#1 The question of where

to begin has immobilized me for so long that today I have decided to unask it.

I rearranged the plants yesterday, cleaned up stray things from the holidays, put Christmas away. I was tempted to keep two large swaths of used wrapping paper, folded and mostly unwrinkled, perfectly reusable says the long line of frugal women who echo in my mind, soft aunts who refold the gift bags, the tissue paper, store them for repurposing again and again. Another year, I would have salvaged this paper, placed it back in my long, flat tupperware container of wrapping supplies in the basement, same as my mother’s.

This year, I am full of great need: for shedding, for letting go, for purging things I’ve held on to for too long; to cultivate a different abundance, to throw the gift wrap out like I dare, to make room for newness. This year, I discard the paper, the ribbon, too; a few less things I let remain with me. Near-weightless though they are, I am practicing.

I am taking effort to change patterns, slowly, one by one. I feel a space clearing in my body, emotional debris ebbing so that I may find where the hurt lives. The fog is lifting from the many routes of pain- more than I realized- but I am discovering their hidden alleyways, their interconnectedness. I am picturing Lapsley Lane in Philadelphia, a street full of little cottages, each their own home of hurt haunted by different ghosts with hidden rooms, secret staircases, and winding back-paths that tie them to each other.

I am thinking about Syd’s comment on my “deep, hollow sadness.” The writing is coming to me but still exists as a labyrinthine pile of pages. How to tell her about it in a more succinct way? How to contain its weight in the least amount of words until I can coax the great avalanche of them to descend on others’ eyes?

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I started excavating this story in full two years ago, and true to the magical, synchronistic energy of ideas and art and the world, how a great need to speak gathers momentum at once, mine is coinciding with a collective voice. There has been more media recently centering around similar experiences, I’m speaking of movies in particular, though the singer-songwriters are those excelling in the area. I find that at the end of each film I’m left lacking, dismayed by a sense of inadequacy. But it was so much more than that, I want to whisperscream.

How crucial some missing details feel for me. What about the vast amount of arguments, the repetitive berations, how the words became crueler, the energy required to withstand it, the withering mental stability? How much more mourning and processing did it take for Blake Lively’s character to get to the place of ripe strength she found at the end; what bottomless abuse made up the iceberg that we saw only the flashback-tips of in Alice, Darling? What of the mind slowly unfurling, the longer repercussions, the physiological aftermath, the ruin she is left holding in her body?

A more elaborate illustration of experience is deserved.

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There are the original wounds of mine, yes, needs not met as a child, not on purpose, no, they did their best, they really did. It only hurts this much because I have been reopened too many times, my body a grave unearthed by men I loved who left it more fathomless and hollow than before, shovel after shovel digging their cold, steel heads straight into cracked ribs, slipping between the fractured bones, piles of silt and blood and skin they set aside.

It left me feeling as you might imagine: empty and dirty; a numbness despite the raw, gashed pain of it.

My mind jumps back over a decade to the first man, not to a specific altercation but the sensation of how each and every one of them grew to feel. His aggressive confrontations; a threatening flail of limbs. The spitfire vituperations, lengthy reprimands, grand orations on everything wrong with me, insult after insult paired with either a quiet, menacing tone or a voice that challenged the strength of the walls. An imbecilic attempt at power and control when I was usually cowering under him. How small I was yet how large the wreckage in my body; my chest and abdomen left gaping, devastated.

Or I might try to stay poised, gaze and spine straight, nails digging into thigh skin, unflinching, an attempt to show that he was not hurting me. How could I possibly succeed? The face of the man I loved, now so sinister as it neared mine, blank eyes coaxing me to crack, lips slipping oh come on, baby, just one tear for me, please; wanting me to break so badly he begs for it.

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This is someone who also often loved me in all the dazzlingly beautiful ways I had been told that I should be, who showed me through such captivating actions and words that my same cracking chest swelled with boundless, ecstatic affection, and I felt certain of our divine interpersonal connection. For years after we ended, despite what you will read occurred, I found it hard to believe that he wasn’t still the greatest love of my life. All the bright spots were rafts I clung to between the moments of drowning. I rationalized that we were each working on things, that some problems are addressed at the beginning to form a stronger bond after, that our healthy relationship was just ahead, or that our toxic pattern might one day exhaust itself.

Fights of a catastrophic level became a regular occurrence over the course of our 4 year relationship which, though sporadic, was extraordinarily intense. It’s hard to gauge the frequency- sometimes once or twice a month, sometimes strings lasting 3 or 4 days at a time- but we never could go long without an explosion, in person or through phone calls and messages, for hours on end. I can honestly say that an estimate of 40-50 arguments is not off base. My attempts at predicting or preventing what would set him off were fruitless, because I quickly learned everything had the potential to. Each time, I’d find myself in a position of such emotional destitution, wondering how it was happening again, obsessively analyzing what had I done wrong when I was following all his rules. The slow and methodical breakdown of my spirit, my psyche, my self-esteem, the belief in my intuition, the balance of my mind. How many times was I made to feel unsafe in the relationship I was supposed to feel safest in?

How difficult it was to not believe the insults over the adorations. You’re so fake, such a dumb bitch, idiotic piece of shit, you should hate yourself right now. Other days, he revered me for my poetic mind, how I viewed the world, complimented my intelligence in eloquent, specific ways. Which is true? You don’t deserve my respect, you’re an absolutely worthless person, you’re a crazy bitch just like your mom. A whore, used trash, attention-seeking slut. Even now, they sound childish, but the weight of them was suffocating. The latter were ironic insults given that, during a fight just two months after we slept together for the first time, he was also able to say: You can have your virginity back.

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I’m constantly trying to find the rawest, most accurate ways of describing what this and the subsequent relationships felt like, and there will be more recounts to come. The deepest well of me in moments, though, felt absolute grief. I’m not sure which stage; it feels most accurate to assess it was all of them at once.

Open-mouthed, silent sobbing, body wracked empty, closing in on myself like a pill bug, doubling over in slow motion, as if I were trying to keep any small resilient part of me inside, because it felt like I was dying, or mourning that he was dying, this person that I thought loved me but couldn’t possibly- look in his eyes at the dark, cold depth, the rabid jaw, the snarl as he’s twisting words, so now I’m apologizing for something I didn’t even do but he’s convinced me that somehow his lack of trust, his jealousy, his evil anger swift with rage inside him is my fault, it’s my fault he can’t control his fists his words his emotions his temper; if only that guy hadn’t hit on me, if only my ex hadn’t called, if only I had said something a different way, if only I had apologized sooner, cleaned my hair out of the shower drain, not been so sensitive, not talked to his best friend for so long at the party, called before class instead of after (who were you talking to instead?), if only I could be beautiful but not have anyone notice it, if only I hadn’t brought up that girl he kissed behind my back that would be at his show later, if only I had more self-confidence (you used to be so vibrant, so full of life when we met- where did she go?), if only I could figure out a way to prove my trustworthiness, to make him feel safe (you’re not trying hard enough) even though I report every phone call in-person interaction text message Facebook poke place I go friendship I have and block all the ones he doesn’t like.

But he said try harder and I was out of fucking ideas, so a year into our relationship I bought a faux engagement ring I wore for a time in an attempt to prove I was not asking to get hit on, that I was committed to just him. Desperate circumstances beget desperate actions. I let him read all my messages on all platforms, I responded to people with words dictated by his opinions because he had convinced me that this is what I must do to prove that I love him. I did these things with smothered protest, but somewhat willingly, as I reasoned: I wasn’t hiding anything, all I needed to do was prove it, those people weren’t important to me, it didn’t matter in comparison to him. I had been taught to love 150%, to accept someone wholly including their flaws, and I was practicing that with dedication and fervency. It was so astoundingly sad to me that he couldn’t feel the immense amount of love I had for him, and at the time, it felt like the most important mission to make him feel safe and cared for. I let it begin because I thought once he trusted me it would change.

This is just to speak briefly of the verbal abuse and some of the psychological, but the initial love-bombing, intense manipulation, extreme gaslighting, (current hot-button words also being abused), the lying, infidelity, isolation from family and friends, emotional abuse and all the chemical, mental and physical ramifications that came from it will take longer than this initial piece to explain.

You are already questioning the classic trope: “How could you stay?” and I will help you understand.

I will tell you of the before, of the girl I was and how unlikely (and yet, likely) it was I’d let someone love me like this, as well as my own contributing factors.

I will also tell you of the after: the two other partners just like him, the impossible patterns that festered in my body, the swift fallout, the shockwaves, the healing.

And of the slender, golden thread woven through it all, gossamer and grounding, where I returned, again and again, to myself.

-S