Page 85 of Breathe Again

“I am,” he asserted.

I shook my head; I didn’t feel safe.

“I thought you’d be warm. I thought you would love me.” Usually, these thoughts echoed only inside my head. The drinks loosened my tongue.

“I do,” his voice was deep, firm.

My voice hitching, I continued, “I wanted to explore with you, roll around with you, have all the different types of sex with you.” I tapped my fists against my temples with every point I wanted to make, “drunk sex, sleepy sex, make up sex, celebration sex, laughing, happy sex, tender loving sex, fucking sex, quickie sex, marathon sex, but all you have are excuses and you have them ready all the fucking time!”

My voice rose on those last few words. I whirled around and grabbed my robe from the back of the door.

“Mara, come to bed…”

Tears, tears that had been hovering since Wednesday broke free and coursed down my face. “I can’t ever approach you, Zee. You’re not safe.” I threw my hand out toward him, scoffing. “You’re not mine. You belong only to you.”

I spun, frantically, toward the door. I wanted to throw something. I felt my fists in my hair before I caught myself. I pulled it back into a ponytail in my hand to cover what I’d been about to do and fled from our room.

He didn’t follow. He never did.

When I got like this, he didn’t want to be anywhere near me.

I didn’t blame him. I was a monster. Too needy, too clingy, too emotional, too aggressive, not calm enough, not slim enough, not pretty enough, not enough, never fucking good enough.

I locked myself in the main bathroom and slid to the floor. I rested my forehead on my bent knees, my hands clasped behind my neck, breathing through the anguish of his rejection. It would be days now before he would touch me. Days.

I remembered how I pushed him to get engaged, how badly I wanted to get married when he was content to wait. There was nothing I’d wanted more than to start our lives together. I pushed him into it. I should never have pushed.

I dug my nails into the back of my scalp when suddenly a picture of Olivia came into my head. I needed to do better. For Olivia at least.

“Ice. I need ice.”

I left the bathroom and tiptoed to the kitchen, afraid now that he’d follow me and witness my insanity. I got two cubes of ice and held them in my fists over the sink until they burned. I did not let go until the last drop of frozen water leaked through my fingers.

I did it. I could breathe. I was desperately sad, but the pain was dulled, and I could breathe. I went back to the bathroom and took off the ridiculous negligee and covered myself back up in my fluffy robe. I picked up the crumple of lace and satin, ripped the delicatematerial at each seam and stuffed the pieces into the garbage. I slipped into Olivia’s bed and slid in and out of sleep for the next five hours before I gave up, got up, and made coffee.

As per usual, when Zale got up, he acted as though nothing happened, and I remained unseen as always.

Zale

He wasn’t sleeping now. For fuck’s sake. He couldn’t say no to her without a fucking consequence. They’d had such a good night. They got home late. He thought he’d proven to her in Stratford how much she did it for him, but he realized it would never be enough. Every misstep, every denial, every time he failed to pay attention, he would pay.

He punched his fist into his pillow and lay back to wait for her to come back. Maybe he could smooth things over, cuddle her close, and get some sleep. He’d planned to make love to her in the morning, before picking up Olivia.

Despite his best intentions, he fell asleep within minutes and when he woke up the next morning she was already up having coffee. She didn’t look like she wanted to talk about anything. She avoided his gaze, and he didn’t mention anything.

Biology

Mara

Every day is a test of my will.

Do I have what it takes to go through the motions, hopefully create a bit of happiness for Olivia, be supportive of Zale, find a bit of peace, escape the pain, make it to bedtime. Sex, maybe. My only source of peace. My only path to temporary oblivion. My dependence on Zale to give it to me, but he doesn’t, not nearly often enough. Dig my nails into my thighs. Think about cutting, where could I hide it? I want to take a knife and slice my chubby arms into ribbons.

Iget ice instead.

I hate myself.

Over the next few days, I dove into my DBT book, reviewed my notes from my therapy appointments, wrote out lists of soothing activities and distracting activities, things that might help with distress intolerance.

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