Johanna Cantara only wanted what anyone in a new relationship would want: to love and to be loved.

She ignored the red flags. The constant calls, the checkups to see where she was. The interrogations, the insinuations of infidelity. And then, two months in, something new: the fists.

Sitting at her kitchen table in Biddeford this week, Cantara shivered as she thought back on the past two years of her life. A business owner and mother to a teenage son, she had always considered herself a strong, independent woman. Somehow, at the hands of her ex-boyfriend, “Mark,” all that changed. The verbal abuse eroded her confidence; the physical punishment, her will. In the full-on throes of an abusive relationship, Cantara faded into a shadow of herself. Caught in a cycle of emotional and physical violence, she felt trapped.

Alone.

“I was such a strong woman before,” she said, taking a deep, unsteady breath. “I didn’t think I could be in a situation like that, ever.”

Few do. Entangled in a web of guilt and shame, it would be two full years before she gathered up the courage to speak, and make the changes in her life that had been necessary for so long.

The catalyst was an incident that occurred mere months ago. The couple had broken up; Cantara and her son once more had the house to themselves. One day, when the boy came home from school, he saw Cantara’s ex lurking about the house, peering inside their windows. Horrified, the teenager watched as Mark broke into their home and started rummaging about various rooms, including the bedrooms ”“ their private sanctuaries.

Watching all this from across the street, he called his mother, scared. Cantara called the police. Biddeford law enforcement had attended to the family’s troubles before; officers knew the situation at that house was a combustible one. They had encouraged Cantara repeatedly to fill out a report, to seek help, but out of fear for herself ”“ and love for the abusive man inside her home ”“ she had resisted.

But this time was different.

“That’s when I cracked,” said Cantara. “I could say all the things I’d wanted to say to him, and I finally felt safe. This was affecting my son, and I’d had enough.

“Before, I didn’t want to see him get hurt,” she said of Mark. “It became normal to be called the most degrading names, or to be hurt physically. I guess I thought I loved him.”

With tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, Cantara traced circles with her finger around the rim of a coffee cup as she recalled the incident. The most trying ordeal of her life had culminated in seeing Mark taken away in handcuffs, an anticlimactic end to a dark and dreary era. She shook her head, slowly.

“It’s almost like I allowed this tornado to come through my world, and carve a path of destruction in its wake … and then, it just walked out the door. And I allowed that.”

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As one chapter ends, another begins. And though Mark was gone from her home and the worst was ostensibly over, a new round of frustrations began.

Mark was charged with eight counts total, ranging from domestic violence assault to breaking and entering, but would serve no jail time. He pleaded guilty to the domestic violence charges and was issued a $500 fine and a deferred disposition ”“ meaning, essentially, that any sentencing would be withheld for a period of one year, assuming his compliance with certain behavioral standards. He was also prohibited from coming within a certain distance of Cantara.

“I was an absolute basket case for about four days,” said Cantara. “It was a slap on the wrist. My first thought was, ”˜Why did I bother?’”

Though she admitted to still harboring feelings for her abuser, Cantara felt the punishment should have been more severe. Specifically, she was hoping that Mark would be prohibited from using alcohol, and required to attend anger management therapy to quell his violent tendencies. She also had expected a bigger fine.

“I was hoping the court system would force him to get help,” said Cantara. “I was pretty disappointed.”

York County District Attorney Kathryn Slattery, speaking from her office this week, said the state and county are constantly trying to find more effective ways to prosecute domestic violence crimes.

“The criminal justice system has been working on this for years and years,” said Slattery. “The more specialized attention you can give to a case, the better the legal result is likely to be. And the more information law enforcement can have, the better.”

On April 24, The Maine Office of the Attorney General released the 10th biennial report of the Domestic Abuse Homicide Review Panel. Its goal is to provide recommendations for officials on every strand of the domestic abuse web: law enforcement, the judiciary, health providers, state agencies and the general public.

While much of the report focuses on the link between suicidal behaviors and a tendency to abuse, it makes several broad-based recommendations ”“ nearly 60 in all ”“ on how generally to improve the landscape of domestic violence response and support. Among the recommendations are that the state maintain a repository of concealed handgun permits, for law enforcement access only, so police can check on the status of a permit; that health care providers screen all of their patients for signs of abuse or controlling behavior; and that schools enact aggressive educational campaigns on the dangers of abuse and dating violence.

As of Thursday, Slattery had not had a chance to review the report. But she cautioned that, whatever the efficacy of the panel’s recommendations, every abuse incident is unique.

“These cases are so fact-dependent,” said Slattery. “We need continued involvement.”

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As for what some might consider “lenient” sentences ”“ such as Mark’s $500 fine and deferred disposition ”“ Biddeford Police Chief Roger Beaupre has his own theory for why abusers may escape jail time.

“The legal system wants to get rid of some of these cases that clog up the courts,” he said. “A deferred disposition is usually given for what they consider ”˜non-serious’ pushing or shoving ”“ meaning, if you don’t do it again, you’re OK in six months.

“The consequence is that, if someone commits a crime three years later, it’s considered a first offense.”

His prescription? Expanding court hours and increasing the number of prosecutors trying cases. That, he said, would allow for more attention to be paid to the so-called “minor” cases of abuse.

While such a change to the legal system may be difficult to attain, police officers are often the first responders in these types of scenarios. And Beaupre said the Biddeford Police Department ”“ which Cantara praised as helpful, professional and effective ”“ takes an aggressive stance on domestic violence matters.

In 1990, with Beaupre at the helm, the department became the second in the state, after Augusta, to institute a mandatory arrest policy for offenders. In those days, said Beaupre, attitudes toward certain behaviors in relationships were looked upon differently. It was almost taken for granted that some degree of pushing or shoving might take place behind closed doors; the law simply covered its eyes and looked the other way.

“It was tough to get that (policy) implemented ”“ to get the prosecutors and judges to look upon domestic violence differently,” said Beaupre. “Fortunately, that attitude has changed dramatically.”

The BPD averages about 300 arrests for domestic violence per year. In 2013, the department received 977 calls for “domestic issues,” 34 percent of them 911 calls. In all, 270 arrests were made. Nineteen have pending affidavits.

A higher percentage of calls come from downtown as opposed to outlying areas, but Beaupre said that’s a misleading statistic. On the edges of town, populations are more sparse, and fewer cases get reported because the noises caused by a violent dispute ”“ screaming, crying, objects thrown in anger ”“ aren’t overheard by neighbors.

In fact, it’s neighbors, said Beaupre, who report most cases of domestic violence in Biddeford. The victims are often too afraid ”“ afraid of retribution from the abuser, losing a source of income if the relationship ends, or simply the stigma that comes from being hurt and controlled.

“They’re afraid to lose an identity of some sort,” said Beaupre. “That’s part and parcel of ending that abusive relationship. You’ve got to break that cycle.”

For decades, Caring Unlimited, a Sanford-based domestic violence program, has been helping victims in York County do exactly that. Because while police are filling out reports and lawyers wrangle to get fines and punishments imposed on abusers, the abused are often left to a newly-quiet home, keeping company with the demons of their past.

It can be an especially lonesome exile. While reporting abuse is an essential first step, those like Cantara may deal with residual notions of being at fault.

“You get a bit isolated from everybody,” said Cantara. “It’s hard to let go of the relationship, because you feel it’s all you really have at the time.”

From October 2012 to September 2013, Caring Unlimited provided help to 2,658 abuse victims in southern Maine, according to Public Awareness Coordinator Emily Gormley. Cantara was one of them, utilizing its support groups to quell her feelings of isolation. The organization provides services such as workshops on safety planning, a transitional housing program, an emergency shelter, and legal advocates and advisers.

Many of its resources are dedicated to assuring recipients of abuse that they’re not to blame. It can be a struggle, said Gormley, because their sense of culpability is oftentimes shaped by years of manipulation at the hands of their abusers ”“ telling them that their actions were responsible for the violence, or that nobody will believe their stories.

“A lot of people feel some sense of shame about what’s happening, and some guilt,” said Gormley. “It presents quite a barrier to reaching out for help.”

Yet, at the end of a long, dark tunnel, many are able to find the light.

The tornado now gone from her life, Cantara has been focusing much of her energy on her son. Reaching out for help is difficult, she said, but frequently, those in a position to provide support are the people who have been there all along, hoping for the day when their beleaguered and beloved find the courage to speak up, and speak out.

Her message to fellow victims is a simple one.

“They need to reach out to family and friends,” she said. “We need a good support system. Abusers try to pin the blame on you. This isn’t our fault, no matter what the circumstances are. No woman deserves to be abused and neglected.”

Sighing, Cantara placed her coffee cup on the counter and wrung her hands absently in her lap. At the corners of her mouth appeared a subtle flicker of hope: the faint beginnings of a smile.

She still isn’t sure which direction to take next, but it’s a source of comfort to know that, whatever it may be, the path is now a little clearer to a simple and modest goal: to love, to be loved and to heal.

“It’s been the toughest few months of my life,” she said. “But I have no choice but to move on.”

— Staff Writer Jeff Lagasse can be contacted at 282-1535, ext. 319 or [email protected].