What We Do To Survive

{This story includes mentions of abuse and mental health struggles related to it.}

It takes 3 months to develop a habit. Sometimes those habits are taught to you, like how a teacher has you format your essay or a parent has you clean your bedroom. Sometimes those habits develop naturally. The way you sort your pens by color or the route you take to work. Sometimes… Sometimes those habits—routines, if you will—are born from necessity and survival. And it’s not something you can see coming. It starts with checking the locks once. Maybe twice. But as things continue to spiral out of control that one time before bed becomes four.

And sometimes, when trying to start a new habit, you make a mistake. And I made a mistake. A big one. I didn’t make sure he wasn’t hiding somewhere outside the building. I was supposed to circle the building.

I don’t know how to fix this.

These hiccup-sobs were coming from her. Choked off and dangerously close to desperate. Sarah keeps moving from window to window, muttering the same things over and over again and reminding herself of what to look for. The car her ex used to drive. A private investigator who had died in a car accident 4 years ago.

“Sarah?”

“XDG276”

“Baby?”

“Dent in the bumper on the right side.”

I feel useless just standing here and watching her. Window to window. A wild look in her eyes as Sarah scans every face that passes below. Searching for that face. Those pink and yellow nails are digging into the fabric as she grasps the curtains.

She warned me about this once- about how she is. How fear has messed up how she lives. The guy’s name was Benjamin. He was everywhere. At the store, in her home, at her job. Always just out of sight but still there. Sarah would find pictures under her door of everything she did. A few would have red marker across her neck. Just the ones where she is seen talking with another man. Benjamin had broken in more times than she can count. One time he managed to put her in the hospital.

I need to get someone. Leaving her alone like this just to start the routine over isn’t an option. There is an emergency contact list somewhere, I think. Sarah said something the second time I came over. So I go into the kitchen.

“Daniel!?”

“I’m not leaving. I’m going into the kitchen.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Ok. Just be quick. Please. I can’t be alone when he could be outside.” The way her voice cracked killed something in me. Something heavy sits on my heart. Guilt mostly. I look around that tiny kitchen for the paper. I’m lucky to find it quickly. It’s on the fridge while being held up by a magnet shaped like a ball of yarn. Not too far away from it was a cat magnet made to look like it was playing with the ball. Cute.

On the paper, the words are bubbly and lively and in a sparkly purple pen. It just lists her father and her therapist. I don’t think a therapist can legally come to a patient’s house, so it looks like I am finally going to meet her father.

The phone rang for a long time. In fact, the call almost rang out when a voice answered on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hi— Is this Sarah’s dad?” The voice was so quiet that I thought he had hung up. I had to pull the phone away just to check that it was still going. “Hello?”

“Who is this?” There was something in his voice. It was low and distrustful. It makes sense, though, if Benjamin was good at finding people. Calling people Sarah knows is something a private eye would do.

“I’m Daniel. I’m her boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Yeah. I had been coming to see Sarah and I… I forgot a step. I didn’t do everything I was supposed to. Now she is stuck in this spiral.“ There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“I will be there in five minutes. Don’t leave her alone in the house.” And the man hung up before I could respond. So I put my phone away to join Sarah in the living room. She is still going.

It starts in the bedroom with the window that faces the park. Trees and pathways and people. Mostly children. Then it moves to the living room with the two windows that face the parking lot. Left one first, then right. Next, Sarah paces behind the couch 7 times. After that she checks those windows again but goes right to left. Repeat. The whole process takes about 4 and a half minutes. A painful amount of time for someone who is just waiting.

Then Sarah freezes. The only sign of movement left is her braid that lightly swings. She is a lioness, watching something approach her home. A safe space. And I count the minutes.

One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Her head moves while whatever—whoever—she is looking at comes towards the building. It’s a steady speed, which means the person is walking. I think that’s a good sign. It’s so quiet in the apartment that I think we both have stopped breathing. Her knuckles are still white. It feels like they are paler against the blackout curtains.

The curtain rods are worn from where the rings keep being pulled open and closed. The carpet seems to have a worn path from how often it’s been walked. The couch being in the center of the living room makes everything feel more cluttered. There is no coffee table, though. She won’t get one.

But slowly, as time passed, the tension eased from her shoulders. Minutes felt like hours, and everything felt so slow. That’s when Sarah finally left the window. Just standing by the door while both of us waited. It finally clicks that her dad must be here. Which means he finished circling the building.

Again the time passes through like tar. There is a moment where I wonder why he would still wait the ten minutes to come up. He walked around the building like he was supposed to, and it fixed the routine.

But that’s not the point, though, is it? It's not about how many times you walk around or what direction you go. It’s a habitual pattern that the mind needs to be calm. Sarah doesn’t just need someone to walk around. She needs the whole thing done again the right way. It’s the only way for her mind to let go of that fear. Not quite OCD—although there is a very small possibility. Something more primal. The need to survive.

Knock knock knock knock knock

I watched Sarah close her eyes and count to three, lips moving but no sound coming out.

Knock knock knock knock knock

Then she finally unlocked the three deadbolts. Finally. I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I had been holding. It was finally finished. But the relief was short-lived as my guilt came at me. That heavy, hot feeling that sits there and burns everything around it.

“Daddy.”

“Hi Sarah. I’m here.”

“He was outside.”

“I know he was.” Mr. Jones lied.

“I’m sorry.” Both of them looked at me. “I got so excited to tell you about my promotion that I forgot.”

“So you are Daniel.”

“I am. I know Sarah wanted to wait for us to meet, but I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to leave her alone like this.”

“Well, you did the right thing calling me. Since I am here, how about we all sit and get to know one another?”

While we get comfortable, I watch Sarah closely. The way she leans into me despite what had just happened helps heal the burning in my chest a bit. That doesn’t mean the guilt has gone away. I don’t think it ever will. What had happened today was the very core of a survivor’s routine.

Like I said. It takes three months to develop a habit or routine. The same thing every day without fail. That’s what helps the body remember what to do. And I can only hope that Sarah will still give me time to finish my three months so that I don’t make a mistake like this again.