After I look out the bedroom window for her black Lexus, I run downstairs and pull all of the blinds shut. She can’t see in. But she can still get in through the garage. The combination is my birthday and I should change that but I don’t remember how. I gotta figure that out.
I check the door that leads to the garage. We’ve taped the lock so that the kids won’t accidentally turn the lock and now I gotta tear the tape off as fast as I can and I’m fumbling with the tape and it won’t move and if she opened the door right now I couldn’t stop her. Wait. Slow down, I whisper. Go slow, methodical, and find an edge. I feel beneath the knob and pull at a shred of the thick, clear tape and I feel the fear pressing in as fast as I can push it away but no, I whisper, just pull it slow.
And I do. I rip off a shred and then more tape, until I can turn the handle from vertical to horizontal. It’s locked. I’m safe for the moment. Yet I am the hunted, not the hunter.
Once the doors are secured, I tiptoe upstairs, locking the bedroom door behind me. If she wanted to get it, she could. Anyone can open the bedroom door with a sharp edge, like a credit card or a quarter, but I need the extra fake security that the cruddy lock gives me. I need it even though I know it’s not real security. What’s real anyway? My fear is real.
I take the hottest shower I can take. That’s what I did as a teenager. I locked that bathroom door and turned the water as hot as it would get and I hid behind the shower curtain for as long as the hot water stayed hot enough to shield me from the coldness that only fear brings.
I dry off and before I grab my keys, I peer into the cabinet at the Hershey’s chocolate. I think about eating the chocolate. I don’t deserve it. Maybe I should take them anyway, for later. So I grab two little bars and pack them in the car with me, to eat later. Maybe then I will feel safer.
I start up the crossover at the exact moment I hit the garage door opener. I don’t want to chance it. What if she’s parked right in front of the door? What if she brought a gun? And what if the garage door got stuck before it opens more than an inch or so, enough to ventilate the garage . . . what if I die from carbon monoxide poisoning? In the second it takes the garage door to engage and rise, I calculate my odds of surviving the carbon monoxide and I know, I really know, that’s paranoid. Maybe less than one percent, I muse, checking the rear view mirror before I reverse out of the driveway.
I drive familiar streets that look and feel unfamiliar. I’m not sure where I am but I know I should know where I’m going. And then I taste a bit of chocolate and remember that I’m on my way to my therapist’s office.
A little later, I’m sitting on her sofa and I tell her about the chocolate. “I know it’s crazy, but I didn’t feel like I deserved it, you know?”
She nods and thinks. “I bet you feel like you don’t deserve to ask him for help, do you?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No. I don’t deserve that.”
“Or to ask the principal for help.”
I laugh and shake my head.
She nods again. “That’s the point we need to get you to—where you deserve to eat the chocolate. You deserve to feel pleasure. You deserve to feel safe.”
I look down at my knee, which clicks every time I straighten my leg. “That’s another problem with the chocolate. It reminds me of the good times, when we ate chocolate together. I got that from her. We both like chocolate, you know?”
She nods again, and I pause and gather myself. “And then the image rolls, like in a movie, image after image, and another image comes. Then he’s shoving the chocolate down my throat, and choking me, and I can’t breathe, and no one is helping me. She doesn’t stop him. And all I was trying to do was have a piece of chocolate.”
Her gaze shifts as I’m talking. She hides her shock; she brings her professional reserve into the room but I saw the momentary hurt, and it does hurt. I know it hurts because as I’m talking I can almost taste the chocolate.
“All I wanted was to taste the chocolate—to feel safe enough to taste the chocolate.”
She folds her hands together. “What if, for thirty seconds, you felt safe enough to taste the chocolate?”
“Thirty seconds?” I grinned. “Baby steps?”
Her eyes crinkle up. “Baby steps. Let’s start with thirty seconds.”
Baby steps. I can do that. I can keep going, one foot after another, until it gets easier. Because I know there’s light. There’s light at the end of the tunnel.
There is a great deal of chocolate consumption that can take place in thirty seconds. It is worrisome though, the idea you would ever associate something this good with something so terrible.
I wish I could hug you.
I wish I could hug you too, Val. I read your comment right after I posted this, and man, you made me smile. Thank you for caring, my friend. I love you.
If this were fiction I would call it brilliant.
Thank you so much dear Lisha! xo.
My heart hurts so badly for you right now. I was choking with you This is so unbelievably awful. Oh how I wish I could have magically flown in and rescued you from the monster. I want to hold yoiu tightly and tell you it will be alright baby, it will be alright. Poor sweet little girl.
Aw Sandy, thank you, thank you so much. I’ll take those hugs right about now. And thank you for telling me that it will be alright. That makes me smile–and I believe you. Stay well, and thank you!
oh my……….this brings up that pain I get right in the back of my throat when i’m trying not to cry, but i can’t swallow it down.
I know that pain all too well, Teresa. A quiet smile for you this Friday morning, and thank you so much for reading.
This is such a heart-rending tale that I do not know if I should compliment you on your superb narration skills or tell you how much this moved me, and horrified me at the same time.
Thank you so much, friend. I know what you mean, and I’m really grateful for your kind words.
Lots of love, El, and take that 30 seconds, turn it into 60, and eat all the Hersey’s chocolate you can, girl.
So much love coming from my heart to you….and BTW, Hersey’s is my absolute favorite. 
XOXO-SWM
SWM: aw, thank you so much my friend! I promise–lots of chocolate, especially old-fashioned Hershey’s chocolate! Much love coming right back your way!! xoxo ~el
Wow and I love you. Don’t make me elaborate this time. Just know I think you are so freaking brave and I love you. Try a nice, dark, chocolate…at least 70% cacao. You deserve every good thing imaginable. Every single one.
And I love you, dear friend. You deserve everything good imaginable too. We’ll get it all figured out. We will. xoxo
You betcha we will! Xoxoxo
This is something I wonder about a lot. How much of the past do we actually leave behind, and how much of the past is stuck with us forever? It’s good for you and your children that you stay away. (It would be better if she also stayed away.) Good luck El. And you definitely deserve all the chocolate you can stomach.
I wonder about that as well, my friend. I keep thinking that I want to leave the pain behind me, and yet I hold onto the pain as well, and I wonder why . . . but I’ll get it figured out. It sure does help to know that I’m not alone, you know? Thank you so much for your kind thoughts!! xo ~el
Such a touching, heart-felt post, El. Ironically, I just finished typing up a post on the benefits of desserts (and risks of related guilt) for tomorrow. It’s nothing near as poignant as this… I just find it fabulous that we’re on a similar page.
You are SO INSPIRING! Thank for this wonderful-as-chocolate post.
Thank you so much, August. I can’t wait to read your post on chocolate –all things considered, I still adore it (grin). And I’m still smiling at the picture you posted yesterday of you playing the guitar outside. Now *that* is living! Have a lovely day!
Words fail me.
I’m hugging you in my heart.
Big hugs back atcha Lady Q.
I could taste the fear El – sending hugs your way beautiful flower : )
Aw thanks love!
I love you so much El <3 Baby steps is a brilliant. There is no way 30 seconds would be a baby step for me to have someone touch me but maybe 5. Thank you for the idea and I'm sending you so much love. It's hard when people put a negative connotation on good times
xxxx
I love you too Alex!! I’m grinning–I’d take five seconds too!! xoxo
Hey there my friend. I’ve been really out of pocket lately … I’m no good right now at juggling this blogging and novel-writing thing … will share more with you offline, but i wanted to stop by and say that this post really made an impact on me. It also helped give me an better understanding about the evil that you have literally risen from. Really, you’ve literally risen from the ashes, like a beautiful Phoenix. Live on, my friend. Live on!
I understand, my friend! Drop me a line or call me!! xoxo
What dare I even hope say to this, save bravo? There is light, some of which shines–I can see so clearly from here–from within you.
Aw thanks so much my friend!
El, the heartbreak of child abuse just took on a new and more terrible meaning to me. Last night I was talking to my grown daughter, who is visiting my grown son and his daughter, who just turned 15. My daughter old me that my 15-year-old granddaughter, who is 4 months pregnant, has not yet told her dad/my son, for fear of what he will do to her, and to her 17-yr-old boyfriend, the baby’s father. My daughter (who is 37, college-educated, and very bright and awesome) told me last night that “it’s an abusive situation.”
I asked my daughter what she meant. Has my son been abusive to his daughter? “Yes,” my daughter said. “When he gets really mad he sometimes hits her, punches her, he has dragged her by her foot across the floor, and twice he put his hands around her neck.”
I freaked out. El, my husband and I live almost 2,000 miles away. We haven’t the money to go there now and even if we did have, we have no legal right to snatch my pregnant granddaughter away from my 41-year-old son. I have no choice but to call Child Protection Services. He is my son. But I have no choice.
I want to curl up and die. But I can’t do that because I have to protect my granddaughter.
I told my daughter that this is what must be done, and NOW. It should have been done as soon as my son’s physical abuse of his daughter first came to light! But my daughter, strong-willed as she is, always trying to make things go a certain way, she tried to talk me out of it. This is her brother, this is my eldest son, she (my daughter) is working on getting the 15-year-old out of there, with the help of the girl’s mother, who is my son’s former girlfriend. My daughter said that if I call Child Services, they will “take over” and then we, the family, will “lose all control” of what happens, they may force her to give her unborn child up for adtoption, and so on and so on and so on… my daughter wanted me to listen to a bunch of horror stories she has heard about what happens when Child Protection gets involved. But damn it! They (the law) may be far from perfect but at least they will not strangle my granddaughter!
And what will my volitile son do when he finds his daughter is pregnant? Oh my God this is about to kill me. I LOVE my son. He has never been quite right since he had a bad head injury when he was a teen. He is intelligent, holds down a job, loves his daughter (I thought!), but his moral compass got skewed it seems, and especially his ability to control things like ANGER. I ache for him, I love him unconditionally, I would lay down my life if that would make him all NORMAL again. I want to hold him in my arms and comfort him. But my minor granddaughter and her unborn child are the ones who need protecting right now.
My heart feels shattered.
You can do this, Lady Q. It ain’t pretty and it ain’t easy. But you know what? Your son NEEDS help. He needs it just as much as your granddaughter and your daughter in law need it. It’s very, very unusual for CPS to take away anyone’s kids . . . especially with a non-abusive mother. Your son needs help to control his anger, and that unborn baby, well, someone has to look after his or her welfare. And yes, my heart would feel totally shattered as well, dear friend. But you can do this, and you’re right–it’s what you gotta do.
My e-mail is farrisburke@cox.net. Keep in touch.
Stay strong Lady Q.
Thank you so much, El. You are golden. I’m saving your email address.
It’s been a hugely painful day, but I did it. I called the Child’s Protection agency in the state where they live and made a report. One of the all-time hardest things I’ve ever done.
I notice you have “Complex PTSD” as one of your search terms on this post. I have PTSD, too. also the Complex variety. I’ll tell you more in an email, later. Not up to emailing right now, my head is unplugged.
((HUGS)) Dear Friend
Big hugs to you too, dear friend. Yes, yes, complex PTSD–sigh. Just–yes. And more hugs to you. I can imagine–or at least try–how crazy hard that must have been today. Ugh. I am sending my love and support and a tired smile. E-mail me anytime. xoxo
Wow. I was gripped! You know those times when you are reading, and the suspense is killing you, so you want to jump to the end (for me, it’s to make sure everything is safe)… yet you are also enjoying the thrill and don’t want to spoil it? That was me, just now. I have to say I usually spoil it, but not with your writing El. Powerful. And so real that I feel safe, safe enough to sit with you through the suspense, and through the memory. I sit with you, and I thank you.