35 years ago, I got in an obsessive relationship with a comedian during the heyday of standup comedy in L.A. He happened to be a Playgirl centerforld. Mr. May. He beat me, not right away of course, but he did, and I stayed, starting right after the first slap. My plan was to dodge and weave — and stay around until he benefitted my career. But it was a total train-wreck. I ended up in a situation that was so humiliating and illegal, I never told a sole about what really happened until my daughter graduated from college. Then I wrote a book thinking that if it helped even one woman in her twenties recognize a beater — and run like hell— it would be worth exposing the biggest, dumbest decision I ever made. The book is Nothing to Write Home About. Written under my maiden name, Brook Simons.

Here’s a poem for you young women today. Now.

Beater

Okay, I can handle this

It doesn’t hurt

It was just a smack, he was tired

It will stop

I can’t deal wth this now

I need to wait till after I finish my screenplay

Till I’m making more money

Till I get that writing gig

I need to do my thing

Get where I’m going

He has these fits, that’s all it is

I can dodge them, ignore a little smack

Put it in a box

On a dark shelf

Like an ugly Christmas present.

He was a boy once, beautiful,

But someone broke him, snapped him

Beat the crap out him

Beat his mom in front of him

That’s why he smacks me, well — punched me,

actually. That one time.

Not counting the time he threw his coffee.

He is my problem, and no I didn’t see it when I met him

I saw the boy inside

Tattered, wobbly, worse for wear

The line he keeps crossing keeps being adjusted

Like a necklace

But if he leaves a mark

And someone finds out I let myself live with a beater

I’ll be pissed

I need to finish my screenplay.

Brook Simons, 2104