On the cool November night that Eileen Row shot her live-in boyfriend in the head with a Colt semi-automatic handgun, she drove three miles to the nearest pay phone, called the police and told them what she'd done.

It was 1997, and it was the first time in nearly five years that she'd left their secluded country house without him.

"I wasn't allowed to have a job. I wasn't allowed to go anywhere without him. We didn't have a phone. And he never let the keys to the pickup out of his sight," recalls Row, 62, who is 10 years into a life sentence at the Central California Women's Prison, or CCWP, in Chowchilla. "I remember shooting him but I don't. I remember it in flashes."

By the time she became a killer, Row had been torn down by years of verbal abuse and isolation. By every modern definition, she is a survivor of domestic violence. But that is an understanding she's only recently reached -- and only after being convicted of second-degree murder.

"I didn't know that there were other kinds of abuse besides the physical kind," says Row, a soft-spoken woman with wavy gray hair and a pale complexion. "For a long time, I didn't know that I was a victim of domestic violence."

Of all places, it is here, inside the walls of the nation's largest women's prison, that Row has found solace, validation and a true understanding of her past.

She is one of about 30 CCWP inmates who gather in a large room every Monday night to talk about domestic violence and how it has affected their lives. The support group is run by A Woman's Place, a nonprofit organization based in Merced that provides a wide array of services for victims of domestic violence. Most of the prisoners who attend are incarcerated for life, and most of them are here for killing an abusive husband or boyfriend.

They are unlike other victims of domestic violence. In addition to the trauma of abuse, they must deal with a host of additional loads -- guilt, shame, regret and all that comes with life on the inside.

"My hope for every (woman in the group) is that she stops beating herself up forever, that she realizes she is not alone and that she finds purpose in life, even if she spends the rest of it here," said Helen Mayo, a volunteer with A Woman's Place who has facilitated the Monday night support group since 1992.

Inmates in for life find help

At this week's meeting, women in light blue T-shirts begin drifting in from dinner a few minutes after 6 p.m. Mayo and another volunteer have already rearranged a mass of chairs into a large circle. By 6:15 p.m., only a dozen women have arrived -- far fewer than the usual 30 or so. Mayo explains that this week, the domestic violence support group is competing with a support group across the hall for long-termers -- two categories with a lot of overlap.

Mayo starts each meeting the same way. A veteran of the group, this time an articulate woman wearing glasses and a neatly arranged bun, is asked to explain the rules for first-timers. Foremost is confidentiality, says the woman, 56-year-old Marcia Bunney, who has been at CCWP for 25 years. She was convicted in 1981 of killing an abusive boyfriend. "What's said in this room stays in this room," she says. Be respectful, she adds. Don't talk over each other.

Mayo then asks if there are any announcements from the group. Bunney reports that she's heard from a former group member who was recently paroled, and that she is adjusting well to life outside. The news draws smiles.

Next Mayo poses a question: What would you like the world to know about who you are today? One woman struggles to find her words. Another named Lisa says she's more confident now that she's getting better at standing up for herself.