Trauma is weird. It comes back and ramps up when you least expect it. When you’ve turned your back and said, ‘I’m free now. No need to carry that anymore.’
My brother in law got married last month, and his reception took place down the block from the apartment that I saw the worst of my abuse. It was from a toxic and abusive relationship that last three years that ended ten years ago. I’m happy now. I have a partner that loves me endlessly, shows me kindness and patience that I didn’t know I was deserving of. I’m stronger, faster, smarter than I was ten years ago. I’m resilient. There is nothing I can’t handle.
I hadn’t been to that side of town since I left. The one time I went anywhere near it, I had a full on panic attack. I forced myself to go because my godson had a football game, and I wanted to show up for him. Like hell my trauma would be the reason that I didn’t show up for my family.
I went to the reception. I struggled quietly, because this wasn’t about me and I wasn’t going to make it about me. I tried not to think about it, let myself get wrapped up in the happiness of the celebration. It was beautiful. I left. I had to drive home. My partner had to stay to help clean the venue and someone needed to take care of our dogs, who were definitely in need of a potty break. I drove down the familiar street, passed the place that had been not only my home but the place of my greatest torture. I didn’t stop. I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I kept driving. I thought, wow. I did that. I handled that so well. I’m doing so much better. I’ve evolved. I’m not hurt anymore. I’m healed!
I didn’t dream that night. Or if I did, I didn’t remember. And that was alright with me. I’d fooled myself into believing that there was no trauma left to heal. I was okay. I was finally done. I’m happy and centered and good, like everyone else.
My grandma died the next weekend. She was the matriarch of our family, the glue that held us together. She was my mother, the one who raised me and loved me unconditionally. She had been there for me in a way that most weren’t. She’d been tired, sick, ready to go be with her husband. She was in pain. My father was at her bedside while I was in another state, holding the phone to her ear while I said goodbye. I pushed it down. I held it together. Because it wasn’t my mother dying, after all. Not really. No matter how it felt. My father was the one that needed the support, needed that stable force to lean on. So that’s who I became.
When she died, it was a relief. The pain was unbearable, and the final 24 hours were…cruel. To die of old age is…much worse than it seems. I pushed it down, put it away. How I felt about it is not what matters now. And even if it WAS, how was I supposed to go on? How was I supposed to continue going to work, taking care of the dogs, being someone’s partner while being devastated? If I’d allowed myself to feel the full force of my pain, how could I get up in the morning?
So I pushed it down. Allowed myself the relief of knowing she was no longer in pain, that she was at peace and with Pop again. Accepted my new reality, and continued on.
This morning, we’re having sex. I’m having fun, I’m enjoying myself. It feels good. I begin to feel lightheaded, like I might pass out. The vasovagal response is more common for me now since my chronic illness made its appearance over a year ago. I slow things down, trying to control my breathing a reduce my heart rate. My partner is matching my energy, understanding my communication and body language. Things pick back up and the feeling returns, dizzy and lightheaded. I hadn’t given myself enough time to recover. But something in my brain clicked. And suddenly I was under the hands of my abuser, dizzy and lightheaded as my vision began to dim. He hands wrapped around my throat, yelling words that were muffled the longer her pressed down on me. This was it, I thought. This is how I die. He’s going to kill me.
I tell my partner the dizziness is back and he stops, confused. Because I’m crying and he doesn’t understand why. ‘Hey… use your words baby. What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ I tell him. ‘But I’m scared.’
And I start sobbing. The first time I’ve cried since the day my grandmother died. The cries that wrack me now are the same. My body reacting to its own death, unsure of how to handle the trauma of the memory that assaulted it.
My partner holds me, tells me it’s okay. That I’m safe. Waits for me to be able to talk. This isn’t the first time that I’ve been triggered. Hell, it’s not the first time that I’ve been triggered during sex. But it is easily one of the worst in the 6 years that we’ve been together. He covers my body with a blanket, holds me close, and waits.
‘I’m sorry,’ I shake out in between sobs.
‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ he insists. ‘Where are you right now?’
‘In the hills,’ I say.
‘How long have we lived here?’
“3 years.”
“And who am I?’
‘Steven.’
‘How long have we been together?’
‘6 years in two months.’
‘And who’s in the house with us?’
‘Arya. Not Sam. Arya.’
He asks me questions in an effort to ground me, remind me of where I am so that I can take control back from the effects of the flashback. If I’m ungrounded, I’ll forget that my dog that I had at the time, Sam, is no longer alive.
I let the repetition of these questions calm me, his warmth biting back at the cold that’s prickling against my skin. Then, the shame. The shame that I’ve started crying during sex and the guilt of ruining the moment seeps in. The embarrassment rocks me and I try to explain myself, but he doesn’t allow me to punish myself. You’ve been through a lot in the last month, he says. It’s understandable.
I realize that I’d been talking about it recently. The abuse. Two night ago in fact. A friend of mine was over, and she began to tell me about her sister who was in a very abusive and toxic relationship. We shared stories with each other. I told her that at one point I didn’t have family, I didn’t have any friends, everyone left me because I wouldn’t leave him. So I tried to kill myself. It was the only way out at the point, in my mind. I’d survived my suicide attempt, no thanks to my abuser. I remember the sound of him screaming at me, punching walls and cabinets while I bled out on the floor. I didn’t tell her that part, but the flashback hit me as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I’d closed my eyes against the memories, then quickly shook it off. Because this conversation wasn’t about me. It was about my friend and her sister. The heartache she felt for someone who wouldn’t leave the situation she found herself in. The fear that her sister would take the same way out some day. I was a success story, though, I’d left. I survived. I gave her hope.
But she wouldn’t know about the impact it would have, the scars it would leave. Granting myself freedom from that relationship was the strongest decision I’d ever made, the greatest act of self love I’d ever completed. But I will never truly be free. Ten years later and when the stars align, it’s like it was yesterday. The wrong move, smell, sound, word and suddenly I’m right back to scared and broke and lost and alone. There are scars on my soul that will never go away, I’ll carry those pieces of my abuser for the rest of my life. He will live on inside of me, no matter how much I try to burn it away.
I felt the ache of that knowledge begin to settle into my bones. My limbs began to weigh heavily as my heart sunk in my chest. This is my fault. Everything that I’m feeling right now is my fault. It took me three years to leave him after all. I’d allowed him to hurt me, scream at me, rape me. My grandmother, the strongest woman I knew, would be so disappointed to know the pain I’d allowed him to put me through. But she was dead now. And maybe I wish I was, too. Maybe in death I would be free from the ache and the scars and find the peace that seemed so out of reach. It wouldn’t be the first time. It wouldn’t be hard.
Being in love with someone who loves you unconditionally, especially after severe abuse, seems impossible. I find myself constantly questioning his ulterior motives, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop (because it inevitably will). Six years and I still ask him not to leave me over small things. It’s mostly a joke now, but sometimes it isn’t. He can tell when it isn’t and acts accordingly, reassuring me without hesitation. The love he gives makes me believe that I deserve to be loved in the first place. And that’s made me a lot less careless with my life. A lot more careful about my mindset. I’ve dealt with depression all my life, clinically diagnosed. On meds for a good chunk of my adult life, even. Dying never scared me-it only ever brought me peace of mind. Knowing that someday I would fade into the void, never to be seen or known again. Never have to suffer the pain that I suffered ever again. I’d served my time, I’m done. But now? Now, I didn’t want to die. I didn’t find peace in death, only peace in my partner. The idea of being apart truly hurts my soul. Which, I suppose, is the way it’s supposed to be.
Instead, I forced myself up. I made myself eat. I texted friends, I watched tiktoks. I found ways to laugh with my partner. But the weight and the ache keeps pulling me down. It’s getting bad again, I keep thinking. It’s been a long time since it’s been this bad. I had such a good day yesterday, and today it’s BAD. I take a bath with a bathbomb a friend of mine had given a few months ago. It turns the water red and I like it but there’s an itch in my head reminding me that it wouldn’t be hard to redden it myself. I shower and wash my hair, but I don’t shave. I play a documentary in the background that I don’t particularly care about but am glued to all the same. Anything to distract the mind from the cyclical thoughts. Your fault, you ruined sex, you ruined yourself, you deserve this, your fault-
I know I should go outside, but I got in bed right after my bath and my partner is working. I’m nauseous from the food and the dogs need to be walked but I’m tired. I sleep. I watch TikToks. I think about texting my best friend, but she’s already dealing with so much. Her mental health is terrible and I’m supposed to be her support. I think about texting my friend who’s like a younger brother, because I know he’d understand and he’d listen. But his life is so busy and I don’t want to burden him with my bullshit.
And it is bullshit. I should be able to deal with this. I have so much life that I HAVE to keep living. I shouldn’t be so affected by something that happened 10 years ago. I don’t have time to be so sad. But how do I get better? What else am I supposed to do to treat wounds that are ten years old? How do I feel the things that I feel without incapacitating myself? How do I even name the feelings in the first place?
