Spring had come to New Hampshire. Two weeks ago, the sun took his throne in the clear cerulean sky, and ripped the last vestiges of snow from the earth, revealing the brown scabs—caked with dust—left from winter. Green grass has already—tentatively—begun to cover the patches of bare brown. But even today, the earth—her wounds revealed—trembles under his probing stare.
Every spring, I gleefully strip off the heavy winter sweaters and scarves. Hats are replaced with headbands, and mittens, with bracelets. On the warm days, I relax outside in a bathing suit—reviewing organic chemistry—soaking the sun. Today, I left the house in my usual spring attire: a brightly colored tanktop, platform sandals, and a pair of dangerously short shorts. But it’s not about showing skin; it never was. After months of sweaters, tanktops are freeing. Walking through grass—dirt caking my toes—is pleasure. Under the winter coats, I am hiding. Under the spring sun, I am awake; I am alive.
When I show my skin, people ask about my scars. I don’t consider myself brave for the open display; I’ve never cared. During the winter months, no one notices. Over the years, the one on my forehead has become unnoticeable except for a slight discoloration. The marks on my hands are too small and inconveniently placed to spark the question. But the ones are my knees are large, these alien flaxen bulges plastered on saffron skin. Most give a cursory curious glance. Some ask. Most are polite. Some never bother with courtesy.
When Simon’s mother first saw me, she asked her son why he was dating a scarred woman. Simon, then, had the decency to be embarassed, and apologised profusely for his mother’s rudeness. I had let the matter drop, but I was not impressed. I was just judged by my physical imperfections, as if each scar devalued my worth. I was a breeding mare on the block, and the bidder just named my cost.
Simon’s own crimes came later. Though he readily accepted the physical marks of the car accident, he refused to acknowledge the mental and emotional wounds. Every insecurity had a reason; each one was a flaw; and all were examples of how weak I was. I was hysterical and overdramatic, not depressed and isolated during my first semester at Boston University. I was unreasonable because I wanted to see him regularly despite our busy schedules. I was inconsiderate, because I wanted to talk to my friends for clarity and support. I was this or that; but I was always wrong.
As the months passed, the list turned more vindictive. Many times, I tried to end the relationship, but he would do or say anything—horrible things—to make me afraid, to have me stay. The process was subtle. He spammed my voicemail and inbox, promising that if I were “good”, the abuse would stop. If I respected his requests—isolating myself from friends and family—only then would I be honest and trustworthy. Ending the relationship would be a mistake. Only he knew my problems, and only he could fix them.
Sadly, I believed him.
Six years later, the fear hasn’t gone away. When I was young, I was a loud, aggressive, opininated speaker. After the car accident, I was quieter, insecure from the injuries. After Simon, I kept most opinions to myself. He dismissed my feelings, implicitly—and sometimes explicitly—saying that I didn’t matter. When I did speak my mind, he would react violently, and harass my friends and family. I became afraid of what would happen if I decided to speak again. I was afraid of another Simon. I believed that my voice didn’t matter.
I was trembling when I revealed more of my abusive relationship to Byrnes. He knew the story, but I had not revealed the details. He listened closely. He was very sweet, giving me hugs while I cried. But then he said what one should never say to an abuse survivor, that another traumatic experience was much worse. Mine was bad, but hers must be so much worse. My trauma was isolated, but hers was public and involved so many more people.
I felt it again, that caged panic when someone removes my voice, so casually dismisses my feelings. Suddenly I was eighteen, and I was talking to Simon and his arrogant unsympathic smirk. I wanted to cry, to scream, to tell him that he was wrong. Trauma is trauma is trauma. My experience counts, too. Don’t tell me that someone else had it worse. Acknowledge me. Give respect to my past. But I only sat in disbelief as Byrnes rattled on. Fear overwhelmed me. I hid in silence.
A few weeks later, we faced each other digitally through our webcameras. I then did something very brave: I told him how I felt about what he said.
“It hurt,” I said, sobbing. “You hurt me.”
He didn’t tell me that I was crazy. He didn’t tell me that I was wrong. He didn’t tell me that I needed to fix my problems. He said, simply, “I’m sorry.”
It was exactly the right thing to say.
I’ve begun to write again. The words have been difficult. Phrases do not string together as easily as I thought they had. The gaping spaces between paragraphs are chasms, separating one thought from the next. I start and stop in frustrated fits; I’m afraid that I can’t fully express the thoughts whirling inside. My pen—or keyboard—had rusted from disuse; I had been silent for so long.
But I force myself to write. Every word strengthens me. Every sentence shapes my voice.
It had been a very long winter. I am alive.
