Since this is a “Week Without Violence” I am going to talk about an issue that hits very personally close to me.

Domestic violence.

Although I have never been in a relationship that was extremely violent, there is one situation that I would like to share with all of you. Before entering into my personal story, I am going to give a three-part primer on this controversial subject:

Part 1: Domestic violence affects everyone regardless of race, class, gender, sexual orientation, nationality and religion. It doesn’t have to be physical. There are other forms such as sexual, emotional, verbal, financial and mental abuses which are commonly intertwined in these settings.

Part 2: Relationships that are domestically violent are difficult to comprehend from an outside viewpoint.

Unlike a daily talk show audience who openly shouts at a guest who is trapped in this negative situation to “just simply get out!” it is not that simple.

Part 3: Leaving a volatile situation usually involves three stages that a victim (either female or male) must undergo before escaping:

Making the final decision to leave.

Developing an escape plan.

And actually carrying it out.

Unfortunately, some people don’t successfully escape from the constant violence except through death.

It was three years ago, on August 12, 1993, to be exact, that I lost my paternal aunt and uncle in a murder-suicide which resulted from a domestic altercation in Hopewell, New Jersey.

It was my Uncle Gene who murdered my Aunt Betty (along with wounding my younger cousin, Tiane, who presently walks with a limp on her right side) and killed himself after a three-hour police standoff.

Aunt Betty was my father’s youngest sister and Uncle Gene was her second husband. They originally met when they were teenagers but didn’t marry each other until their late 30s.

My aunt had three children from her first marriage but no children in the second one.

It was an emotionally abusive relationship which was gradually disintegrating for several years.

It was time for us to take collective action in getting my aunt out of that marriage.

My individual relationships with Aunt Betty and Uncle Gene were fairly positive when I was a child.

I remember spending a week during summer vacations from school at their home where living in a rural setting was offbeat for a kid with a heavy Brooklyn accent. I spent hours attempting to hit golf balls in their vast backyard. Those were fun times.

I guess after moving to New Jersey and growing up I lost contact with them except for Christmas cards, but there was a sense of unspoken respect between the three of us. Even toward the end, I still let her call me “Kid.”

However, the house that I enjoyed as a child became increasingly tense as I grew up.

Despite being the only paternal aunt and uncle with whom I ever shared a positive relationship, in the final years I simply didn’t know them anymore.

She finally filed for divorce from him three weeks before her death. Their marriage lasted a total of twenty-one years.

I received an unusual phone call from my mother at my job the following day. Mom wanted me to meet her at Penn Central Station after work since she had something to tell which was difficult to explain over the phone.

Intrigued over her weird request, I agreed to meet at the train station.

She told me what exactly happened about my aunt and uncle’s tragic deaths by violence the night before. I became hysterical among the crowds of commuters after being told by yelling and screaming at her.

I was a nervous wreck all the way back to Newark.

While trying to make some kind of sense from this mindless tragedy I attempted to ask my paternal relatives. There was no avail for more information. My maternal family rallied around me.

Went into work the next day but left early. I explained this tragic situation to my supervisors and was given an option to work for at least half day.

I already knew that my life was never going to be the same.

So, I either started actively crying or walking like a “zombie on the floor” (a negative sign in my line of work).

I elected to leave early with an extended death leave. I went directly home.

The remaining three days before my Aunt’s funeral were like living in a heavily surreal blur.

Only three years later, I can only remember an overtly sensationalized news event in the Southern New Jersey media with “false” stories about their unhappy lives together and the painful recognition that the DeVore side of my family was never truly close.

We only gathered with each other, at most, three times a year. My individual relationships with my DeVore relatives were always primarily cold, distant and unemotional. (I chose to sever all contact with them two years ago. I have no regrets.)

Aunt Betty and Uncle Gene had separate funerals. It was considered mutually best by both families under these circumstances.

I only went to hers.

Originally, I also wanted (a lone minority) to attend Uncle Gene’s funeral, but the family was advised to skip it fearing physical retaliation from his relatives.

In retrospect, it was the weirdest five days of life.

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Adrian DeVore is a senior in Food Science from Newark, N.J. She has a B.A. in English from Rutgers University (Douglass College).