Chapter 5: Back to the Dumpster
Last Saturday, I told you about walking out of the hospital with donated clothes, a small bag, and nowhere to go.
What I didn’t tell you was what happened next.
This is one of the hardest parts of my story for me to write.
Because even after all these years, remembering it can still knock the wind out of me.
I was homeless.
But more than that, I was ashamed.
I didn’t want anyone to know how far my life had fallen.
Before the assault, I had a job. I had a home. I had belongings. I had a life.
Now I had nothing.
So I disappeared.
For the next few weeks, I lived on the streets.
And there were nights when I slept beside a dumpster.
A dumpster.
The same kind of place where someone had found me after I was beaten and left behind.
Sometimes life has a cruel way of bringing you back to the very place you’re trying desperately to escape.
I remember lying there thinking about what my life had become.
I was hurt.
I was homeless.
I was depressed.
And I didn’t want anyone to see me.
I didn’t want their pity.
I didn’t want their questions.
Most of all, I didn’t want anyone who remembered the person I had been to see the person I had become.
Looking back, I understand something now that I couldn’t understand then.
I wasn’t just hiding because I was homeless.
I was hiding because I was ashamed of being a victim.
Eventually, I managed to get in touch with an old friend.
He took me in.
I will forever be grateful to him.
He didn’t fix my life.
He couldn’t.
But when I had nowhere to go, he gave me somewhere to be.
Sometimes that’s where survival begins.
Not with somebody having all the answers.
Just somebody opening a door.
But getting off the street didn’t mean I was okay.
Far from it.
My body was healing, but inside I was falling apart.
I started drinking heavily.
Then I started using meth.
I wanted to forget.
I wanted the memories to stop.
I wanted to stop feeling like the man who had been beaten, thrown away, and forgotten.
For a while, getting numb seemed easier than getting better.
I wasn’t rebuilding my life yet.
I was surviving it.
Reflection
This part of my story is difficult for me to admit publicly.
But this series was never supposed to be about making me look good.
It’s about the mission.
And if we’re going to talk honestly about domestic violence, then we also have to talk about what can happen after the violence.
Survivors can lose homes.
They can lose jobs.
They can struggle with depression.
They can isolate themselves.
Some try to numb their pain with alcohol or drugs.
And sometimes the shame of what happened becomes almost as heavy as what happened itself.
That’s why telling a survivor to “just leave” has never been enough.
What happens the day after they leave?
Where do they sleep?
How do they eat?
Who helps them find work?
Who sits beside them when the memories come back?
Who reminds them that their life still has value?
Those questions are part of the reason RADV exists today.
We can’t erase someone’s past.
But maybe we can help build a bridge between where they are and where they still have the possibility of going.
I couldn’t see that bridge when I was sleeping beside that dumpster.
I didn’t know what was coming.
I certainly didn’t know there would someday be something called Riders Against Domestic Violence.
At that moment, I was simply trying to make it through another day.
And then…
My brother in Texas reached out.
He told me there was a job waiting.
For the first time in a long time, someone wasn’t offering me sympathy.
He was offering me an opportunity.
Next Saturday, I’ll tell you about the decision that changed the direction of my life.
My story. Our mission. Their hope.
— Dave “Grizzly Dave” Beatty
Founder, Riders Against Domestic Violence (RADV)