Stormy weather.

It’s raining today, the kind of rain accompanied by wind that brings autumn swiftly into the year. I weeded the garden at the front of the yard earlier this week, and my compost bin is full of yellowing tomato vines and an assortment of weeds and grass. I had the hedge in front of the front porch removed on Saturday morning, and with the front garden freshly emptied, my front yard feels big and empty. I cut two jack o’lanterns and placed them on the freshly painted ledge, and with the chilly nights cutting into the day’s humidity I’m beginning to feel the year dying.

The neighbours across the alley from me had a death this morning. Cardiac arrest. It feels hollow out here on my back porch; the wind sweeps through the tree canopies and a mournful crow caws out the presence of ghosts. I found out about it just now when I heard weeping. I brought over a loaf of banana bread to express my condolences for an obvious tragedy. There are cars parked all along the alleyway, family members and friends gathering for support.

I myself am still an open wound. The second court hearing, the one he stalled for to hire a lawyer, occurred yesterday morning. I got the equivalent of a Protection From Abuse, for a three-month duration. I intend to finally buy a gun in that time, both for my own safety (I have so much more to lose now, in my little home) as well as in case he decides to come exact his revenge when the time period is up. I just need to know I have something to protect myself with if he — or anyone — breaks through my dogs, my alarm system, and my locks, but I doubt he will show. I’m not that important to him, after all. Kevin says I’ll never see him again. So does my father, but when he says it I worry a little. Daddies want to protect their daughters no matter the cost. I assured him this court case meant it was all over.

I came home from the courthouse yesterday morning and poured myself a cognac and a hot bath. I was gentle on myself all day, but even still, I find myself to be more defensive, mistrustful, combative in the days since the original assault and breakup that led to legal action. I am incapable of social situations. I can rally, be my usual cheerful and gregarious self, but inside I feel empty, unsure. I am more defensive with the people I love. I want to argue, to fight, when they bring up anything that isn’t easy or mundane conversation. I feel like I’m being judged and attacked at every step. I know in my heart and mind that it isn’t true, but the reaction remains the same. In the court waiting room yesterday, I felt legitimate waves of nausea, to the point where I looked around the room and located the trash bin in case it came to that. I trembled so much that at one point my teeth began to chatter. I will thank God until the end of time that I did not have to look into his eyes, black like a shark’s, and that my lawyer settled the whole case before it went to the judge. He brought two witnesses, probably to attest to the only side of his character they’ve ever seen: Dr. Jekyll. They did not witness or bear the brunt of Hyde’s wrath, and I was frightened of their version of the partial truth.

Sometimes I hate that I am the one everyone is honest with.

It was vindicating, to a point, winning in court. It made me feel that I could be believed and trusted. I’ve only ever told the truth about all of it. Regardless, I only ever tell the truth when I am asked. Annoyingly, even when I am not asked. I think the worst part for me was anticipating that I would not be believed.

Going through all of this has made me question the way that I look at relationships. How much should you allow the fog of love to cloud your vision? And how much of myself do I create for me, and how much of it should cater to my partner? I am currently incapable of accepting criticism. I am so angry over what happened with D that I refuse to trust a man when they bring up anything about me. D gas-lighted me so consistently and made me feel less than so often that I am on the offensive when a man raises a concern or a doubt regarding me. I find that I’m having trouble believing anyone.

I know this is not constructive. I know I have to go back to the way I was, strong and opinionated but leaving room for the benefit of a doubt. I don’t know when — or if — I’ll return to that point.

I am used to being honest about all things, vocal about everything I think and feel. I am beginning to think there’s no room for that version of me in the world. The more powerful I get, the more opposition I feel from not only my enemies (obvious as well as hidden — D), but from people I believe love me. Now I am weak from all the fighting and have only my sharp claws to defend me from pain, real or imagined. I’m not so good with people anymore.

He took so much. I allowed him to take so much. This is about forgiving him for my own mental and physical health as much as it is about forgiving myself for making such a big mistake.

It will rain all day. I know because my headache has lasted for two days now. The storm has to break. Something has to give.

 

 

 

Time and contrast.

Relationships exist relative to each other, or in contrast to them. In the wake of this recent breakup and the legal issues surrounding it, I’ve been blessed to be able to see my other human relationships as they truly are, rather than how I viewed them in fair weather alone. The older I get, the easier it becomes to cut someone out of my life. Though I suppose nowadays it’s not so much a momentous and painful amputation so much as it is a gentle push. A push away from me, a push out of the innermost circle of my friends and trusted ones, a nudge to the outside edges. We will say hello. I will be civil, kind, I will offer a hug and inquire about your life, but I will not let you in any longer.

When you fight your way through a terrible breakup in which your loved one abused you verbally and mentally, gas lighted you, retaliated by causing physical harm to you and those around you, it becomes less about who will be there when I’m crying about my bad day, and more about who will be there to reach out and say, ‘I understand. I sympathise. I support your openness about your situation, and your ability to take legal action.’ I had people who I haven’t seen for years, or those who I have never been especially close to, reach out via message and text and phone call, simply to show their support. On the other hand, I’ve had people who are supposed to be my closest confidantes say absolutely nothing. And it’s staggering, really, to see that kind of response from a person to whom you’ve shown nothing but loyalty and faith in the years of your friendship.

Am I angry? Resentful? No. Not nearly the way I thought I would be. I am so exhausted from carrying the burden of my recent trauma that I am simply relieved to see others as they are, and see with clear eyes who to trust versus who to keep at arm’s length.  It is sad that some of the people becoming arm’s length acquaintances were people I counted as close to me. But what is there to do, other than be grateful for the time I did have with them, and to focus my affections on those who have proven to be there for me in the darkest of times? It is a relief to be able to see who my fair-weather friends are. They will, and do, remain friends. But they are not the people I will invite into my home for a meal and a long chat over a bottle of wine.

Similarly, this human trauma has caused me to forgive those against whom I held a grudge. The comparative betrayals in my recent history have allowed me to choose grace over rage, kindness over coldness. There are all kinds of secret blessings in the violent and terrible betrayal I suffered at the hands of D.

Kevin tells me I have extremely high expectations of others, the same expectations I carry for myself, and perhaps he is right. I do expect people to always be brave, and always apologise, always forgive, always fight the good fight and choose others over themselves. I admit I do not always do these things myself, but I actively strive for them. I am constantly attempting to only think of myself, especially in tough times — a “Save yourself, screw the rest” mentality in order to survive — but it’s not in my nature, not the way I was raised. My priority nowadays is to be in service to others, after years and years of petulant selfishness allowed me as an only child. I can’t forget, however, all of the times I failed as a friend. It is as important for me to try to forgive myself and do my penance as it is to forgive others for their missteps. Meredith tells me I should demand loyalty of my closest friends. I simply request it, and allow others to show me their true colours. Sometimes it takes years for the reveal. Sometimes it takes only months. But I am forgiving everyone lately.

One day I will even forgive D. But that doesn’t mean that in forgiving him I would ever be willing to be in the same room as him again. The forgiveness is really to assuage my soul. To let go. To be light. (Meredith, again, tells me I carry too much weight. She is right, of course. But my weight is all that I know — the weight of my memories, regrets, longings, fears, hopes, histories. In writing I simply set down the weights, but I do not erase them. I memorialize them, in the hopes that I will learn from them. And they are all beautiful. They are all gifts because they have all been lessons. Jason Kirin taught me to ask “Why is this happening forme?” and it is the most useful advice about growth that I have ever received.)

Certainly, I am still crawling out of the wreckage, in many ways. I still drink more than I should, and smoking has reemerged as a passing habit (as I write this, I light my third cigarette). I am still not fully capable of being impassive the way I have always been in a professional setting. I let things get to me — shitty customers, confrontations, and so on. The court hearing is on Monday and until then I cannot rest easily. I pray, over and over again, that he won’t show, and then the PFA resets automatically to a three-year duration, and I don’t have to look at his face and feel a combination of death and sadness and fear. Social events are no longer something I agree to easily. I have skipped several USBG events, even though I am a highly active member running for a position of office, because I will never forget how my blood ran cold when I was told he had come to an event that night looking for me, assuming I would be there. I should care more that this might jeopardize my running. I know I should care more, and yet I retreat into my shell, into my home which finally feels safe and warm again, and choose to avoid asking for special treatment or deference from the current council members. I’m an adult, and there is no crying in restaurants, or much of anywhere else anymore. I quietly temper my expectations and try not to ask anything of anyone.

Eventually this pack will run out and I will get back into an intensive workout regimen and work will pick up and I will stop thinking too much (maybe). The court date will come and go and the days will rush headlong into the end of the year, leaving all of this unpleasantness satisfactorily in the past. But for now, I am waiting, scratching tally marks into the walls and feeling the time tick in my bones. This will pass. I will keep on fighting for myself. I will live and I will mean it.

Speak.

In the weeks following my abusive relationship and the eradication of it, I’m regaining my sense of home. I only moved into this house at the end of May, but I worked so hard in the first weeks to make it feel like it had my thumbprint on it that friends of mine marveled at the transformation during my early July housewarming. “It looks like you’ve been living here for three years,” a friend remarked, and I beamed with pride at the observation.

I have wanted this space since I was 12 years old. I used to sit in my seventh grade homeroom class, and in English, next to my friend Tony Cocco. We talked together about how we both wanted our own homes, and drew out elaborate floor plans in the backs of our notebooks, discussing how we’d have a catwalk across the second floor, how we’d be housemates and have so many pets and it would be the perfect space for both of us. It’s ironic that I’m coming off of the disillusionment of a flawed relationship in my new home, considering how Tony Cocco and I ended our friendship in middle school — or rather, how he ended it. The popular girls in class had an issue with him being my friend — he was cool, I so clearly wasn’t — and picked on him until he was forced to distance himself from me in a very public way. I walked into class one day, before first period had started, and approached him to start a conversation, and I don’t even remember what was said, just that he was cold and rude. I might have asked him why he was acting strange. The next thing I knew, he slapped me across the face, hard, in front of everyone. I burst into tears. I don’t even remember, firsthand, the sensation of sobbing, I just remember the sound of it. If I close my eyes, to this day, at 29, I can hear the sound of my crying as though it had been someone else all along.

He tried to friend me on Facebook a few years ago. Might have been three years, might have been seven. There was a moment there, staring at his name on the screen, wherein I thought of messaging him and cutting him down verbally — I’m well-spoken and I can see everyone’s flaws, I am certainly capable of breaking someone’s spirit if I really want to — but in the end, I simply clicked decline and abandoned the matter forever. It isn’t in my nature to be so cruel. Maybe once upon a time, when I was more insecure, more angry, I was better at lashing out, but nowadays, I think back on the violence perpetrated against me by fragile, ego-driven, deeply sad people, and I remind myself that I am not like them. Not anymore.

 

My mom and her friends, who are basically like aunts to me, came over for dinner tonight. I went full Martha Stewart and made a pumpkin spice latte cake (even though I couldn’t get my whipped cream to, well, whip) and a slow cooker chicken breast recipe, lit scented candles in the bathroom, and made a Cesaria Evora Pandora station. On the back porch for a post-dessert cigarette, I told them about D.O. and what he did to me, the whole thing, how I’m going to court on Monday to attempt to extend the temporary PFA so he can’t come anywhere near me. Natasha said, Please be careful in your future dating, and my mom shrugged and said, How can she? There’s no way to tell anymore.

Regardless, I am adjusting slowly back to who I was before my trust was shattered. Yesterday, the universe sent me a gift. I’ve spent the last however many days needing Kevin and Meredith and the rest of my friends to carry me, since I was a foggy, emotional mess. Yesterday, all of that was turned on its ear. From the beginning of the day, up until the last few hours, I was granted the ability to be in service to everyone else. My coworker, my housemate, my mom and her friend visiting from Russia, even Rocky Votolato, who was performing at Club Cafe, all were in crisis in one form or another, and I was actually able to deliver and come through for everyone who needed me.

The highlight of my night was truly the Rocky Votolato situation — I came into the club early, like I always do, and began setting up the bar, when I overheard Rocky talking to Geno about how their only amp on tour was on the fritz and that he needed to make it into Lawrenceville before the start of the show to have it repaired. I dropped everything behind the bar and drove him across town to take care of it. In the middle of his performance that night, Rocky told the audience how I had helped him out, and that he had bought me a red rose, and could they pass it back to the bar. He dedicated the next song to me. I had to fight to hold back tears in front of the packed room.

The universe always provides, I am convinced: as soon as you learn to read the signs, it’s like watching the pieces of a puzzle fall into place. All of the anxiety and fear of the unknown drops away and you can take a breath again, because you see that every jumbled string will untangle at the end of the sequence, that God/the universe/fate provides. You aren’t alone. I know I’m not alone. And that’s why D failed. He worked so hard to manipulate me, to isolate me, he gas-lighted me in little ways for two months. But I never forgot that I wasn’t alone, and my truest friends never left me, not for a minute. I opened my mouth and I told them what was happening and they banded around me. My voice saved my life. The confidence to speak was a gift from the universe. Every step of the way, I was given someone’s hand to hold. Court on Monday will be nerve-wracking and heartrending, but I am less afraid knowing that I am only alone in the world if I choose to be. I am truly blessed.

Open thou my lips and my mouth shall declare thy praise. 

The year is dying.

The first hints of fall are drawing near. Yesterday, I stared out of the window of my back bedroom while talking to my mom on the phone and I noticed little dabs of yellow and orange in the lush foliage of the neighbours’ trees. This morning, coming off of an emotionally wrought night, I hung sheets to dry in the backyard. The winds were high and turned them into billowing sails of deep blue and purple. (Once, a reiki healer told me my aura was the colour of deep blue and amethyst.) I smelled the air: green, damp, humid.

I was ushered back into the memory of living above Mikey Connelly’s home in his mother-in-law suite. I would stand on the rusted metal landing outside of the kitchen door and stare into low forests of shrubs, limestone pavement; further out, ocean and moody grey skies. I was alone then, yet I don’t think I was aware of it. Surrounded by monsters and gods in an ancient land, cooking fresh-caught cod in the archaic kitchen for English friends, I was struck by the beauty in contrast: the banal and the divine.

Having just come out of a short-lived but abusive relationship, I’ve retreated into myself. My selfless, kind friend moved in with me to help me regain my sense of safety. He’s pushed out the toxicity and given me back my cocoon. When I’m not at work, I come home and rest in my sanctuary. This morning, I cleaned the entire house and put all of my ducks neatly into a row. Control in an unpredictable and callous world.

Outside I hear crows calling to each other. Winter will be here sooner than I could anticipate. The Indian summer is a trickster. Even so, I take off my shoes and feel last night’s rain on the grass, and let myself swim in memories.