We are Gabby
The Gabby Petito story is the story of many abused partners.
Gabby Petito was a girl, barely into womanhood. Her smile was bright and friendly, though sometimes it seemed a little strained and her forehead a little creased when the picture was with her boyfriend, Brian Laundrie. There are many pictures and videos of her in front of the van they called home for a short while. She had wanderlust, and like so many girls her age, radically decided to live life on her terms, adopting the ‘van life’ as her way of expression and adventure. She went on a cross-country trek with her boyfriend, and she never returned. Her body has been found in Wyoming and it was ruled a homicide.
She had been living with her boyfriend and his parents in Florida, miles and miles away from her family in New York. She was so isolated from them that it took several days since her last text for her parents to report her missing. Her boyfriend has never spoken of her disappearance, even as he returned to his parents’ home without her. Neither he nor his family filed any sort of missing person’s report.
We’ve seen the police camera video, where she appears weary and sad. She blames herself for the wavering van they pulled over. She talks to a police officer, separated from Brian. She claims responsibility for the row. She is sad that he didn’t believe in her ability to be a vlogger.
Other details have come to light, too, how they had a fight at a Tex-Mex restaurant, how other people recall altercations between them. All was not bright in their van, no matter what they posted on social media. It’s strange how we forget that cars are not private, and other people will take notice of what is happening inside.
It reminds me of my own experience with a volatile partner.
I remember one time when I was traveling with my abuser, and the same thing happened. He was yelling at me for something or other as he was driving. He ripped a textbook out of my hands, driving his knuckle between the bones in the back of my hand, and threw it out of the window. He grabbed me by the hair and I flailed against him, accidentally knocking the car into reverse while going down the highway and ruining the transmission.
As we coasted to a stop on the side of a highway, two police cars pulled up behind us. They separated us. He went to the back of the police car in front of our car; I stayed in the passenger’s side. Unfortunately, I could clearly see him through the windshield, giving me warning looks as the officer talked to him. I turned away, tears streaming down my face.
“Two other drivers had called us because they thought you were in trouble.” the officer said to me. “They saw an altercation.” Right there, I had to make a decision. Yet even though my logical mind was screaming, “Tell them! Tell them!” I made excuses. I was embarrassed. I was scared. I was gaslighted.
I don’t remember what I said exactly, but in Gabby’s words to the officer, I heard my own so many years ago. I blamed myself. I sadly recounted that we were having an argument, even though it was not an argument. It was straight-up abuse that I never saw coming.
Nevertheless, I claimed responsibility that was not mine to claim. Being abused does weird things to your mind as it lowers your willpower. In an effort to smooth things over so the hurt doesn’t come, you take on all responsibility. You apologize to others for your partner’s behavior. You make yourself into the unreasonable one to protect them and do not protect yourself.
We found a tow truck driver who would take us and the ruined car from Connecticut to Massachusetts. I chatted with the driver, trying to fill both the awkward silence in the cab of the truck and the loud screaming in my head. After we dropped the car off at the mechanic, my abuser said to me accusingly, “You didn’t talk to me the whole way home.” I couldn’t take another argument. I was exhausted and bruised. I apologized to him and went to bed. Yet another day of terror in a string of so many.
I don’t know Gabby. But we all know a Gabby.
Perhaps we even were one.
