a memoir of domestic violence and \'crazy love\'
Sell two degree authors from Ivy League schools, three lovely children and a loving and successful husband.
If you meet her in the street, you may never guess her secret: she used to marry a man who often abandoned her --
She tells an experience in her memoir crazy love.
Steiner said that when she first met her ex-boyfriend
She called her husband \"Connor\" on the New York City subway, but she did not know at all that he would be subject to such abuse.
He\'s really clean.
\"Cut in a suit,\" she told Michelle Norris . \".
But early in the relationship, there were warning signs of the violent nature of Connor.
He called her \"retarded\", for example, and steinner said it was \"a lovely term that sounded sad.
\"Then, five days before they got married, Steiner worked in her home office and couldn\'t get the computer to work.
Connor rushed into the office, put her hands around her neck and pushed her repeatedly to the wall.
\"I think I should have left at the time, but I think the power of love has overwhelmed my wisdom, logic, and reason,\" Steiner said . \".
After years of emotional and physical abuse, Steiner finally left Connor.
She married a loving man with three children.
But she still kept a small box of souvenirs from her first marriage in the basement.
Including the last note that Connor wrote to her, which said \"goodbye, slow \".
\"To some extent, keeping these souvenirs is a reminder of how far I have gone,\" said Steina . \".
Chapter 1 if you and I meet at one of our children\'s birthday parties, in the hallway of work, or at the neighbor\'s BBQ, you will never guess my secret: as a young woman, I fell in love with a man who beat me a lot and almost killed me.
I can\'t see this part.
I have an MBA and an undergraduate degree from an Ivy League school.
I live in a red brick house on a tree.
One of Washington DC\'s most beautiful neighborhoods is lined with streets.
I have 20 years of marketing experience in Fortune 500, and it\'s also the best --
Sell a book about my mother in my name.
A smart, loyal husband, with a gap in personality on the front teeth, a gentle person who provides food for stray cats in our alley.
Three crazy. loved children.
One of our own dogs and three cats.
Everyone in my family is blonde (
People at least).
Ah, if it\'s just happiness
Educated, blonde, from a good family, enough to defuse all the demons of life.
If I am brave enough to meet you for the first time, I will try to share how painful it is to fall in love with a good man who can\'t leave the violent past.
I will tell you why I have been here for so many years and how I end up facing someone who values his love more than my own life.
Then, maybe the next time you meet a woman who mistreats her, instead of asking why someone is with a man who beats her, you will have compassion and courage to help her on her way.
We all have our own secrets that we do not reveal when we first meet others. This is mine.
Twenty years ago, I met Connor on the New York Metro and set off from the city center. I was 22.
I remember like yesterday.
The window in Casey\'s office is the only daylight I can see from my desk at presswood in the hallway. I snuck a look.
My ugly orange swivel chair squeaked.
It\'s a cold, gray Monday afternoonJanuary.
The skyscrapers in Midtown Manhattan are smooth and dark due to rain.
First thing that morning, Kathy.
The 17-year-old head of the article Department is also the first boss I met in my life --
Hold a meeting to distribute assignments for May.
Then I interviewed a fidgety 12-year-
Old Russian model looking 29 years old makeup.
After that, I ran out for lunch in the rain with the eccentric British astrologer who wrote the 17-month Fortune column.
I graduated from college last spring, when the Harvard Yard was like a big factory opening. budget movie. Sun-
The grass is dotted with spring. My mom happy-
Drunk in a striped Vittadini wrap.
My father is very proud, and I thought his face would crack, and only a poor Oklahoma boy who graduated from Harvard with his daughter would be happy.
The day was so beautiful that I wanted to hold it in my hand forever.
Working at age 17 is better than Baskin Robbins sundae.
We spent the whole morning reading magazines and talking about some tricky teen examples on the clock.
In the afternoon we raided the fashion wardrobe-a huge room where fashion editors kept samples of designers that turned the clumsy teenage ostrich into a goddess.
I hate how many times I get sick and have to miss a day.
Outside the 17 th, I wandered around New York City like my new backyard.
Dinner at the Jaffa cafe and the Mumbai kitchen.
Time to dance with my roommate at a dance center or in the spotlight.
Even the most mundane activities
Fold clothes at the fluorescent-
Walk through the 8 th Avenue laundromat and jog in the meat packing area
But it\'s tricky to break all the work.
Put on the pantyhose, like in a uniform, without my crazy morning spell.
Take the train instead of the express train to Harlem.
When my salary runs out six days before the next due, figure out how to eat.
Everything looks so new.
That afternoon, when the rain poured out of Kathy\'s window, I wrote and rewritten at the desk in the hallway.
Every girl in the United States reads seventeen at some age.
There are nearly 4 million girls in each issue;
For girls who only have magazines to ask for advice, some favorites are like the Bible. I should know.
A teenage girl solves a shocking dilemma every day with little support or guidance.
Did you do it if your boyfriend offered drugs?
Did buying birth control pills make you a slut?
Anyway, where did you get birth control when you were 16?
What if your best friend was drunk driving with you?
Did your stepfather come to you?
Your parents are divorced?
Your mother has cancer?
My work is scheduled for Game 3, which means I have to finish by Game 3. . . Friday. \"Almost done?
\"Kathy roared past in black patent boots and three boots. inch heels.
I jumped off the chair.
The story itself raises a simple enough question: Why do teenagers run away from home?
But after a great deal of investigation into government statistics and interviews with social workers, psychiatrists, and four people who are really going to talk to me, I get it.
Every year, 5 million teenagers take to the streets, most of them because they think anything is better than home. Twenty-
5% come from families who drink or take drugs.
50% have been sexually abused or physically abused at home.
What kind of home is that?
What breaks my heart is that all those who run away from home start to struggle for a better life.
The survival instinct of giving them the courage to leave a bad family makes them try to turn the street into a new home, and the other person who runs away from home is their family.
Within two months.
People in their thirties take drugs through prostitution and feed themselves.
Close to the third person does not know where they sleep every night. One-
Half tried to commit suicide. Two-
People in their thirties end up in jail or dying from illness, drug overdose or beatings by pimps, John, or other homeless people.
When I finally looked up from my computer, I was the only one to stay in the office and felt like I was abandoned by cool girls after school in Grade 8.
I read my watch for six pence. m.
When I travel to the subway in the rain, it seems to be midnight.
It took Winnie a long time to unlock the three latches on the apartment door. We hugged;
She was only 5\'2 years old, so she hit my chin on top of her head.
As usual, her hair smells like honeysuckle.
I dropped my wallet in the foyer and began to unlock my L. L.
Bean duck boots are indispensable in winter Cambridge snow fields and spring mud.
I live in the fashion capital of the planet now. it\'s ridiculous. \"How was work? \" she asked. Winnie (
Short for Winthrop-I\'m not kidding)
I was wearing a white cotton shirt with a high folding edge on my collar with a light cream of silk tucked into a long brown suede leather skirt. \"Great . . .
I\'m writing about teenagers running away from home.
\"I shook off the wet boots on my socks.
It\'s harder for me to get rid of 14-imagesyear-
The old girl I interviewed for my story.
The man sleeping on the subway grille blew her hair dry in a corner of the trailer Road bus terminal next to the pay phone she refused to pick up home.
\"How\'s your job, Win?
\"She\'s a saleswoman at 72 and Madison Polo House, selling over-priced Ralph Lauren clothes to celebrities.
She has to wear all the clothes Ralph Lauren has to wear.
Blonde Hornets are perfect every day.
\"Oh God, it\'s a long day when you stand up and try to smile at those rich assholes.
Things on the stove hissed like an angry cat. \"Fuck! \" she yelled.
Even in the fourth grade, she swore like a 35-year-old. year-old divorcee.
I followed her into the kitchenette.
She took the pot off the burner and turned around with a smile.
Winnie\'s teeth are cute, too.
This was the first thing I noticed on the day she went to elementary school.
For the next three years, she taught me the following necessities of life: how to shave my legs with the green Vitabath of spring, sleep until noon, and look up sexual words in the dictionary.
I like to wear her clothes and smell like Winnie\'s laundry detergent even if it\'s just a day.
When I was 13, I grew 4 inch and started smoking marijuana, drinking tequila, and dating older men.
I\'m more than Winnie\'s closet.
Her lacoster shirt can no longer cover my navel.
When I was drinking, she was one of my favorite people to call late at night.
\"I love you, Winnie,\" I will slander you on the phone.
She is always friendly to those calls. \"Look!
\"She stretched out her left hand and her fingers so I could see the full picture of her sparkling new engagement ring.
\"Congratulate you and win.
I am happy for you.
\"I\'m more happy for her fiance Rex.
For the rest of his life, he could smell her hair on the pillow every night.
Winnie said: \"I always knew he was right, even when I first met him, at the Sany Brotherhood party . \" She scooped up fresh garlic sauce.
She didn\'t say I knew what was most important: Rex loved her but didn\'t say \"mine --life-is-nothing-without-
Your Despair drives her crazy.
The high school boyfriend parade was attracted to her in exactly the same way as when I was a child.
They always need her too much.
I watched her peel them off one by one, just like the gum stuck on her shoes.
I looked at their little apartment which was full of Winnie\'s Ralph Lauren fabric and Rex\'s dark leather furniture.
Winnie should live with me and our reunion after four years at different universities is my chance to prove that I am awake, responsible and likable again, right?
At the beginning of last summer, when she waited for me to move to New York, she and Rex lived in this apartment.
Just a few weeks, she said.
Audrey, the roommate I finally found at Chelsea, was great.
But the question I want to ask Winnie tonight is: Can\'t she delay getting married for a few years so we can be roommates and give me a chance to catch up?
If I don\'t fit her as a roommate, how can I meet a man who suits me?
Someone like Rex might let me stay for a few weeks and then let me stay forever.
I said, \"Wow, the ring is beautiful. \" It was.
We sat down for dinner and she gave me a blowby-
Blow how Rex presents a trip to St. beach in their New YearBarts.
When we stood side by side in her small kitchen and then washed the dishes with hot soapy water that smelled like lemon, Winnie asked how my love life was. \"Kind of anti-
\"Compared to your climate,\" I said . \".
\"The important thing for men here is how much money they make and where they live.
\"Trust me, everyone who walks into the polo building will tell me his address and income level in 30 seconds. Please.
She shook her head and laughed, wrinkled her nose, which every girl in high school, including me, envied.
I put my hand into the soapy water and grabbed a pile of silverware.
\"I met them everywhere and won.
At parties and clubs, of course.
Just last week, I met someone on the bus.
Someone asked me out when I was in line for Isabella\'s bathroom.
When I was jogging around the reservoir, another person tried to pick me up.
They are everywhere.
\"She handed me a pot of dry pot.
\"I had this rule for the first time in my life-one of the things I learned when I stopped drinking. . .
\"My voice cracked.
I bet my face looks like a tomato. I kept talking. \". . .
I will never date a man to meet some of my needs, or someone who wants me to meet his urgent needs.
This sentence sounds like cheap cardboard.
But Winnie nodded, and her brown eyes were big and reassuring.
\"I won\'t have sex with them.
We don\'t even kiss. We talk. For hours.
In a restaurant where I can\'t afford to pay. \"She laughed.
\"You know, it sounds innocent, Les. And really fun.
That\'s what you need right now, right?
\"She hit my face with soap and a few soap fell on my nose.
Yes, I need it.
But it\'s not what I want.
After another congratulatory hug, I went to the cold rainy night and exchanged Winnie\'s warm and bright apartment for the neatly trimmed Upper East Side street.
Millions of heavy brown doorsdollar co-
The locked, decorated op building with polished brass door rings seems to announce that everyone in New York is safe at home. Except for me. (
Crazy Love is a personal history.
The events described in this book are true.
In addition to my own name, and some geographic and identifying details, many names have been changed for the usual reasons for privacy and security.
Omitted and combined several important characters;
Winnie\'s character represents the combination of important friends. )CRAZY LOVE.
Copyright 2008 for Leslie Morgan Steiner.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States.
Any part of the book may not be used or reproduced in any way without written permission, unless short citations are included in key articles or comments.
Information about address St.
Martin Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New YorkY. 10010.