From Villain to Hero: Encouragement and a map to stop domestic violence or abuse that hurts the ones you love

By Michael Clark

When Michael Clark was arrested for domestic violence and his wife moved out, he saw his world falling apart. He knew this was not the person he wanted to be. He was eager to change, but didn’t know how. Everything he’d tried in the past to control his behavior had fallen short.

Part memoir, part how-to, From Villain to Her

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ananias Foundaiton
• Release date: Jul 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780578860473

Michael Clark

As Michael Clark overcame his issue with domestic violence, he felt called to share what he'd learned with others who were facing the same challenge. He took what he had learned in his career as an entrepreneur and business consultant and founded the Ananias Foundation (ananiasfoundation.org). The Ananias Foundation is a Christian-based non-profit that works to end domestic violence by providing guidance and encouragement to individuals who have been violent with their partner but want to change. Michael lives with his wonderful wife Lynn and their assortment of spoiled pets in West Des Moines, Iowa. Together they enjoy spending time with their friends and family, traveling, hiking, kayaking, and working on home projects.

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INTRODUCTION

Imagine a man. He’s a pretty normal guy who wants the normal things in life. A wife, a family, and a decent job. Like any person, he desires happiness and fulfillment. Love, too. From the outside, you’d think he had all of these things. Everything seems as it should be.

But sometimes this guy gets a little angry. And then, when he looks back on those times, he feels ashamed—because he realizes that in his anger, he’s been hurting someone he loves.

This guy knows it’s wrong to hit, grab, push or choke his partner. He knows it’s wrong to threaten and frighten her, and he wishes he could just stop doing it. It’s simply not acceptable behavior. But bit-by-bit, this behavior has crept into the relationship anyway. No matter what he does, this guy just can’t stop messing up.

He desperately wants to change. He desperately wants to be the kind man he knows he should be—the partner and father his wife and kids deserve. So, he tries—really tries—to change his ways. He takes a long, hard look at himself. He says sorry to his family and tries to control his anger.

But it doesn’t work. Again and again, this guy finds himself slipping back into the behaviors he’s trying to stop. All his efforts to be a better person come to nothing. And worst of all, he’s in deep trouble for what he’s done. His partner won’t talk to him. And he’s found himself on the wrong side of the law. You could say that this man has hit rock bottom.

Ok, now here’s a question.

Sound familiar?

Why I Wrote This Book

Are you a person who’s realized that sometimes your actions hurt the ones you love? Do you want to stop, but don’t know how? Are you in trouble for the things you’ve done while angry? If the answer is yes to any or all of these questions, then this book for you.

I know you have a difficult road ahead. You have been trying to make some monumental changes happen—but without an instruction manual to help you. You probably don’t have a mentor or any decent resources to help you with this quest. Perhaps the most discouraging thing of all is that you have been trying to make this journey alone, without much empathy or encouragement from others.

In fact, your biggest supporter, your partner, now feels like the enemy—forcing the issue by threatening to leave you, divorce you, or have you arrested (if they haven’t already). Meanwhile, family, friends, co-workers, and neighbors are not interested in showing compassion toward an abuser—they mostly want nothing to do with you. Maybe one or two of them have decided to try and help, but their pop-psychology solutions really don’t work.

You’ve probably also found that community resources are not helpful. The legal system and its mandated Batterers’ Intervention Programs (BIPs) typically layer guilt, shame, and punishment onto a person who already has their emotional plate full and their life in disarray. These programs can create new obstacles and offer more of the wrong answers. Because they ignore the underlying problems, it should come as no surprise that they seldom produce the positive results everyone wants.

If some of these are your experiences, let me say it’s a lot to deal with. I wrote this book for you and I hope it gives you a roadmap that shows you how to get from where you are to where you want to be. Why do I care? Because I’ve been there, too.

You see, this roadmap is my roadmap. One that I recorded so others may follow. Hopefully it will make your journey a little easier, the destination a little clearer, the time on the road a little shorter, and the chance of experiencing a happier, healthier life a little greater.

One Man’s Journey

I am not trained in counseling, criminology, or social services. I’ve also never written a book before. I’m just a regular guy who happened to be missing some crucial pieces of healthy emotional development. These missing pieces were creating problems, but I didn’t realize it. Eventually, these problems got me in such big trouble that I was forced to seek solutions before the things I valued most in life disappeared.

When I was looking for help to try and stop my hurtful behavior, I read a lot of books on the subject. There were tons of books that focused on the victim—what she should do to ensure her safety, and how she could recover from her trauma. Many books hypothesized about why men batter. Nearly all of them assumed the victim is a woman and the perpetrator a man.

But these books did not reflect how I experienced events. Their theories about why I behaved like I did made no sense. I was disappointed, too, that almost none of them were written by someone who could describe firsthand how they were feeling when they hurt their loved ones, or, more importantly, what they did to change their behavior.

We all know that one of the most productive forms of learning is to talk to someone who’s been there and done that. I would have benefitted enormously from knowing someone who had been through my experience and could provide me with some guidance. Like an archeologist forced to dig through tons of soil to unearth bits and pieces of a cryptic map, I spent a great deal of time trying to find pieces of helpful information that I could put together to make sense of what I was experiencing. But maybe, now that I’m finally on the other side, I can give you a little bit of what I wish I’d had myself. Maybe by sharing my story, the path I’ve taken, and the insights I’ve gained, I’ll be able to help you on your journey.

I cannot say the route I took is the only way, or even the best way, to make the changes you desire. But I do know that it’s one way to transformation, because it worked for me. So, with that in mind, I’ll mention how this book will be structured. The approach I take with each chapter is to first share my story. Then, I summarize what I learned from the experience. I finish by outlining the actions and thought processes I used to get better, and that you can try for yourself. I hope that whether you’re a man or a woman, you can relate to many of my experiences and use the techniques I used to inspire your own growth and change.

We’re in This Together

I also wrote this book to offer you some much-needed encouragement. I know that having damaged relationships and getting into legal trouble can make it easy to feel like a bad person—a real villain. Of course, we’d all rather be a hero, a good guy or gal, a person that others look up to and respect. Let me tell you, it is possible to go from being a villain to a hero. Not by staying where we are, but by allowing ourselves to change.

It won’t be easy. In order to succeed, you will need to travel to mysterious, frightening, and unexplored parts of your mind. You’ll challenge your most deeply held beliefs, and face some of your most painful and long-suppressed memories. You will experience confusion, setbacks, loss, loneliness, and frustration. You will face the scorn of others and your own sense of shame. But, hopefully, as long as you have this book, you won’t feel alone.

No person ever became a hero without overcoming great obstacles. I think men in particular can carry traits—a competitive instinct, a hardwiring for physical action, and the fact that we sometimes struggle to identify our emotions—that may make us particularly susceptible to abusive behavior. How we are raised and how society expects boys and men to act probably makes it worse. But as humans, all of us also carry traits like tenacity and bravery that can become our greatest allies in our journey from villain to hero. I know we’ve probably never met, but I believe in you, and I know you can be successful in this change you that are trying to make.

I’ll say again, I’m just a regular guy—I didn’t have any inborn knowledge or specialist skills when I started this journey. I was as clueless as you probably feel now. What I did have, however, was a burning desire to change. I didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore, and I was pretty tired of hurting myself as a consequence. My guess is you’re at that stage too.

So, give me your desire for change, and in return I’ll give you understanding, honest guidance, and plenty of cheerleading. Better yet, give that burning desire to yourself. You’ll reap rewards greater than you can imagine. Together, we can emerge from the darkness and come into the light.

For You, Too

I suspect (and hope) that some victims of domestic abuse are reading, too, just to see what it’s about. If you are one of these readers, you are probably wondering whether this book might be a useful resource you can give to your partner to help them address an issue that is vitally important to your relationship, your safety and your happiness. I hope you conclude that the answer is yes. I want you to know that we are on the same side and that we want the same thing—safe and healthy relationships.

If you’re a woman whose male partner is causing harm, a lot of domestic abuse resources out there will paint your guy as macho and entitled, with a serious superiority problem. I understand it can look that way on the surface. But the truth is, that theory is drastically missing the root problem in most cases. It cannot, therefore, give you a lasting solution. I encourage you to read this book so you can better understand your partner, what he needs to accomplish, and the obstacles he has to overcome.

If you are a victim of domestic violence, however, I caution you first to make sure you are safe. Nothing in this book implies that you should tolerate abuse. You should not. You are under no obligation to forgive your partner or give them a second chance—that decision is up to you.

If your partner’s behavior is a subject you are already discussing together, and if they are sincerely sorry but not sure how to fix it, then I do believe this book can help. The process of change is going to take time and considerable effort, so if you choose to stay with your partner, please stay out of harm’s way and look after yourself while they make this journey. I think you’ll find Chapter Seven especially helpful in determining when your partner has made sufficient progress to cautiously resume a relationship.

Finally, I wrote this book for those who work in social services: ministers, counselors, and social workers who deal with violent domestic situations. It’s also directed toward law enforcement officers, lawyers, prosecutors, judges, and corrections officers who encounter individuals charged with domestic assault. We all want the same thing: safe communities and positive family environments. I hope that by reading about the experiences of one of your clients—a man who has been through the system—you will be able to adjust and enhance your approach and find more effective ways to accomplish this goal of ours.

CHAPTER ONE

VILLAIN

My Story

I sat in the fetal position, my arms wrapped around my shins and my legs pulled close to my chest. It was warm where my body parts touched, but the cold, damp concrete beneath me chilled me to the bone. My bodyweight on the unforgiving floor pinched my flesh like a rug under heavy furniture. Curled up tightly, I could only snatch shallow, frequent breaths.

My posture was confined to an oddly shaped cranny—just a couple of feet of floor space—in the back corner of the furnace room in my house. The room was pitch black. On my right, I felt the hard, clammy foundation. In front of me and to my left stood the unfinished backside of the downstairs bathroom wall, which met the foundation at a 45-degree angle. Through the center of this triangle ran a sewer pipe that served the laundry room and bathrooms above me. Behind me were opaque plastic tubs filled with Christmas decorations, out of season, and now in storage.

Other than providing passage for the unsightly sewage pipe, this insignificant patch of floor space served no practical purpose for our family. Its irregular shape rendered it worthless—we couldn’t even use it to stack some of the countless boxes of stuff we had in storage. And yet, for five hours of this Friday evening on May 27, 2005, I stayed in that very spot. I didn’t know it then, but it was the place where my life would reach a major turning point.

My shallow breathing and the encroaching chill I felt were more than mere effects of these uncomfortable surroundings—my emotional circuitry was completely overloaded. My mind raced from one thought to the next like a pinball lighting up the scoreboard, as my feelings of fear, hurt, anger, disbelief, sadness, and shame were fired off in rapid succession.

Clutching my knees in the fetal position and drawing my extremities closer to wring some warmth from them—perhaps this was an unconscious survival technique, an attempt to soothe myself. "Am I really here?" I wondered in disbelief, thinking more of my situation than the fact that I was sitting on the floor in the dark furnace room. "I’m okay," I kept trying to convince myself. But when I thought about the next minute, the next hour, the next day, or especially the rest of my life, it was a hard sell.

I heard the doorbell ring upstairs. There were a couple of knocks on the door, which soon became a heavy pounding. This was no visitor checking to see if I was home. This person demanded entry.

There was a brief moment of silence, then the din resumed. This time, it was not the sound of insistent knuckles rapping on the door, but that of a heavy bar, swung mightily against the side of the house. For the first couple of blows the house appeared to resist, keeping me safe for a few more moments. But by the third blow I could hear cracking, then splintering, and then shattering as my fortress gave way.

Voices—male voices—now rumbled through the house, at first by the front entrance, but soon spreading to the rest of the first floor. Next I heard footsteps on the stairs, headed upward. Shortly after, I heard them thudding down the basement stairs, coming my way. The voices were closer now—some real, some crackling over a radio. I heard the distinct squeak of the storage room door opening at the bottom of the basement stairs.

For a bizarre moment I felt triumphant. I’d considered taking refuge in the storage room, but had opted instead for the furnace room, where I now cowered in the corner with the sewage pipe. I was in a much better hiding spot than I could have found on such short notice in the storage room. If they were checking the storage room first, it meant I was okay for at least another minute. As if that really mattered.

At this point, I was veiled in denial. I still hoped that I could get out of this unscathed. I was still trying to convince myself that I was okay. But then a voice from outside the furnace room shattered my delusions. This voice articulated the truth about who I was and what I needed to face. This voice still burns like a laser in my memory. This voice, filling the hallway outside the furnace room where I hid, said:

Michael Clark, this is the police. Come out with your hands up.

At that moment, I realized I was a bad guy. A criminal. A villain.

I sat quietly, breathless, motionless, hoping they would not enter the room, hoping they would not find me, hoping that they would give up looking. Hoping I could have just a little more time to clear things up and straighten things out, to tell the police it was all a big mistake, to get my wife to understand me, and to fix my problem. I hoped, but I knew deep down it was not to be. I knew my time was up. I had to face my actions. I had to face myself.

I had just battered my wife. Again.

I slapped her across her face, leaving a bright red hand mark on her cheek.

What I had done clearly fit the definition of battery—the harmful or offensive touching of another person without their consent. My act was criminal, and that was why the police were looking for me.

The mess I had created was a monster with long tentacles. Each individual consequence was bad enough, but together they threatened everything I valued most in life: my marriage, my family, my career, my reputation, and my self-esteem.

My mind raced. My heart pounded. Yes, I was angry. Beneath the anger, however, I was really scared. Not so much scared of getting caught and arrested—although that was pretty frightening—but scared that I’d never get my life put back together. And I was so ashamed. How did I get here? Why am I like this? What’s wrong with me? Will I ever be able to fix this part of me that snaps and lashes out at my partner? I’ve tried so hard for so long to change, I thought. I’ve tried everything I know how to try, but I’m still doing it. How can I be such a degenerate?

I heard the knob turn on the furnace room door, and then the faint squeak of the hinge. Light from the hallway streamed in and was joined by the light of a single incandescent bulb near the doorway, but the shadow cast by the furnace covered me.

Suddenly, the beam of a flashlight lanced through the dark and landed on my side of the furnace. I stopped breathing entirely. I was certain that my heart was pounding so loudly it could be heard throughout the entire room.

The flashlight beam stopped momentarily on the other side of the storage boxes at my back. The police officer was less than six feet away from me. Surely he’d take two more steps to see if there was anyone on the other side of those containers. Surely my hiding spot was obvious to a trained professional accustomed to searching for fugitives. I braced for the sound of a weapon being drawn or the sensation of a steely gun barrel touching my head from above. Neither happened. Instead, I heard footsteps moving away from me, saw the light cut out, and heard the door pull shut, leaving me alone again in my cold, dark, hellhole.

If found, I would be arrested and charged with domestic assault for the second time in six weeks. This would land me at least one more night in jail, maybe more. I knew from my first arrest that I did not like jail. I did not think I belonged there. Jail scared me. I’d been put into a holding cell with about a dozen others who were there for drunk driving, drug possession, drug dealing, and violent assault. I remembered that the holding cell had been cold and entirely made of concrete, much like the furnace room floor where I was now sitting.

The sounds of voices, footsteps, and crackling radios—some distant, some nearby—continued for ten or fifteen minutes. At least one officer was stationed in the basement, just outside the furnace room door, poised to spot any movement or signs of a stowaway. Another officer passed by and grabbed the knob on the furnace room door again.

Did you check in here? he asked. I felt sick to my stomach.

Yes, came the reply, and the door remained closed.

My co-workers would undoubtedly find out about my arrest. I might lose my job—a great job I’d spent years working to land and yet more years proving myself in. I wouldn’t be able to replace this job without moving to a different state, if at all. And everyone in the neighborhood must have realized something big was up when a half-dozen squad cars rushed to a house in a quiet, relatively affluent neighborhood. Would I ever be able to show my face outside