Ronan
I knew I wasn’t prepared for today. I mean, how could I be? As trying as my life has been, as fraught with fear and anxiety as my days were growing up, I was never forced to live in such a heightened state of stress for nine hours straight; I was never forced to remember and relive every past moment marred by violence. I was never forced to sit and watch my mom dislocate my shoulder and put it back in place; I was never made to watch her beat me with a broom or a whiskey bottle or a damn shoe. I was never required to watch her break my kneecap and kick me in the stomach until my spleen ruptured all while yelling at me to beg her to kill me.
I think I’ve experienced the gamut of emotions today, a revolving mix of fear, grief, pain, sadness, resignation. It went like that all day long, over and over again. Only occasionally did I feel some reprieve when the prosecutor asked me about Cat, my friends, or anything other than my shitty life. When Darren Cooley turned off the last clip after letting it run until the EMTs rolled my lifeless body out of my house on a stretcher, I was overwhelmed, shocked, and, honestly, numb. The footage showed the culmination of all the hate, the vitriol, the brutality, the cruelty, and watching it back, I’m once again incredulous that I survived that beating. Barely.
I’m depleted, desperate for this all to be over, when the attorney throws me an absolute curveball. “One final question: if you had the chance to say anything to your mother, what would you tell her?”
It catches me completely off guard, and I stare at him for a moment, my brow furrowed.
Reluctantly, I allow my eyes to move away from him, slowly sweeping to the right, to the defense table where I find my mom. I don’t know what happened in the past nine hours, but she suddenly looks so much smaller than I remember or even just this morning.
She was always imposing to me, even toward the end, when I was almost a foot taller than her and outweighed her by fifty or sixty pounds. But looking at her now—now that I’ve unburdened myself, now that the whole world knows what she’s done to me, now that I have no secrets to hide and no injuries to cover up, now that I know she’ll never put a hand on me again—she looks… fragile, childlike. And I’d almost take pity on her if it wasn’t for the fact that she looks exactly how she made me feel every. Single. Day. Of my life—small, weak, and at her mercy.
As if she can sense my gaze, my mom lifts her eyes, locking them on mine, and it’s like she takes my heart and lungs into a stranglehold as we stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. An entire world of unspoken words and emotions passes between us. Her eyes—the exact same fucking shade of green as mine—hold… sadness? Regret? Empathy?
What do I do? What do I say? Do I say anything? What would I want to say? Shit, what wouldn’t I want to say?
There’s a lifetime of things I could tell her, like: You broke me, Mom. Physically. Emotionally. Every breathing minute of my life—you broke me. Piece by tiny piece, you broke me. Until there was nothing left but ruins.
Or how about I tell her that she made me doubt who and what I am, that I could be enough someday, somehow, if only I worked harder, longer.
I could tell her that the sound of her footfalls alone instilled me with fear, that I’m a god damn pro at reading body language and facial expressions, at listening to inflections and intonation to determine if I was in danger. And speaking of threat level, I could tell her that I’m always living in a heightened state of awareness with increased adrenaline and cortisol levels. I would tell her how stressful, how deeply exhausting that is.
And then I should probably also tell her how on guard I was whenever she and I were in the house together, how my home felt more like a torture chamber where I never knew what kind of new horror lurked around the corner.
I could tell her how damn envious I was of my friends and their relationships with their parents, the support they received, even when they screwed up or got a bad grade, whereas I was deathly afraid of failure because I knew it would result in pain. How I killed myself to be perfect at all things, not because I wanted her to be proud of me—even though I did; I really, really did—but more because I didn’t want to give her a reason to hurt me again.
I could tell her about the deep loneliness that came with having to lie—always and to everyone. How exhausting it was to keep my story straight, to come up with plausible excuses for injuries, to always listen to questions extra carefully and think about my responses because I didn’t want to slip and say something that might rouse suspicion. How much it sucked having to drag myself to school or hockey practice when I had a concussion, a painful bruise, or a broken bone. How I lived through the most horrific pain with a fucking smile plastered onto my face because I was never allowed to feel anything. If I was happy, she’d take me down a notch; if I was sad, upset, or angry, she’d make sure I knew she didn’t tolerate me being anything but fine.
Or I could tell her what a mindfuck it was to have her beat me, only to tell me a minute later that she didn’t want to hurt me. How on edge her unpredictability left me day in and day out. How badly I tried to be better, to be perfect, even while knowing perfect wasn’t enough. I’d beat myself up striving for more, knowing it wouldn’t matter yet pushing myself further because maybe, just maybe she’d let up.
I might tell her that I don’t allow myself to truly feel happy or loved because a huge part of me believes I’m not worthy of good things. How her words have affected the way I think and feel about myself and my relationship with others. I worry I’ll never be able to live up to what my family and friends expect of me, that I’ll never be able to give Cat everything she deserves.
I want to tell her how isolated I feel, still, even from my own family. How I find myself unwilling or unable to trust—the good times, the peace, or myself.
And I’d tell her that even after everything she’s done to me, after all the pain, the fear, the violence, the physical and emotional wounds she’s inflicted on me, I still have love for her. And then I’d tell her that I hate myself for that. Hate myself for not being strong enough, for allowing her to hurt me, for not being able to withstand her, for not ever being enough for her.
I could tell her that I haven’t shed a single tear—not one—in ten years, even after she broke over twenty bones in my body, even after she left me fighting for my life, and even after the abuse finally, finally ended because I’ve been conditioned—programmed—to shove pain deep down inside me.
I yearn to tell her how desperately I just wanted her to say, “I’m proud of you. Good job… I love you.”
But as much as I want to say all these things to her, as much as I want her to feel even just one iota of the pain I’ve felt growing up, I know it won’t change a damn thing. Pouring my heart out, making myself vulnerable to my mother once more, will accomplish nothing. It won’t change my mom or the way she sees me. She won’t ever look at me as anything other than a mistake, a failure, a worthless screwup who should’ve never been born. It won’t erase the past or undo the pain. It won’t stop the nightmares, the anxious thoughts, the doubt, the fear, the uphill battle I fight every day.
Telling my mom that all I ever wanted was for her to love me won’t save me. Nothing and no one can. Not my family, not my friends, not even Cat. I know that now. I have to do that myself. I will do it myself.
I break the eye contact with my mom and turn my attention back to Darren Cooley.
“Nothing,” I say simply.
“Nothing?” I think I detect the slightest smile in his eyes.
“Nothing.”
The attorney nods. “Thank you, . I know this was hard today. I have no further questions, Your Honor.” He turns around and takes a seat in his chair.
I close my eyes, noting their sting. I’m wiped out, completely drained, and the prospect of having to go through hours of cross-examination, of being attacked, accused, and made to defend myself is almost unbearable. I just don’t know how I’m going to muster up the strength, how I’m going to stop myself from submitting just like I did anytime my mom hurt me.
“Mr. Halbrocken?” the judge says to the defense attorney who stands from his chair, buttoning his suit jacket like he’s getting ready for battle.
“No cross-examination of the witness, Your Honor,” the attorney says.
It takes me a second to register the meaning of his words. He’s not going to question me. There won’t be an attack. I’m done. I did it. It’s over.
Holy shit. It’s over.
“You’re excused,” the judge tells me.
I slowly stand, my body fatigued, muscles aching with tension. I’m met by the bailiff and am ushered out of the courtroom, Rachel walking close behind me.
I don’t make eye contact with my mother and even find myself unable to look for Cat in the crowd as I’m led back to that small room from earlier. I’m afraid of what I might find in Cat’s eyes. I’m afraid I’ve lost her.
***
My head is swimming, adrenaline crashing. It’s so damn quiet in here, so damn quiet in my head, yet noisy at the same time. It’s over. It’s all over. But… now what? I had hoped it would feel better, that I’d feel relieved, lighter maybe, but for some reason it doesn’t feel better. It doesn’t feel better at all. Instead, it feels like I’m cracked all the way open, fresh blood spilling from old wounds, revictimized, reinjured by having to relive every painful memory—not in isolation, safely locked away in my head, but out loud. I had to remember it, I had to say it, I had to hear it and see it. Everyone knows now. They all know! They know everything. And worse: I remember everything.
Before today, I had significant gaps in my memory, and a lot of what I did remember—especially from my younger years—was hazy. It was a survival mechanism—shoving the trauma into the deepest, darkest corners of my subconscious—but it’s all been brought to the surface during the past several, long hours. It’s overwhelming me, threatening to bury me like an avalanche.
My heart doesn’t want to calm down, beating fast and loud in my chest. What am I supposed to do now? Start over? From what? I have no foundation. All I’ve ever known is how to survive. I don’t actually know how to live. I’m dizzy, the room is too hot. No, actually it’s too cold. I feel adrift, unanchored, yet weighted down as I begin pacing.
Rachel’s voice wafts through the space, barely audible. “?”
I can’t seem to regulate my breathing. It’s shallow and quick, my chest heaving while my heart feels like it might explode. Fuck, Ran, calm down. I have to ground myself.
“, are you alright?” I hear her again. But she’s too far away. Her voice barely registers, walled off by the building panic, the anxiety, that sensation of free-falling.
It’s just me in a world of pain. But the pain isn’t physical in nature. It’s my soul, my being that’s hurting. It’s two-year-old who got pushed down the stairs; four-year-old who got choked until he passed out; six-year-old who was told how worthless he was; seven-year-old who got punched in the face until his left eye swelled shut; thirteen-year-old who had to lie about how he broke his elbow; fifteen-year-old who sought meaningless sex to feel wanted for a few minutes; sixteen-year-old who was forced to play a contact sport while suffering from a concussion so bad that he threw up for three days straight. And it’s seventeen-year-old who fell so desperately, deeply in love with a girl he thinks he can’t ever be enough for because all his life he was made to believe that he’s nothing. Unwanted. Unworthy. Unloved.
I was wrong. I can’t do it. I can’t save myself. After all, I’m nothing.
I am nothing.
The room closes in on me. My chest is tight, lungs unwilling to expand. I can’t breathe and it’s making me frantic. I’m just aware enough to know that I’m spiraling, but too far gone to stop it.