Trigger Warning: This story contains descriptions of an emotionally abusive relationship and alcoholism.
Author’s Note: If you need to talk about intimate partner and/or sexual violence, call the New York State Domestic and Sexual Violence Hotline at 800-942-6906. To all the survivors—I see you, I stand with you, and I love you.
It’s gotten to the point where you know you must leave. The fights are constant. Her drinking is excessive. There are more shards of glass on the floor than there are wood panels. Dishes pile up in the sink and are left dirty for weeks. You have locked yourself in the master bedroom and wept into the pillow until it cried back at you.
“Genevieve, open the door.” Hanna bangs on the bedroom door, distressed. “I just want to talk. I promise I can make it right.”
You cover your mouth. Hanna’s soft touch could melt away all your worries just as it had done before, couldn’t it? At the same time, the empty backpack across the room calls for you. When you first met Hanna, you immediately noticed her temper. She was quick to get angry at waitresses who gave her the wrong change or drunks who spat rude remarks. Temper tantrums were never a good sign, but because you were so timid you found it hard to not be impressed by this incredibly confident woman. “Let me be, Hanna,” you whimper. “I’m so tired of your shit.” You picture Hanna’s face, her balled fists and flushed cheeks. “Give me one more chance, Genevieve,” she implored, her voice raspy and low. “I will get sober. I will be a good girlfriend. All you have to do is trust me.” You sob because this is what you want, too. You want to give Hanna one more chance to be a changed person. This isn’t realistic, you know, but indulging the fantasies is so much easier than authenticity. It wasn’t all bad, you know. Hanna could be a lovely girl deep down. She had a passion for engineering and she was ready to make a life for herself. She brought you flowers on your opening nights and left you sticky notes on the bathroom mirror when she went to work early.
It wasn’t all good, either. When Hanna got mad, she shut down. You approached her timidly, baby-stepping your way towards a conversation, but as soon as you pushed her a little too far it was over. She made beer her therapist, whiskey her medicine. Alcohol, it seemed, was her demon, and in turn, she became yours. She never hit you, though. That was what gave you hope. Never had she forced herself upon you or left a fingernail scratch on your skin, no matter how enraged she became. She was not the large, overpowering villain you had seen in the media; she was just troubled, and she needs some help. This was nothing, you used to be sure, that you couldn’t fix yourself. Hitting you wouldn’t have made much of a difference, though. She still left bruises, just not tangible ones. Hanna backed you into corners and wouldn’t let you leave until you succumbed to her demands.
Manipulative. The word rolls around on your tongue and
extracts all the oxygen from your body.
When she finally stops banging on the door and retreats to the sofa bed, it is well into the night. You curl up like a child, hugging your knees and pressing them into your chest. After letting out your sobs, your shaky hand reaches for your cell phone, planning to call for help.
The gravity of the situation begins to dawn on you, but you slap
it down immediately, shocked with yourself. You’re overreacting. Everything will be fine in the morning, just as it always was. There is no sense in worrying someone about issues when they are your fault.
But then again, are you meant to take the blame?
You fight with yourself, your conscience a gazelle trapped in the ruthless claws of a crazed lion. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? Love? You have someone here who loves you, who really cares. She is imperfect, she is a drunk and a liar, but she will get better. Is it selfish to want more? Is it idiotic to settle for less?
After hours of restless internal battles, you know what you must do. When your mom picks up the call, your story comes spilling out, a flood that cannot be contained any longer takes you.
Why should you listen to me, you ask? That’s a good question. You just want to know what this random note on my doorstep said, and here I am leading you on a completely different path. But like I said, this is a piece of writing, so this is all just part of my plan.
But in all honesty, I don’t really have a plan. I am as clueless as you are right now. There was no note left on my doorstep for me to read. That first sentence was supposed to be a decoy, to get you pulled into this story. And if you’re reading to this point, then I guess it worked.
So reader, sorry if you didn’t get the result you expected. I know you might’ve found reading this a waste of your time and you’re going to walk away not getting the answer you may have expected. But if there’s anything I could add, I thank you for keeping that deal we made earlier. Because of a deal you made with a random person, you let me complete my job, even if it burdened yours.
Maybe it’s not always about the desired destination, but the journey you take to get there. There might not always be a real answer to a question, but that doesn’t mean it’s worth fretting over. Neither of us know what that note said, but we both got to finish our “jobs” and complete that deal in the end. Now, while my job is about to end here, continue to do your part in this huge array of stories. Enjoy the adventure of each, and don’t judge any by the start or the ending of it. Go on the journeys with content, and an open mind, no matter the destination it leads you to.