Chapter 1 #2
Replacing the brush in its holder, I plug in my purple hot brush that I use to straighten the frizziness out in the mornings before work, and turn it on, sighing yet again.
I wish I had a routine that was simpler.
Because right now, all I want is a warm shower to wash the night away and to go straight to bed without having to worry about my hair.
Ashamed, I keep my eyes averted from my reflection as I work by muscle memory to smooth my hair out with the hot brush.
I don't really want to look at this unrecognizable woman in the mirror.
She's not me.
Feeling like I'm having an out of body experience, I mechanically twist my hair into a thick bun at the top of my head. I ignore the painful twinging of my back smarting as I secure it all up the best that I can manage with a clip and turn to start the shower.
I return back to the vanity and look over my makeup stash, picking up the almost empty tube of light-mocha concealer.
Irritated, I frown at the realization that I'm going to have to buy yet another bottle as it's running low. I never can tell when Brandon is going to hit me lately, and I’d run through almost two extra bottles than normal in the last month and a half.
My muscles twitch with pain as I gently peel the torn dress off, dejected and upset.
I had such a good time singing at the lounge tonight despite the fact that the crowd requested me to sing a song that Brandon didn’t want me to.
Foolishly, I thought with him not being present for my performance tonight that'd it'd be okay for once to give the crowd what they wanted. However, because he’d been overbearing lately, he came to my performance when he’d gotten off work and I didn't know. It’s what set this whole thing off tonight.
Not that it was any excuse for him to beat me like this.
As a therapist who owns her own practice, I know that, and I would never advocate for any of my clients to stay in an abusive relationship. Ever.
Turning back to the shower, I place my fingers under the water before securing a plastic shower cap over my hair to protect it from getting wet, and step under the warm spray.
I moan quietly as the hot water seeps into my sore muscles, but the stinging of my abraded skin soon has me crashing back to reality.
Knowing I'm safe in the shower, I break, placing my head into my hands and letting myself cry. With nothing but the sounds of the water bouncing off the cap to accompany my sobs, the pain I feel on the inside swells high enough to match the pain I feel on the outside.
My shoulders droop under weight I don't think I'm strong enough to hold anymore.
Slowly sliding to the floor, I ignore my body screaming out in pain, lean against the white subway tiles and sob into my knees, knowing I need to get away from him. But how? I'm pregnant and have no family close by.
How am I supposed to leave?
Early the next morning, I lean into the bathroom mirror and wince, closing my eyes tight in pain as I work to dab concealer onto the discolored bruise on my jaw.
Pausing, I stifle a yawn against my palm before moving on to my eyeliner and fight to not blink.
Nervous I'd oversleep, I'd set my alarm for a half hour earlier than usual to give myself extra time to get ready.
But all I want to do is crawl back in bed, pull the covers over my head, and shut out the world.
I don't want to go to work, especially in pain like this and not feeling my best. However, if I don't, I'll lose clients, won't be able to pay my bills, and my reputation will be smeared.
At the end of the day, I need my job; I don't think I could rebound from a hit to my reputation.
Sniffling and trying to hold back tears, I try my hardest to blend it in well enough to prevent the bruise from showing through the concealer.
I turn my face this way and that, inspecting from all angles.
You could barely tell Brandon hit me across the face like he would a man, I did such a good job covering it up.
I blink again, my eyes stinging from all the crying I've been doing. Reaching into the medicine cabinet, I grab some eyedrops and put a drop in each eye, blinking against the initial sting.
I hate him.
I pull my hand back, wondering how bad it’d be if I was vindictive and ballsy enough to put a few drops in one of his drinks.
To pay him back for turning my life upside down.
Frowning and chastising myself at the intrusive thought, I put the vial back in the cabinet and then self-consciously squint at myself in the mirror.
For once I thank God for my good looks. Maybe it would help to distract the outside world from the bruises I'm sporting, or anything else out of order.
I don't want any of my clients suspecting that anything's amiss.
I pride myself on ruling over my little practice of three years with an iron fist. Wrapped in velvet, of course.
I take time to clean the vanity off before exiting the room to the bedroom I share with Brandon.
Eying the perfectly made bed, I bite my lip as my mind becomes awash with thoughts, unable to be still.
I’m in fight or flight mode as I attempt to think through every possible outcome of this relationship.
Sighing, I deflate, knowing good and well I'm going to have to financially figure out how to maintain my practice while going through an unexpected abusive relationship with no savings at twenty-eight years old.
I'm desperate and broke, initially having sunk all my hard-earned savings into starting up my therapy practice, finding a nice house in a middle-class neighborhood to rent out for my office space, and then building it up.
There hasn't been any wiggle room or to see a real profit in the last three years.
Not with all the extra financial strain I've been under.
Thankfully, I'm rather good at what I do and have clients galore, but I'm still barely breaking even every month.
I have just enough saved to get an apartment, but nothing else, and the thought of being left destitute terrifies me.
I'd just spent money on our living room furniture, and shortly after had found myself being the sole provider of the household.
Paying the majority of the bills and the mortgage has left me with few dollars at the end of the month.
I furrow my brow, thinking hard, contemplating my next steps.
In his current mental state, I'd doubt that Brandon will let me take the furniture or other items because he's not being reasonable right now.
I'm going to have to wait until he's at work one day to try and at least get the bed.
That's all I'll take. Something to lay on that way I won't have to crawl off the floor with a baby bump protruding.
"We got this." I smile, putting my hands to my stomach and rubbing gently.
Yeah…I don't want the house. No way I'd want to walk through the various rooms and see countless areas where he’d beat me until I was a sobbing mess on the floor.
Turning to walk out of the bedroom, I journey slowly down the hallway before pausing.
My eyebrows furrow when I spot the slight blood smear on the wall that I hadn’t been able to scrub out.
I briefly close my eyes against the memory.
Seven weeks ago Brandon grabbed me by the hair and slammed my head into the wall, making me smear blood on the light blue paint.
I hate the memory; it makes me feel sick. My face flushes as my eyes tear up from thinking about all the sacrifices I've made. I’d paid three grand to have the entire house painted not even two years ago, and there are at least six walls I know of stained with my blood.
Wanting to move on, I keep going, stopping at the picture of mom and dad.
The feeling becomes even more intense at the sight of my father.
I wrap my arms around my torso, staring into his gray eyes and wishing I could call him and tell him what's going on.
My dad is a stoic man who always hounded me for not wanting to be a lawyer.
Our relationship has been strained for years since I moved away to live my own dreams. He never got over the disappointment.
My eyes move over to momma, roaming over her dark skin and beautifully locked hair.
I get my short height from her. She tries to keep the peace between us, but even she isn't savvy enough to mend our bond.
It's so broken at this point I don't see how it'll ever be repaired.
I assess the picture quietly; they're standing locked in an embrace in front of the Eiffel tower on one of their many trips out of the country.
Oh how I wish I could tell you what's going on.
My breath hitches as I put a shaky hand to my cheek, wiping my tears away.
I linger in the hallway. My eyes move beyond my parents, landing on the picture of me and Brandon when we were on vacation in California visiting them.
They’d disapproved of Brandon because he wasn’t a lawyer like they wanted for me.
So, we ended the visit early and rented a small home near Venice beach where we spent the rest of the time surfing until we had to fly back home to Connecticut.
No, there's no way I can tell them. All they would do is say I told you so.
My fingers dig in my arms as I regard the picture I used to love.
Lingering on happy and carefree smiles as we held each other in front of the sunset.
My hair was curly after swimming, and that night as we were packing to leave, he’d asked me how long before I could make my hair straight again; it was the first time he'd ever had a complaint like that.
Hurt, I'd promptly locked myself in the bathroom and spent half the night self-consciously straightening my hair. That night messed with my confidence so deeply that I've never gone swimming with him again.
Blinking tears away, I reach up and take the frame off the wall and carry it to the sink. I place it into the empty basin, grab a mug, and smash it into the thin glass frame repeatedly until it cracks into a hundred pieces just like my heart.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I yell inside my head, hating that I ignored all the red flags.
Breathing hard, I pull out the picture and rip it into tiny pieces until it's as irreparable as we are; then, I toss the mess into the trash bin before calmly walking back to the bedroom.
I smooth my hand over my black dress, walk over to the long-sleeved cardigan tossed across the end of the bed and pull it on.
I don't mind that it's eighty-six degrees outside in mid-July.
People instinctively know therapists and social workers have a uniform: cardigans.
Though it looks odd in this heat, they’d never question me, and that stereotype sure comes in handy today. I need the fabric to conceal the bruises on my arms that I can’t let my clients see, as well as a nasty scratch on my shoulder that Brandon put there last week when he snatched me by my hair.
Heading to the front of the house, I grab my tumbler of ice water off the kitchen island, haul my tote bag over my shoulder, and make my way to my car.
I spend the half-hour drive to the office listening to my favorite guided meditation and park in my spot a cool forty-five minutes before the first session of the day.
Placing my forehead to the steering wheel, I take a second to pray for strength.
God, I really don't want to do this. I need to find a co-therapist who can help me out when I need to take a break.
Exiting the car, I promise to make that a priority as soon as I get a handle on my life.
And right now judging by the state of the grass in the yard alone, I better get a handle quick.
Feeling minutely better, I dig out my keys to let myself into the modest office space and inhale the scent of the only place that's felt like home to me.
The space instantly lifts my spirits, but I feel like such a fraud preparing for a day of pretending everything is okay when the sad reality of my life on the inside is…I am dying.