Chapter 43
Chapter Forty Three
Veronica
My pen hovers over the paper, unsure of what else to write.
Not much has changed besides the fact that I now live in Puerto Rico and also have a job that I love—enough for me to fight the urge to panic.
Enough to think I can make a future here for myself.
Talking about said job, my lunch break will be over in exactly fifteen minutes.
I glance down at my watch and smile. Taking a bite from my beef pastelito, I gaze into the small ripple of waves on the beach before closing the journal and placing it back in my bag.
After a couple of bites, I’m done with my pastelito, and shortly after, my malta india.
Walking back towards the clinic, I still find myself getting lost in the culture, in the beauty of the small colonial plaza.
It’s truly beautiful seeing all the historic and colorful buildings, the cobblestone streets, busy with locals and tourists who frequent the area.
Unfortunately, the walk back is too short to fully enjoy the scene.
I push open the small metal gate before stepping inside, making sure to close it behind me and head to the front of the small coral colored building.
Clinica Santo Benito is a non-profit group that focuses on mental health and domestic violence victims. Still in awe, every time I take in the hand-painted mural decorating the outside walls.
Abstract painting that hides everything special.
The Coqui, the Puerto Rican flag, believe it or not, Bad Bunny, amongst other things.
It makes it hard not to stop every chance I get.
It’s so different living here than back home.
Life moves at a much slower pace, and people are friendly.
I can’t shy away from the fact that I’ve contemplated making this move more permanent.
There’s just one thing that holds me back.
Love. Moving towards the small office in the back, I listen to the laughter coming from the front desk as the girls talk about their night and sexual encounters.
Sometimes the urge to join them tugs at me, yet every time I work up the courage to do so, I stop myself.
All I’ve done since arriving here is focus on work, which leaves little room for anything else.
Just as I place my bag on the desk, Nieves, one of the counselors in the clinic, pops her head inside the room.
“Veronica, they’re about to start the survival circle group,” she says gently. “I would love it if you could join us.”
My stomach knots as I nod. “Of course.”
Tension gathers in my body. As much as I enjoy what I do, it’s also hard never knowing what you’re walking into. Hearing the stories that are so similar to my own, it’s just a lot when you’re still bleeding. I grab my camera and the tablet provided by the clinic.
“Lead the way,” I mutter softly, following her lead as she heads down the hall, her heels clicking and echoing through the space.
The corridor is an open space that unites, in which each side shows you a different scene.
A garden to your left in the center of everything, and to your right, the beach that hosts many therapeutic sessions.
Nieves comes to a full stop at the last room in the hall, men and women all sitting on cushions on the floor, forming a circle.
Wasting no time, I place the tablet down and begin to adjust the lenses as the counselors and therapists introduce themselves.
Dr. Rivera smiles as she introduces me. “Everyone, I would like to give a warm welcome to Veronica Vargas. She’s here to take pictures of the session.
If anyone, at any point, feels uncomfortable or simply would not want their pictures taken, please kindly let us know. ”
Everyone focuses their attention on me, making me feel awkward and uncomfortable.
Still, I put on a smile and gave a small wave.
“Hi, thank you for sharing your space with me.” The survivors all nod before turning their attention back to Nieves, who now stands beside Lorena, one of the therapists who leads the circle.
One by one, each person introduces themselves, while I begin to work, making sure to take full advantage of the sun, which offers good lighting, and the shadows provide enough cover to give me a vintage effect.
I stay in the back, making sure not to disturb anyone as they speak about their assault.
Suddenly, the room spins, making me queasy at the sight of the woman who cradles her stomach with adoration.
“This baby is a reminder of what I survived,” she adds.
“It might not be a choice many could understand. But it was the choice that felt right.”
Her story hits every trigger in my body, my hands go clammy and sweaty, trying to focus the lens as I snap away.
Making sure to capture the grace of her long neck as she stares into the horizon, the sun illuminates the soft brown of her skin, giving her an ethereal glow.
My pulse hammers inside my chest, the sound of blood rushing between my ears drowning out the stories. I need to breathe.
I lean into the wall behind me to stop myself from collapsing.
“There are nights that I wake up screaming,” a woman begins, and my chest rises slowly, my camera falling away from my face, observing her without the lens.
“I think the part I miss the most is surprisingly the things I would take for granted. Like sleep.”
A weight settles in my chest, growing heavier and heavier with each word that leaves her lips, because I understand it all too well.
I would give anything to go back to feeling safe, to being able to sleep without feeling like I would wake up in the basement and my freedom would be nothing but a dream.
A figment of my imagination, my brain conjured up to spare me from the hell I experienced.
Forgetting about the picture, I listen attentively through the low hum of the air conditioner and the loud roar of blood pulsating in my head as the woman continues to explain her struggles that resemble my own.
The more she shares, the more my chest begins to tighten…
that familiar feeling of drowning begins to crawl up my ribs.
Dr. Rivera steps beside me, and I freeze.
My eyes blur, distorting her features. “Respira, nena1.”
I’m trying.
Cold hands cup my face, and I blink. Inhaling deeply before exhaling, practicing breathing while trying to contain the shake in my body.
“Respire.” And I do. My lungs expand with her help.
“In through your nose, that’s it.” My eyes focus on her, and not on the people—who…
wait… They are not looking at me because this is a normal part of healing.
The ugly parts people try to skip past. “Exhale, now.” Which I do, exhaling a large huff of air. Dr. Rivera smiles.
I can’t help the embarrassment that consumes me right now. My cheeks grow hot, and I’m sure red. Shit. Tears prick the corner of my eyes, which I quickly wipe away. “I’m so sorry. I’m okay.”
“No, don’t apologize. It’s okay if you’re not,” she whispers quietly, her gaze drifting towards the circle.
“Trauma is something that many experience, and how we cope with it and heal is personal and unique to everyone. You don’t have to bear the weight of it alone, when there are others who would help carry the load. ”
My eyes fix on her, my mind scrambling to find an excuse, and all that I blurt out is the only thing I can think of. Lifting the camera into the air, “I’m sorry that shouldn’t have happened. I’m just here to take pictures.”
My throat burns, and I clear it. Or at least try to swallow the lump forming within it. Dr. Rivera clasps her hands behind her back, her lips quirk to the side as she sucks in a long breath. “I don’t think you’re here only to take pictures, but rather to stop hiding or maybe running.”
I turn to her, trying to find a rebuttal good enough for her, but my mind comes up empty. “You can sit with us, you know.”
With a shake of my head, I mutter softly, “I’m not ready.”
She smiles, her lips stretching wide, exposing her beautiful row of white teeth, contrasting with her beautiful brown skin. “That’s the thing about healing, you don’t have to be ready, only willing.” With that, she walks away, leaving me to fester in the truth behind her words.
After what feels like hours of countless edits, I look over the pictures, deciding on a couple from last week’s session for this week’s message blast. This month, we are focusing on survivors of domestic violence.
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I admire the woman in the frame.
Old enough to be my mother, burn marks cover about eighty percent of her flesh.
Yet her eyes remain warm and inviting. Still beautiful and full of strength after surviving a brutal attack that almost killed her.
Through her session, I learned about 2% of women suffer from intentional burn violence.
She met every demographic criterion but rose above the statistic that contributes to domestic violence deaths.
Work consumes me, in the best way. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Listening to their stories and hearing them overcome the storm makes me hopeful that one day I can.
Slowly, I feel like I’ve been piecing together parts of myself, just by being a passenger in someone else’s story.
I’m still not quite ready to participate, but I can see it being the next step.
My everyday life revolves around people, their pain, their confessions, and their courage, giving me the little push I need to find the spark of life within me.