All the wrong men: as the daughters of a controlling, verbally abusive father, she and her younger sister spent years attaching themselves to controlling, verbally abusive men. Janine Latus managed to get out before disaster struck; Amy didn't. A writer breaks her silence.(connections)

Publication: O, The Oprah Magazine

Publication Date: 01-OCT-05

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I AM SARDINED INTO A PLANE NEXT TO A young couple. She is lean and fashionable, her pedicured feet in strappy heels. He is handsome in the way of a golfer. Small potbelly, gold chain, white ankles. He, sitting on the aisle, turns his back to her and gathers her slender arms around his neck, snuggling in like a child.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

"I want a blanket," the woman says, her voice thin and girlish. "I always get cold when I fly."

He gathers her arms tighter.

"I'll keep you warm," he says, chuckling at a bosomy cartoon in Maxim. She reads over his shoulder, her arm white where it is pinched against the armrest.

After a long moment, she says, "Can you see a blanket up there?"

He does not look up, just pats her thigh, says, "You'll be fine."

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

There is another pause, then she disentangles one arm and reaches for the call button.

"I'll just get a flight attendant to check," she says, but he pulls her arm back down.

"You'll be fine," he says again.

I want to lay a hand on her shoulder and say, "Listen, honey, it only gets worse from here. Get rid of this guy. Now."

But of course I don't say anything.

When I see them in the terminal she is click-clacking behind him, wheeling their bag and toting their carry-on. He is empty-handed, two strides ahead, scolding her to hurry up.

Perhaps I am imagining things, but my guess is that the man's behavior is as familiar to the woman on the plane as it is to me. I grew up being controlled and criticized, and I chose men who continued the tradition. My sister chose even worse.

"YOU'RE WEARING THAT?" MY BOY-friend asks.

I look down. I am 25, a graduate student, young and comfortable in my baggy university sweatshirt.

"Come on, honey," he says, tugging it over my head. "Show off that body."

I end up shooting pool awkwardly, my short skirt revealing my underpants when I lean over, my small breasts almost entirely exposed. Men make excuses to walk behind me, to drop their cues with a smack and then look up my skirt as they pick them up. I am flattered. I giggle. I am young.

I tell my little sister about it. She rolls her eyes. I can tell, even over the phone.

"Why do you put up with that shit?" she asks.

Because he loves me. Because he's proud of me. Because he thinks I'm beautiful.

I AM USED TO BEING IMPROVED UPON.

Growing up in Michigan in the 1960s, my siblings and I would close our doors and pretend that father knew best. We convinced ourselves that it was right and normal to be leered at and belittled, petted and patted, pimple-picked and put down.

"You will never be good at math," he told us.

"You couldn't find your way out of a paper bag with a map."

"You sing like a dog in heat."

One time I babysat for a man who pinned me down and dry humped me. I told my parents. "Never tell anyone," my father said, "or people will know you're a slut." I was 12.

My mother didn't say anything, just pursed her lips and stroked my hair. It would take her years to build the career and the courage to leave Dad. She'd quit her job as a nurse to care for babies one through four. They were born relatively easily; although one died a few months after birth. Baby number five came so violently that Mom was given last rites. With baby number six, Amy, both mother and daughter required massive blood transfusions. When I turned 40, I asked him: "Dad, if having babies almost killed Mom, why did you keep getting her pregnant?"

His answer came slowly, each word measured in his preacherlike bass: "Men ... have ... needs."

AT THANKSGIVING MY BOYFRIEND takes me to his suburban home, a sanctuary of white carpet and crystal, to meet his parents. We are at the table, the turkey enthroned in front of the patriarch, who has bowed his head for the blessing. We say "amen" and raise our eyes. The father picks up the ivory-handled carving tools and surveys the bounty. It is an American ritual, and he plays the role of provider well. He smiles at each of us, taking in, it seems, the candelabra, the flowers, the china. Then he stops. He sets down the utensils. He plants his hands on either side of the platter and glowers the length of table at his...

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