On The Menendezes

Channeling my inner Dunne.

Nov 27, 2024

I was in film school when the first trial aired. Actually, I was at home, in my bedroom, writing screenplays for my graduation project (due that December). If I didn’t have Goodfellas or Citizen Kane running on a loop while I wrote, I had on CourtTV.

Welcome to A Sassy Little Substack, a reader-supported publication about finding your happy right now, as is (we middle-finger toxic positivity around here), and learning from mistakes by a certified happiness coach. New posts drop each Wednesday. Please like ❤, comment, share and subscribe to help this little ‘stack grow. Free subs get all main posts. Paid get the archive and bonus posts, like monthly podlets and full episodes of the podcast. Join with a friend or two to get a group sub discount! I’m just glad you’re here. Thank you! (If you want to subscribe without contributing to Substack, please see the option at the end of this post.)

Be sure to sign up for the free, subscribers-only “Last Saturday Seminars”. At 11AM PT on the last Saturday of the month, we’ll get together on Google Meets to talk happiness and address what we might need to get over to get happier. To register, email me at asassylittle@substack.com from the address you sub with and I’ll send you the details.

The list of 2025 Workshops is here! For more information, please visit the Events page.

And I started an Etsy shop! Happiness is Punk AF, friends! Check it out. xo

I was riveted by the trial, since the murders, reading Vanity Fair every month to get Dominick Dunne’s snarky insight and gossip. His daughter, Dominique — whom I thought stole the Poltergeist show — was murdered by her abusive (ex-)boyfriend, who got off with a slap on the wrist. Nick was like my writer fairy god-uncle, and he was just not having it with those Menendez boys. We came from different perspectives.

Of course, they did it. That was never in dispute (once they were cuffed). But there was the why. And the why mattered. To me, anyway.

There was a moment during the testimony of one of the brothers (can’t remember if it was Erik or Lyle) when it clicked. No, not the murderous rage. It was understanding that I would never be truly free of the abuse until my mother was dead. I finally understood a feeling — a dread — I’d always had, one that burrowed deep within me that I didn’t fully understand. I was 24.

It’s hard to explain the power that abusive parents have over you, even as an adult. A form of Stockholm Syndrome is involved, because it’s your family causing the harm. And you didn’t leave your family. Family is people you loved and respected. No matter what.

Back then, abuse was looked at with a cocked eyebrow. That was when schools still threatened kids with a paddle. You were supposed to take your lumps. It built character. Don’t be such a whiny wimp. You think you have it so bad? People wish they were as lucky as you. Deal with it. Because the people older than you did and didn’t want to hear your complaints.

a black and white photo of a barbed wire fence — Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

Let me tell you a funny story. Once, after a fancy work function my mother and stepfather went to, she brought me home a slice of chocolate cake. “I thought you’d enjoy it,” she told nine-year-old me. She didn’t bring home a slice for my younger brother or any other treat. Just something for me. And I was convinced it was poisoned. Really. She never did anything nice for me alone and not something nice for my brother, too. The reverse was true, so I was suspicious. Having grown up watching Hitchcock and other noir since I was wee (“Night Gallery” was a terrifying favorite when I was three), I was kind of wise to how someone would off another. Instead of devouring it in that moment, as per my typical MO, I put it in the refrigerator. It took two days before I got the courage to eat that cake/accept my fate.

That’s what abuse does to your rational mind.

I am not making excuses for the Menendez brothers. I am not saying what they did was in any way excusable. Sad to say, though, there comes a point when survival — emotional, mental or physical — comes down to them or me. Not as in homicide, FFS. No. But you start looking for a way out. And, let me tell you, it’s not as clear as you would think. It’s your family. Those ties bind.

Let’s talk about the shopping sprees the brothers took part in. That was terribly off-putting to most, making it clear they did it for the money; the abuse was just the excuse. This was something else I identified with. When money is used as a form of love, power and control, you go a little berserk with it when you finally get some yourself. Or, at least, I did.

I couldn’t get student loans when I first started college. I was at an age/in a time when my parents were supposed to be contributing. “We need a copy of your parents’ tax returns,” I was told when applying for financial aid. “I don’t know where my father is and my mother won’t give me hers,” I explained. All she could do was stare at me, and I could see her trying to figure out how terrible of a child I had to be for that to be true, despite my manners, smile and perky demeanor.

While I couldn’t get student loans, I could get every credit card known to man. So I did. And I used them. Back then, grocery stores didn’t take credit cards. Fast food didn’t either. But I’d always preferred full-service dining, and would happily treat a friend to dinner as well.

I shopped. There were malls filled with stores all offering discounts for opening a credit card with them. Who was I to say no? I tried to fill the hole where the love should’ve gone with stuff. Didn’t work. Never does. But I understood the weird “I’ll show them” Rolex- and car-buying binge. No, it’s not reasonable. But being hurt by your parents kind of defies reason. You spend years — from the time you’re a tween and logic takes root, through young adulthood and autonomy begins — trying to make it make sense.

This isn’t a pity party. Not at all. This is to clarify how thirty years can shift perspectives. Because abuse has always been there, in all its forms. People have always talked about it, perhaps more quietly. It was just easier to ignore and blame the victims…especially if they had the nerve to expose such dirty laundry in public. It was common to call us crazy. Off. Disturbed. Liars. In need of help. Or simply attention-seeking and dramatic.

Now this case — where the words “Men can’t be raped” were uttered by a woman — is being reconsidered. On January \30th (moved from December 11th, because LA has a new and slightly uncooperative DA), the brothers will stand before a judge who could resentence them. Who should get the credit: TikTok, Ryan Murphy or three decades of evolution? I say it’s those who have spoken out since time began. Let’s give Sinéad some props for speaking the truth before the world was willing to hear it (and then the world wanting to destroy her for doing such a thing). Christina Crawford, who really kicked open that door for many of us. #MeToo. Time’s Up. Believe women. But here’s the thing: When someone has the guts to speak up, show them the respect of listening. If you listen — really listen — you’ll hear the truth. And, yes, believe men, too.

There’s no perfect victim. There’s just not. Attorneys will dig for dirt. So will abusers and their excusers. For me, it was my attitude.

I tried for a long time to figure out how to get my mother to stop fighting with me. I figured she wanted me to cry, so I went right for the tears. That didn’t work. I tried not to react. That didn’t work. I did everything I could think of until I realized I could end it with one wordy blow. Verbally, I went right for the jugular. I joke that I was raised by Darth Vader and came out Yoda. I have this terrible talent for knowing the exact thing to say that will cut the deepest. But it’s a reaction, a defense, a protective stance. With her, I never started it. What would be the point of that? I was the kid, I had no power, even as a teen. Even as a legal adult. But I would end it if I could, as quick as I could.

I remember being 19 or 20 and my stepdad asking why I called my mom a bitch. “Did she tell you what she said to me first?” I asked. When I told him, he became contrite. Bullies know the value of playing victim, hiding their crimes, and pointing out the flaws and shortcomings of those they abuse. It’s Gaslight City. When I got to the point where I wasn’t cowering in a corner or weeping in my room, I no longer looked like a victim. I could give as good — or better than — I got. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t hurt by all of it. The damage had already been done.

But the damage doesn’t have to be an anchor or a shadow as we move on. It will always be there to some degree, but it doesn’t have to define us. It shouldn’t enter the room before we do. We get to heal from it. How? Well, that’s the part we need to figure out.1 We can’t heal in silence, though. We can’t keep swallowing the pain we’ve been served and expect to be happy. Or healthy. Or whole.

Abuse shouldn’t be a life sentence. At some point, we have to free ourselves from its shackles. Perhaps we can call it time served, no parole required. We get to move on and live. We do. So let’s.

PS: Here are some words from my fairy god-uncle on the loss of his daughter. RIP, Nick. xo

Earworm of the Week

For me, the healing began with realizing how nonsensical the abuse was. Like when my mother and grandmother told me I killed my grandfather because he was so disappointed in me. This was about a week after we buried him. I literally laughed in their faces with that. Like a serious belly laugh. It was too absurd! He was in his 80s, going through radiation for a tumor in his lung and got pneumonia. That’s what did him in, sadly. He also really loved me. I knew that and so did they. After several more years of dealing with this dysfunction, I finally severed ties with my family. Zero contact with anyone. The reason for that was too many kindheartedly shared information with my mother (they were always hopeful of a reconciliation). My mother would take that and run with it, thinking the door was open for her to return to power. Nope. Estrangement is not for everyone. And it doesn’t always have to be forever. But it takes both sides working together to have a healthy relationship. Kids simply shouldn’t carry the burden of parents who refuse to mature.

Ororo Munroe

Dec 10

"Kids simply shouldn’t carry the burden of parents who refuse to mature." This. I feel this for my niece and nephew who can't have a normal relationship with their father due to verbal abuse. They all tried counseling together, but you know how men are. And sadly, he actually admitted that he's not going to change. Some people can't rise above the abuse they themselves were dealt by family and he was one of them. But my niece and nephew are/will/have, etc.

Expand full comment

1 reply by Sandra Ann Miller

A Sassy Little Substack

On The Menendezes

Channeling my inner Dunne.

Earworm of the Week

Discussion about this post