Republicans, Impeachment, And The Lessons of Domestic Violence

The first time my high school boyfriend hit me, we were driving in his car on an expressway in the snow. His right hand, the one with his class ring, cracked hard against my cheek. And what I remember after that is neither pain nor sorrow. I’m not sure I even was afraid. I just stared at him. Wordless, shocked, unable to fully comprehend what I’d just lived.

We drove the rest of the way in silence, mostly, until he dropped me off at my parents’ house. “I suppose you won’t want to see me again,” he said. I said I didn’t…