Not My Body

100 Days Left:

I felt her presence long before I saw her, so it was not a shock to see her reflection mingled with mine in the mirror. I hadn’t recognized my own face for quite a while now, so the distortion her features gave to mine relieved me of trying to see who I used to be in my own eyes.
I didn’t know the house was haunted when we moved in. You would think I would have sensed something - felt something - out of place. All I felt was a hope that we could be happy here. A new house. A new start. A new chance at a happy ending. But it is incredible how much you can not see when you are trying to convince yourself that everything is fine.
I don't remember when I first felt her presence, because it came so gradually. More like waking up with the sun rather than an alarm going off. Now finally meeting her eyes in the mirror felt like meeting an old friend. In her eyes I could see everything. All the fear and weight of pain and hopelessness that I also carried were there. I would like to blame her for understanding those feelings so well - point to her as the cause of all my problems, but I know that even though she is the ghost that haunts this house, she is not the monster.
My eyes flicked away for a second and landed on the chipped door frame of the bathroom. Cold floor. Back pressed against the tub. Waiting. Knees curled up to my chest. Trying to be small. Trying to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Banging on the door. Each pound on the door became louder, and so did the voice in my head. *Bang* Weak. *Bang* Pathetic *Bang* My fault.
He was yelling as loudly as the voice in my head, but I couldn’t make out the words. My brain was trying too hard to be somewhere else to make out the words. All that made it through was the loudness. It was just his version of, “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” and I knew my stick house wasn’t going to hold up much longer. I watched as the whole door looked like it would shatter, but all that came off was a sliver of the frame near the handle. Then it was quiet.
Sometimes the quiet was worse, especially when I couldn't see him. Maybe the storm had passed. Not likely since it hadn’t made contact yet, but still possible. Or maybe it was a trick, so I would open the door. I didn’t have time to grab my phone, so I had no concept of time. Could I guess when he went to sleep and then lay on the couch? I wouldn’t sleep anywhere, but that would be more comfortable than next to him in bed. Could I stay here all night? What if one of the kids woke up in the night? I wouldn’t hear them here.
There is no right answer. There is no safe choice. I’m frozen, unable to see what to do next, when the door knob starts to rattle gently. So, my choice is made for me once again. No waiting until he falls asleep. No trick to get me to open the door. I start to try to drift away to somewhere else - not my body, not my body - as the tools he went to get unlocked the door.
I gasp as my body realizes I haven’t been breathing, and I look back to the mirror, but I can’t see her anymore. I sit on the floor again with my back pressed up against the tub. Taking shaky breaths and pretending to be somewhere else - anywhere else. Even though I can’t see her anymore, I know she will be back. Just like I will have to come back to the bathroom floor when I can breathe again and make myself stand up and keep moving. Because she and I are the same. One alive and one long dead, but both ghosts trapped in this house.

92 Days Left:

Even though I spent most of the previous night staring at the ceiling and trying to breathe instead of sleeping, life still had to go on the next morning. Small mouths needed breakfast. Small bodies needed baths and clothes. Small faces needed smiles and reassurance. And small hearts needed love.
My body went through the motions of life, but my mind had a hard time staying here. It kept trying to drift away somewhere else. Taking both boys out to run errands is a huge undertaking and requires strength I don’t have today, but if I wait for a good day to run errands, it will never happen. Best to not think of the day as a whole. Just think of the very next thing to do. All I have to do right now is get shoes on 3 bodies and then get those bodies to the car. Nothing comes after that until I get there. Don’t think. Just do. If I stop to think I will break under the pressure and weight of endless days stretched out before me. There is only the current moment. The panic attacks last night don’t exist. Him coming home from work today - in whatever mood he will be in - doesn’t exist. Right now we are in the car, driving to the next town over. Nothing else exists.
“Mom! I am thirsty!” is the cry from the back seat.
I glance in the rearview mirror to respond and am caught off guard when I see her eyes reflected back instead of mine. I blink and it’s just me again - gone so quickly I can’t be sure I didn’t imagine it. I grab the water bottle off the seat beside me and rotate my arm in order to give it to the child in the seat directly behind me. The twisting of my arm made my shoulder twinge with a sharp stab of pain that woke up a memory from weeks ago that I had tried to forget.
He is standing in the bedroom door, and I’m by the bed - eyes darting around for an escape even though I know there is no escape. He’s blocking the exit and is closer to the bathroom door than me. My phone is lying on the bed though, and I reach out for it, and try to unlock the screen quickly, but the room is not that big, and he is to me before I can pull up the keypad to dial. He makes a move to take the phone out of my hand, and I make the mistake of not handing it over complacently.
That is why the bruises happened. My fault. Fingerprint bruises on my arm where he held it to twist my arm behind me as I tried to get away. (Where? I don't know. There was nowhere to go. My brain only said, “Away”) Twisting until I couldn’t hold the phone anymore, and it falls.
“Mom! I can’t reach it.”
I snap back to the present and try to ignore the pain in my shoulder and the memory in my head as I twist my arm the same way that caused the lingering injury until he can reach the water bottle.
Then I go back to training my brain not to think. There is no past. No trying to call for help and being stopped. No possibility of it happening again tonight. Or the next night. Or the next night. There is only driving in the car right now. Survive this moment. Survive the next moment when it comes.

83 Days Left:

He didn’t believe in birth control, but I felt like I was drowning. I couldn’t handle the extreme sickness that came with being pregnant for me and then another person I was supposed to be responsible for on top of that. I wasn’t sure that he would allow me to get a more permanent form of birth control like an IUD, but I started insisting on using a condom every time. He agreed without too much of a fight which seemed like a miracle until I realized that he just didn’t use a condom sometimes when he didn’t want to. Afterwards, when I would realize, it was always my fault.
“You didn’t get one either.”
“You’re the one who wants to use one, not me. That’s your responsibility.”
“I thought you changed your mind and didn’t tell me.”
Sleep never comes easily. I have to wait until I know he is completely asleep. Then I have to wait for the chorus of self doubt and anxieties to subside. Once I finally force myself into sleep, I hope to get a few hours before the dreams start to come. Dreams that are filled with foreign places, but the feelings of dread and fear and panic and pain are always the same.
“I said stop crying! I know you are only doing it to manipulate me into feeling bad when I didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t just cry to get out of things, so you can just go ahead and stop.”
The house looked vaguely like mine. The basic shape of the room looked the same, but it was different. The right house, but the wrong time. The voice shouting was different, but the words were the same. And I knew if I were to go to the mirror and look, it would be her face looking back at me instead of mine.
“You don’t get a free pass just because you are crying. You are the one in the wrong. Stop trying to manipulate me and own up to your mistakes like a grown up.”
Different body, but the same response. (Not my body. Not my body) until I float away.

79 Days Left:

He is angry again. I have a visit with a friend soon, and I need to leave . I have to try to placate him enough so I don’t have to cancel. Always a tricky endeavor. What if he doesn’t let me go?
His voice is getting louder, and his lip is disappearing. Getting thinner and thinner. When it disappears completely the yelling starts in earnest. And the grabbing. And the hurting. But it’s like being tied to the train tracks forced to watch the train coming, but unable to do anything to stop what will happen. And all the time he is talking, getting angrier and angrier because I can’t find the right words. The mistake has been made. I can’t fix it. He has to decide how much the mistake costs now. Panic starts to fill my head, and I have to work really hard to stay in my body. (Don’t float away this time. Don’t float away this time.)
In a last ditch effort, a hail Mary attempt, I appeal to his need to appear so very different to everyone but me. “I have to leave soon or I will have to cancel, and they will want to know why.” I wait for him to refuse to let me leave. To feed me the excuse I am to use for not being able to go. I’m surprised when he simply says, “We will finish talking when you get back.”
But the whole time I’m sitting with my friends, smiling because my “outside of the house” face is plastered on top of my panic, I’m picturing his mouth as he tells me to go - lip completely gone. After smiling hugs goodbye, I sob driving all the way back home knowing what will be waiting when I arrive.

72 Days Left:

The hot summer air still sent goosebumps across my skin as I ran. As I ran, the ghost of the woman in the mirror seemed to run beside me. For a minute I could almost see the wooded path she must have run down too on a night when she had made it out of the house. We were running, but without having a destination because there was nowhere to go. I left without my wallet. Without my keys. Without a phone. Even without my shoes. My brain had said to run away, and that is not usually an option, but this time there was an un-blocked door, so I ran. But with a little space I realized several things.
1. I couldn’t get far without a wallet, keys, phone, or shoes.
2. Even if I had those things, I would have to go back because my boys were asleep in their beds. I couldn’t leave them with Him. (Bad mom) I shouldn’t even have left them for the distance I could run. What kind of mom leaves her small children with a man in that state? (Coward) It’s my job to absorb all the bad so they are safe, and I left them. If anything happens to them, it is my fault for not being there to stop it. (Selfish)
3. I was alone, in the dark, and vulnerable. At any moment the thing I had run away from (or worse) could find me barefoot and alone on the dark street. I would have to go back. I would have to go back soon.
My boys need me. I’m scared there, but I’m scared here too, and my boys need me. The same thought pounded into my brain for years comes back to remind me that I shouldn’t be a mom. Every moment I leave them alone is making me more and more of a selfish coward and just emphasizes this truth. If I were to ever leave for good, He would tell everyone and they would agree with him, and then I wouldn’t be there at all to protect them. I have to go back. And I have to stay there. It’s the only way to save my boys. He will never change, so someone has to take it. I can’t let it be my boys.
I felt every pebble under my shaking feet as I walked back. Fully prepared for more screaming. More grabbing and hurting. More belittling. And whatever else there would be more of. Trying to make a mental list of all the things I would be required to take the blame for and apologize for. This list must be detailed. Any small thing that could be twisted into a slight against Him. As I turn down the street I could see Him sitting on the porch steps. Waiting. Because he knew he didn’t have to find me. He knew I would have to come back.
“The boys are still sleeping peacefully upstairs.” To most everyone else it would look like a husband reassuring his wife of their children’s safety. But that’s not what it was.
I could only nod my head in acknowledgement. Message received. You own the kids. You own me.
He wasn’t bursting with anger anymore. It was time for the next steps in the dance of our marriage that he led and I had to follow. I started with my lists of apologies, trying hard not to miss any. If I played my part just right, in a couple dance steps things would be okay again for a bit. If I messed up we would skip the quiet part and go back to the bad part. No bruises or broken bones or twisted joints so far this time. I might be able to avoid it this time. Sometimes I could if I did it just right.
His reply to my apologies, “You know this whole night was just you overreacting, right? If you could have just not been so sensitive, we could have had a good evening.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, then. Time for bed.”
Time for the next part of the dance. We go to the bedroom, and he starts pulling clothes off us both, and I start to drift away. Play the part just right and then it won’t be so bad for a while. A few minutes now will buy peace tonight and tomorrow. I trace the lines in the ceiling tiles above the bed until I can almost not feel him tracing every part of my body. Almost. He owns the kids. He owns me.
Only a few more minutes, and he will be asleep. Stare at the ceiling for a few more minutes (Not my body) (Not my body)

55 Days Left:

Flight was an unreliable solution to the problem. Even the one time I managed to get away, I came back anyway. And most of the time, he was too big and too fast for me to get away. I didn'fight for years because I’m not a violent person, but after years of being deprived of flight, the body tries to fight. I decided that the next time he hurt me, I wasn’t going to hold back. I was going to hurt back until I could get away.
I was trapped in the bedroom again. No access to the bathroom to hide or the door to run. Only options: fight or window. I get to the window and get it open, but he is on me before I can get the screen out.
“This is for your own good. You’re going to hurt yourself with all your overreacting. If you could just have a conversation with me like an adult instead of acting like a child, this wouldn’t happen.”
I was pinned to the bed. No amount of squirming or thrashing was going to get him off me. My body finally chose to fight. I lashed out any way I could. Kicking anything my feet could reach. Hitting anything near me. I even tried to gouge his eyes, but he was too fast. His knees were on my thighs and his hand pressed my wrists to the bed. So I bit his shoulder as hard as I could. There was zero reaction. He didn’t even flinch.
My last hope of resorting to fighting - the hope I had been holding on to for years to use as a last resort if things got too bad - had failed. All I got was the whisper in my ear, “I have never hit you. You are the abuser.” An accusation that was made now every time I thought about getting help or asking him to stop. I was the abuser. Abusers didn’t get to keep their kids.
“You are the monster, not me. I’ve never hit you, but you have hit me.”
He never did hit me. That is a true statement. Maybe he is right. Maybe I am the monster.

49 Days Left:

I could feel it when he came in. He had a frustrating day at work. I was trying to help the toddler with something while nursing the baby and was distracted when he walked in.
“You should greet me with a kiss and ask about my day when I get home.”
“Sorry, how was your day?”
I asked the question, but I already knew the answer. My body knew he was in a bad mood based on how he held his body, the shape of his mouth, and the tone of his voice. I couldn't point to the specifics, but my body knew. I was trying to be present and respond to what he was saying, but I don't remember what it was. My body was screaming, “One wrong move away from disaster - be careful! One mistake and you know what will happen. If you mess up, you will pay.”
We got through the conversation without incident. I said the right things this time. The problem didn’t come until later - once the boys were asleep. That was the most dangerous time.
“Where is my sweatshirt?”
“In the hamper.” I hurriedly added, “I’m doing laundry tomorrow.”
“If you got it dirty, you should have washed it. It’s my sweatshirt. That is basic decency.” His voice is tense and louder than it needs to be.
“Sorry, you’ve never cared if I wore it before. I was cold. I thought it was okay. I won't wear it anymore if you don’t want me to.”
“You are missing the point. I don’t care if you wear it, but if it gets dirty, you should wash it. You don’t ask about my day after work.You don’t take care of my things when you use them. You don’t respect me at all.” He was yelling now, and my brain was trying really hard to understand the new rules, but my mind was trying to float away (not my body).
“I’m sorry. I do respect you. There was just a lot going on today, and I didn’t have time.”
That was as long as I could hold on to my mind. He was yelling, but I didn't register the words (not my body). I couldn’t run. I couldn’t fight. I curled up in a ball on the floor and plugged my ears, just waiting for it to be over. I could deaden the yelling, but not eliminate it and even though it was (not my body) some things still got through.
“So immature - can’t talk like an adult - your fault - don’t take accountability - I do everything for you - I deserve basic respect, but you won’t even have a conversation with me.”
I could feel his breath on my face because he was so close as he screamed, but my eyes were squeezed shut with my fingers clamped over my ears (not my body). He started grabbing my arms and hands, trying to rip them away from my ears. My eyes were still squeezed shut, and I tried to keep them on my ears (not my body!) but there was a shooting pain in one finger, and he was too strong.
My hands were pinned once again to the bed as he loomed over me screaming, “You’re such a selfish bitch! You can’t even give your husband basic, common decency. What is that teaching our kids? What I’m asking isn’t that hard - you’re doing this on purpose!”I don't know how long he kept yelling (not my body) because the voice he trained in my head had taken over by then.
My fault. Stupid. Bitch. Bad Mom. I hit him, but he’s never hit me. I’m the abuser. Asking about his day isn’t hard. I just get busy and forget. I am a selfish bitch. Worthless. Unloveable. Never enough. Long after he calmed down and fell asleep, I was awake with those thoughts circling my head and a throbbing in my finger.

48 Days Left:

My finger still hurts the next morning. I had made myself a promise that if he ever hurt me badly enough that I had to go to the doctor that I would leave him. The promise of a coward doesn’t mean much though. Even though bending my finger caused a lot of pain, and it was bruised and swollen, I didn’t go to the doctor because then I would have to follow through on my promise to myself.
I had hoped the pain would be gone when I woke up, but now I would need a new plan.
Letting on that he hurt my finger the night before could result in 2 outcomes:
He would tell me I was overreacting and say I was trying to manipulate him into thinking I hadn’t done anything wrong when I had. I would have to apologize for being hurt and making him feel badly about it.
He would overcompensate for his behavior the night before by being overly attentive for a day or two. I would have to accept his affection even if I didn’t want to and make him feel better about himself.
Neither option was appealing to me. I was tired and didn’t want to have to play either of those parts.
We both pretend nothing happened and I hide the pain where he can’t see it and where it fades into the background for me (not my body).
When he is home I act as normally as I can and hide that my finger hurts. When he is gone, I tape it to the finger next to it and ice it which helps the pain. I can’t grip anything with my right hand for a couple days, but I can drive one handed and do other things with accommodations. I just have to remember to take the tape off before he gets home and be extra careful until I can tape it again the next day. It’s manageable for the few days when the pain is the worst. He never notices, and I never go to the doctor. Broken bones heal more easily than broken spirits.

16 Days Left:

He went to the bathroom when it was over, I laid in bed trying to sort through my feelings, He came back out and asked if I was okay. His uncharacteristic moment of insight and empathy allowed me a moment of honest vulnerability.
“That didn’t make me feel good. I feel….(I paused looking for the right word in a sea of confusing feelings I hadn’t had time to sort through yet)....assaulted.”
“You can't say things like that. That’s not what happened.”
“I said no.”
“You didn’t sound like you meant it. And you only said it once. And you didn’t do anything else.”
He kept talking about what a horrible thing that was to say to him and could I even imagine how that made him feel that I would say something like that. “What kind of person would say something like that to her husband?”
Pretty soon I was apologizing to him for being so inconsiderate. For saying hurtful things. For being overly emotional and dramatic as usual. He was probably right anyway. I felt in turmoil inside and was having a hard time telling what was real or not anymore.
Maybe I didn’t even say no. And if I did, but didn’t sound sincere, that was on me, not him. I could have said it more (you’re such a bitch) or tried to push him off (the sound of my finger breaking). It was my fault, not his. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
But long after he starts snoring, I’m still laying on my back, staring at the ceiling fan spin above my head, trying to remember what really happened that night, and understand why I felt the barrage of emotions that were swirling around inside of me.
If it did happen the way I thought, and I apologized to him, what kind of person did that make me? What kind of pathetic person apologizes to their rapist? Better to push it down and rewrite the memory to make it what he said. (I’m overreacting) (My fault)
It took a long time for me to fall asleep that night, but when I did I dreamed of her again.
Back in the same house, foreign yet familiar. In a body that I knew wasn’t really mine, but that was mine for now.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me close to his face and I could already feel where the bruises would be formed tomorrow. I could feel the heat of his breath on my face as he hissed names and failures at me. He finally released me, and I crumpled to the floor, my legs shaking too much to hold my body.
“Get up! Why are you always acting like a child? I said, get up!”
I know not obeying will only make things worse, but I cannot force my body to do anything except try to make itself small. (Not my body). I can’t stop myself from starting to float away as he gets on top of me and pains me to the ground so I can no longer obey Him even if I could. (Not my body).
He grabs my shoulders and lifts my head off the ground and slams it back down to the ground in an attempt to get me back in the room with him. (Not my body). When it doesn’t work he tries again and again. With each blow of my head against the floor, I float farther and farther away. Not my body. Not my body. Not my body. Until it finally becomes true.
My eyes snapped open, and I tried to catch my breath as I remembered where I was and tried to calm my sweating, shaking body. Once I felt I could almost breathe again, I made my way to the bathroom to run water over my hands. When I looked up in the mirror, there she was again.
As I looked into her eyes, I knew it wasn’t a dream - it was a memory. “That is how you died, isn’t it?” She, of course, said nothing (her voice had been taken in death, just like in life), but in her penetrating, unblinking stare, I could feel her pain echoing down through time to meet mine. Part of me wanted to feel comforted in the fact that I was not alone - that my story wasn’t unique, and that other women understood. The other part of me felt the weight of the pain from endless generations of women repeating itself again. Nothing I was experiencing was new. This was the tale as old as time, and in her past I saw my own future. In her eyes, I saw the truth - someday he would kill me. Maybe not for a long time, and maybe not on purpose, but someday he would go too far, I would pay the price, and he would cry “accident” and be believed. But I would still die, alone with him, and full of fear. I stared back into her eyes, silently pleading for a different ending. Only then she dropped her gaze and refused to meet my eyes again, and I knew she had nothing else to offer because she didn’t know any other way - just like me.

0 Days Left:

I tried to get to the back door, but I wasn’t fast enough. He grabbed me, and I crumpled to the floor. I got into my new defense position: curled into a ball, eyes squeezed shut, hands over my ears. He flipped me to my back and ripped my hands from my ears. I knew resisting equaled a broken finger, so I didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t just break my finger; he broke the thing inside me that made me a person. Whoever I was before, she was gone. Probably disgusted at the empty shell I had become.
Laying on my back on the kitchen floor, arms pinned above my head and his angry face above mine, I tried to float away (not my body), but before I could disappear, he spit in my face. The shock of this new way to be assaulted jarred me back to reality.
Laying there on the floor, unable to wipe the spit sliding down my face off, I had to listen to all the ways I was a failure. I already knew them by heart and recited them to myself like scripture, but I am sure I was more devout in my self-flagellation than any prophet that came before me. Nevertheless, the god of my world was shouting the commandments down from the mountain, and I must listen.
After it was over, after he had run through the course of his anger, after I consoled and snuggled the children back into calmness, I went to the bathroom to finally wash the dried spit off my face. And there she was again above the sink in the mirror, her sunken, pleading eyes meeting mine.
My body is haunted, but not by the ghost in the mirror. I’m not haunted by this ghost doomed to watch her life repeated in mine, but also by past selves who detest the person I became and future selves begging me to help them avoid their fate. I’m haunted by everything I was and lost and everything I could be but am not. I’m haunted by not knowing how long I have left until my fate becomes hers.
She never dropped her eyes from mine, and as I looked I saw something new in her eyes. I saw hope. I looked at that hope until my eyes filled with tears and washed her image away. Maybe if she could still have hope in her eyes, I could find some for myself.
I am alone with my phone in my hand and the memory of her eyes (or maybe mine) pleading with me to make a call and finally tell the truth. I think about those eyes for a few more moments, trying to absorb that hope into myself, so that I can ask for help. I can tell him to leave. I don’t have to be scared in my own home. I stand frozen trying to believe these things that seem impossible, and then I unlock my phone and hit call before I can believe in a happier future but also before I lose the hope in our eyes in the mirror.

32 Days After:

I bought my own oversized sweatshirt today. I’ve been sorting through the wreckage of my life for a month, but today was the first time it occurred to me that I could have things I wanted just for myself. Today was the first time that I realized doing something for myself didn’t have to be laced with fear of the consequences.
My head understood this concept, but (this is my body) had a harder time accepting it. I stood before a rack of sweatshirts in the store, hands shaking, trying not to cry, repeating in my head that it was okay to buy a sweatshirt to replace the one he took when he moved out. A sweatshirt just for me. A sweatshirt I could wear any time I was cold. A sweatshirt that I could put in the hamper and not wash without fear of a broken bone.
I took deep breaths as I walked up to the cashier, and when she asked, “Is this all?” I knew in my heart that this small, difficult task was the beginning of something better and replied, “This is everything.”
I hadn’t seen the ghost since that last night, and in my heart I knew I wouldn’t see her again, but looking in the mirror that night in my new sweatshirt I thought I saw a shadow of her smiling. Hope is a tricky thing because even when it feels lost, it still comes back. Hope may have feathers, but it is not weak or fragile. Hope is trembling hands that turn the door knob anyway. Hope is opening the bathroom door, not knowing what will be on the other side. Hope is telling him to leave in a shaking voice and locking the door behind him on his way out even though you can’t see a happy future. Hope is taking the next small step that may seem like nothing but is actually everything. Hope is deciding that you can choose. Hope may look small and frail, but it is not. Hope is tricky to see because it is really courage in disguise.