Don’t Look at Me

People question my recovery all the time. It is a difficult thing to comprehend, I suppose, the psychological damage that can be inflicted upon a brain. People assume that I’m just “dwelling” and that I should “move on.” They have no idea how pervasive the damage is after years of abuse. A bruise may heal in a week, a broken bone in a month, but a mind? A heart? A soul? It’s not that easy.

Not that I haven’t tried. My life would be infinitely easier if there was a 1–2–3 instruction sheet for recovering from psychological abuse. I’ve read countless webpages, research studies, advice columns, everything I can get my eyes on, for that one magic trick that will take me from recovering to recovered. It doesn’t exist. Which royally blows, to put it lightly. Addiction gets 12 steps. PTSD gets “do the work” but the work is different for everyone.

Just to give a shred of insight, today I couldn’t look my cashier in the eye, couldn’t even look at his face. I’m not autistic, I haven’t been this way my whole life or anything like that. I know that it’s socially expected and respectful to look someone in the eye. But most of the time I can’t do it. I have to do the work on something that I used to do naturally. Something that most people would not realize is part of my recovery.

I remember the huge, blow-out fight very well. My pulse quickens and my stomach clenches when I think about it, but I’ve got to do the work, right?

We’d been invited to dinner by some friends. I use the term “friends” loosely, since these people had zero loyalty at all to me. They were his friends, and I was his pet, I mean wife. Anyway, they invited us over. She made pork ribs in the crockpot, and we brought a variety case of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. We ate, we drank, we played cards, and we talked. At one point the boyfriend and I got off on a quick tangent but quickly went back to everyone talking together. It was unexceptional, and I certainly wouldn’t have remembered the moment if not for the verbal attack I received for it from G. The moment we walked outside, he exploded at me.

“You’re a fucking slut. Don’t think I didn’t see you gazing into his eyes! You’re disgusting. Do you even care how upset Alicia was? Of course not. That’s exactly why no one likes you. You don’t have any friends. You think you’re going to steal her boyfriend? You think my boy would do that to me? Fuck you, fucking trash. Fucking whore, just like your sister.”

I’m trying to buckle my toddler into her car seat at this point, trying to just get the hell home. But when I don’t respond he starts screaming at me. His voice echoing off the houses and hills that surround us. I just want to go home.

“You’re insane,” I hiss. “You’re supposed to look at people when they speak to you, it’s polite!”

More screaming, louder and louder, worse and worse insults, goading me into matching his rage. Someone from a neighboring house comes outside. G tells them to fuck off, the noise ordinance isn’t until 10 . Because it’s totally acceptable to scream at your wife in the street as long as you aren’t breaking the noise ordinance. Totally logical. I try to get him to just get in the car. The baby needs to go to bed, I beg. But he just keeps raging at me. I finally break and scream back at him. I scream in my own defense, trying to demand that I be allowed to look at someone who is speaking to me without an absurd accusation of infidelity. Eventually his friend comes outside and asks if we heard people shouting. G says yeah, they just left. We get in the car. He looks at me with disdain and tells me what an embarrassment I am. What a horrible mother, screaming in the street like the white trash bitch I am, with my kid in the car, no less.

I tried to stand up for myself. I did. But he was angry at me for weeks and in the end it was easier to give in than endure his rage. The final nail in my coffin was that he took his side chick to their house. Utter humiliation. Ok, I’ll be good, I’ll just look at my hands…

To this day I’m still looking down. I struggle terribly to look at people when my anxiety is at its worst. I can’t even look at my therapist most of the time. She paints her toes red in the summer, and wears nice shoes. I stare at the window blinds, her desk. I can’t even look at her, let alone the cashier at Walmart. I get uncomfortable when my husband’s friends talk to me. My brain cries, stop looking at me! Someone might see you looking at me! Talk to someone else!

Occasionally, I’m able to have a normal conversation with someone, if my anxiety isn’t bad or Ive had a drink or two. On good days I can smile and chat with a stranger without wanting to die inside. I used to be bold, charming, talkative. Every summer I’d buy a season pass to the Renaissance Festival and spend my weekends dressed outlandishly, talking to anyone and everyone. I’d sit around a campfire at night with people I’d just met, swapping stories and laughing. I think that’s the hardest part of this PTSD journey- remembering who I used to be and not knowing if I can ever be her again. And remembering exactly how that part of me died. Remembering it so clearly and painfully that it’s like living it again. Having my own brain remind me, you mustn’t do that, you mustn’t act that way, what will people think? And replaying all the insults, driven so deeply into me that I’m not sure I’ll ever be free of them. This is why recovery is taking me so long. This is why I can’t look at you. Be patient with me. I’m doing my best.