Page 399 of Rage

I thought he wasdifferent.

I thought I could let my guard down.

The first time he made me realize that our 3 year marriage was indeednotsafe was when he broke the lamp in our living room by smashing it onto the ground at my feet. I seized up in fear, and when he calmed down and apologized, I believed him. And then, I told him about the men at the center and what they did to me. At first, he held me while I cried. Apologizing profusely. Made an effort not to lose his temper. But then, it changed. He started using it against me, bringing it up in arguments and accusing me of not trusting him because of my past.

It was only 6 months after the first incident when he broke my nose and dislocated my shoulder.

I fought back and managed to knock him out with the toaster I ripped out of the wall as I ran into the kitchen, my fingers slicing against the coils as I brought it down on him. I packed a bag of my most important things: clothing, checkbook, and birth certificate. The one thing that kept me from being deported like my parents. I made a report at the police station and filed for divorce. I asked for nothing but my freedom from him, and his lawyers were more than happy to grant the change.

I haven’t seen him in 3 years, but I know he’s miserable.

I check.

I know it’s not healthy, but I do it because it makes me feel better.

I unlock the door to my apartment and throw my coat on a chair in the kitchen before putting my meds on the counter. The orange bottles look so jarring against the black-and-white tones of the room. But they are as necessary to my survival as the roof over my head, and I appreciate them more than I can put into words.

But I can’t just live off the pills, obviously.

So, how do I manage my crippling anxiety, depression, CPTSD, and borderline agoraphobia?

Well, like any sane person, I frequent sex clubs. It’s anonymous and safe. I don’t have to get to know anyone; I don’t have to open up or let my guard down. The clubs have security, so I know I’m protected. I can just go, fuck, and leave. I can use my body to try and forget what happened to me, to try and erase the feel of their hands on me. And to balance it out, I attend a Sexual Abuse Survivors support group each week. It’s the only time I feel comfortable enough to open up to anyone or hold a conversation.

We’re all survivors, so we understand each other. We share our stories, our struggles, and our triumphs. It’s the only place I can be completely honest about my past without being judgedor misunderstood. They get it when I say that sometimes I feel broken beyond repair, that I wish I could go back to save the little girl who endured so much and stop the young woman I was from getting married to yet another monster.

“You’re safe now, Mila,” Nancy, our group’s main therapist, says to me as we hug at the end of each meeting. Dr. Wilson always tells me that, and I nod and tell her I know.

But the truth is, Idon’tfeel safe.

I don’t know if I ever will.

Chapter Two

Beckett

Ican’t believe it’s been two years since I started coming here.

I spot Mila across the room, her eyes scanning the crowd as she picks her usual seat in the circle of chairs set up in the center of the room. She’s a lone wolf, that one. Keeps to herself mostly, but I see her. How could I not?

We’re both here at this Sexual Abuse Survivors support group, but our stories couldn’t be more different. I moved to New York to escape my past, leaving my father and the memories behind. I’ve found a way to make a life for myself here.

Mila, though, sheruns.

She’s always ready to bolt since that is what her experiences have taught her to do. She runs from her demons and tries to outpace them. I respect that. We all deal with our trauma in our own ways, and I would never judge her.

I’ve never intruded on her space, but I have to admit I’ve wanted to.

I would be lying if I said there weren’t several times my hand reached out towards her to lend a comforting touch before I clenched my fist and collected myself.

Maybe it’s how she holds herself or the fire I see burning in her eyes despite how tired she appears. Whatever it is, Iknow better than to push. We’re both damaged goods, after all. Sometimes, I wonder if she knows how beautiful she is. Not just physically, but the way she carries herself.

The way she survives.

“You okay, Beckett?” Dr. Wilson asks, snapping me back to the present.

I nod, feeling my face grow warm. I run a calloused hand through my short chestnut hair before responding, “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”

The group starts, and we share our stories one by one. Mila speaks, and her voice is steady, but her hands are shaking. She tells of her marriage, of the man who was supposed to love her but instead used her past against her. He took advantage of her love, her body, and her mind.

---