and some starving painter who limped for
christ sake. I mean, I figure I must have asked for it. I mean, Im
always reading that I must have asked for it, and in the movies
women always do, and theyre always glad. I wasnt glad goddam it
but whod believe it anyway, the painter told me that if I didnt want it
my cunt wouldve been locked and no man couldve penetrated it. I
told him I wasnt a yogi though I was seeing the value of all that
oriental shit for the first time. I figure thats why there arent too
many women yogis in India, they dont want them locking their cunts
which is obviously the first thing they would do.
it wasnt even being married for 3 years, it wasnt the time he kept
banging my head on the kitchen floor (hard wood) so that I would
say I really did like the movie after all. I mean, lets face it, I just dont
like Clint Eastwood and if thats a fatal flaw, well it just is. it wasnt
the time he beat me up in front of my mother either, it wasnt the
time he threw me out on the street in my nightgown and called the
police, it wasnt even the time he brought home 4 drunken friends,
one of whom kept calling me kike, and they tied me to the bed and
fucked me until I passed out and thank god I dont know what happened after that, after all, that was only 4 events in 3 years which is 1, 095 days, besides, I loved him. besides, I didnt have anywhere else
to go.
I never exactly made a grand exit. I mean, I could have, for instance, running away with another man wouldve been a grand exit, it also wouldve required presence of mind and a basically unbruised
body. I couldve changed the locks and gotten a court order, except,
frankly, and I know this for a fact, no one wouldve believed me. I
know that thats true from the time I went to a doctor after he bashed
my head against the kitchen floor. I was, I admit, hysterical, what I
kept trying to explain to the doctor was that if someone had bashed
his head against a hard wood kitchen floor because he didnt like
Clint Eastwood he would be hysterical too. my fatal flaw wasnt
regarded kindly by him either, he told me that they could have me
locked up or I could go home, then he gave me some valium. I considered it but I guess I was more afraid of the nuthouse than I was of being beaten to death.
anyway, finally 2 events led to my final departure, first I went
shopping and he tried to run me over with his car. the police came at
the point where he had gotten out of the car after backing me
against a wall and was strangling me and screaming obscenities simultaneously. I refused to press charges. I kept thinking that he was confused and had made a mistake. I thought that every time which,
for an educated woman, was quite an accomplishment, then I went
