A Deeper Dive

He did it again.  She is left reeling. Filthy words that mix the message into hatred and disdain.  She wishes it was a black eye.  Instead, it is a deep gouge through the scar tissue.  The ragged rug of safety ripped away, again. 

So she went out.  Sitting here at Stella’s, drinking a salty-dog, actually, make that a greyhound-  hold the salt.  Drink-thinking alone.  She is the only lone woman.  They think that is strange.  Doesn’t bother her.

Her chest hurts like she has been sprinting. She is calm and disconnected but knows what comes next and wishes she could just dissolve into this drink. The blame is obvious now, but it always turns to implosion.  A massive collapsing star.  She will repeat the swim team mantra when the sets were tough-

”Aint so bad!”

“I committed, made that bed. I can try harder. It’s not always so painful. It’s not all the time…it’s probably my fault.”

Imploding.

She bums a smoke, because self-destruct mode has been engaged, and gets a look back like now she owes a debt.  No way.  Forget it, take it back.  She will never be beholden again.   

The trees on North Front Street are barren, lonely, dark stick figures.

Stella’s has changed.  Probably a necessary evolution of self-preservation.  Expanding and fancifying the simple restaurant and bar of yore.  As we do.  Survive.  

Those counselors said relationships are a choice and hard work.  Compromise. She looks into the grapefruit juice and sneers.  They didn’t tell her what to do when she is the only one compromising and working hard. 

Telling him how she feels never goes well.  Her new name is “Fake wife” because she used the word- distrust.   “I guess I’m the bad guy, I caused it by being distant and less than happy.”     

She’s never been great at lying or leaving.  She is an expert non-discloser though. Withholding isn’t lying. Not really, right?  … fake fake fake.

Implode, Implode, Implode.

She shouldn’t drink anymore.  She once tried to walk home from uptown in the middle of the night.  It’s too far, even with the Herculean transformation that vodka provides.  Her chest hurts just a little less now.  

Aint so bad!  

No one is an alcoholic or gambler or boxer.   What is the occasional outburst of stinging words? Sticks and stones, etc…  “I probably am a fucking bitch or cunt or whatever the last name was” she thinks.  

Imploding.

“I am the verbal abuser, it’s me.” She says it to herself, “why shouldn’t he say those things too?”

Negative self-talk.  It’s easier somehow. Those counselors told them to use “I” statements and take accountability.  They didn’t tell her what to do when it is one sided and pathological.  

Too many movies and shows.  Things should work out for the best.  Where is the plucky music  and the laugh track?  Why is nothing changing for the better?

“Maybe I am just being dramatic.” Doubt slithering up through its usual sneaking avenue and settling in her chest.  Curling up on its loot like a dragon.

Maybe another drink would be ok.  

Healthcare training has been just as helpful as those counselors, she muses. ALWAYS Empathize. Serve.  Do no harm.  If you are abused by patients- it’s not their fault, they are hurting and scared.  Abandonment of them, even if you are exhausted or mistreated, is punishable.  

She no longer takes stock in the church she was raised.  It all just seems like more manipulation to create subjugation.  The Pharisees always seem to win. There is nowhere to go and no easy way out. 

Imploding.

It’s a deep winter night in Upstate NY.  It snows less these days than it used to.  Less bright soft blanket to hide the bleak brownness.  Its feels appropriate tonight.  The landscape mirrors her mood.   She drinks water and plays Candy Crush on her phone.  

Spring will be here before she knows it. The green balm before another winter. 

Aint so bad.  

*Verbal and emotional abuse are subtle, pervasive, and real.  You aren’t crazy, and it’s not your fault*