Monster with Two Faces

 T/W: Mentions of childhood sexual abuse, disordered eating, and addiction. Please read at your own discretion.

I am not a monster.

She tries to persuade me every time I see her. The problem is, she doesn’t know me like I know me. She doesn’t know I have two faces. One, an angelic face acceptable to society. It’s the one I show her and everyone else. The other face, is an unsettling one, with the coolness of its dead grey eyes, and the chill of its lifeless skin. I keep it locked inside the most hidden parts of me. I can’t show it to the world. They won’t accept it.

“How are you doing today, Nicole?” She asks, as she sips her chamomile tea.

The smell makes me nauseous. I hate the smell of lavender. If not the lavender, it could be the honey. Whatever smell exists inside her cup making her so calm. My fingers itch to shatter the mug in her hands and watch her lose her composure. I detest the way she tilts her head. Mostly, I can’t stand the pity in her eyes as she uses her words to claw at my layers.

She wants to understand me. I want to understand why she wastes her time. I’ve spent years with myself and even I don’t know how I became this sick creature writhing in on itself in front of her. Actually, that’s a lie. It takes a monster to create a monster. Still, what happens when a monster wants to become human? I search her face like she holds the keys to my humanity. 

“I can’t complain,” I smile through my words, “Life treats me well enough.”

The clock ticks down on the wall like a slow dripping faucet, fifty eight minutes to go. She watches me watch the door. I imagine I look like a dog thrown in a tub for a bath. I need to be clean, yet, I watch the door because I hate the water. I watch it like my life depends on it. Any second the door will crack open with an escape from this horrible magnifying glass I’m under. I wait for more words to pour out of her like suds washing away the dirtiest parts of me. 

“Last time, we made real progress. I’m proud of you for sharing pieces of your past. It can be hard to share parts of yourself with a stranger.”

Her words irritate my nervous system, setting me on edge. I’m not sharing parts of me to make her proud. She speaks to me like I have a choice being here. I don’t have a choice. I am sick. I am so sick inside. Society says sitting on a couch is the answer to sewing my aching flesh back together into something that looks human.

“It isn’t hard, actually. When I talk about myself I don’t feel anything at all. It’s like talking about a stranger to a stranger.”

She takes another slow sip of her disgusting tea and pierces me with her eyes. They’re green with layers of yellow like a dying lawn on a hot summer’s day. Her legs cross in crisp pants, white like hospital walls. I stare with an empty feeling in my chest at her sandals. Her toes peak through the tops with a fresh red pedicure. Rich blond highlights color her hair, not a single strand out of place. She holds herself together with confidence and grace. I can’t help wondering what it’s like to love yourself like that. I can’t help wondering what it’s like to love yourself at all.

“Last time, we spoke about your uncle. Do you want to talk more about what happened?”

“How’s your boyfriend?” I ask. “Is he still out of town? Must be hard.” 

She takes the bait, “He should be back the first of next month.” 

We spend the next thirty minutes talking about the places he travels for work. She’s oblivious to the way I can bat around our conversations like a cat with a mouse. I can’t say why I waste these sessions like this. I can, but no one will like the answer. I waste them because I want help and I don’t want help. I want to pretend I’m putting in the work to be more human. Look at me, I am one step closer to being like all the other humans around me. I’m not an empty shell. I am not a monster. 

With ten minutes of our session left on the clock, I feel safe sliding over another dirty part of me for her to clean. My fingers tangle themselves in the grey fleece blanket on her couch while I choose my words. I won’t tell her the full truth. I’ll tell her half and see how she reacts. You never know with humans. They say they want to help you. They only want what’s best for you. In my experience, they will throw you under the bus the moment it serves them. I’m not condemning them, don’t get me wrong. How could I? I do the same thing and worse. Sometimes, I throw people under the bus for no reason other than because I feel like it. 

“I think I have an addiction,” I confess. 

Her response is safe and neutral, “A lot of people struggle with addictions. It takes a lot of courage to ask for help.” 

I rearrange my face into what I think looks like relief, “That makes me feel better.” 

Her lips are glossed over with rosy pink tint. I watch, fascinated with the way they glisten as she speaks. 

“What are you struggling with?”

I pause before I answer. I’m shifting through my memories of the night before. I’ve been seeing the same man for six weeks. His name isn’t important. I don’t bother too often with things like that. It lasted a little longer this time than it usually does. Thoughts of his hands on my thighs and his lips on my neck make me shiver. I consider how to tell this perfect blond woman in front of me how sex is the only thing that makes me feel anything at all. 

Six weeks before him, it was someone who only lasted ten minutes. Anthony, was it? We locked eyes in the elevator on our way to Biology. College campus was always deserted for our late night classes. He had dark hair and a lazy smile. His brown eyes lingered on mine a bit too long after the doors closed, and I knew. I closed the gap between us and slipped my tongue into his mouth. He tasted like strawberry pop tarts. He didn’t move for a moment and then, there he was, sliding warm hands up my dress like they had a right to be there. Men are like that. 

“I can’t seem to stop eating,” I confess. 

We have only a few minutes left of our session. She spends this time talking to me about how to sit with cravings. It’s all in one ear and out the other. She tells me when the impulses hit me, try to resist for as long as I can. If I can resist for one hour, resist for one hour. If I can resist for five minutes, resist for five minutes. I smile and thank her for the session. 

“You help me so much. I am grateful for these discussions. I can’t tell you how much you’ve done for me since I started seeing you for therapy,” I lie. 

I quickly shoot for the door. An hour of compassion, real or fake, is too much for me. It makes my skin crawl when people show things like affection or kindness. I wish she would tell me I’m disgusting. I long to hear her tell me I am a waste of space who can’t be saved. Anything, out of those perfect pink lips, resembling the truth. Instead, she wastes all our time with empty words as she tries to convince me I am not a monster. 

Hours after our session, I find myself with a strange man I don’t know. We had talked earlier on a dating app. He’s attractive enough, with a single dimple on his left cheek when he smiles, not that looks really matter much to me. I slide into a green Toyota Camry with a missing passenger mirror. It smells like cigarettes and old fast food bags.

“Baby you are so hot,” he tells me, as he paws at my thigh with his calloused fingers. 

I’ll be honest. There is a small part of me who wishes I would stop doing this to myself. I hate the way I give myself to anyone who asks. Yet, that’s the thing about addictions, even if you hate yourself for it, you can’t stop. I take his hand and slide it further up my skirt. I hear him breathe in deep and I can tell how much he wants me.

His car brings us to a gloomy looking house in a sketchy part of town. We are in a dark room that smells like sweat. Before I can blink, he is on me. His fingers are wrapping around my throat. He holds me down taking what he wants. His other hand is lost in my hair. He pulls it rough enough it stings bringing tears to my eyes. I want to scream for him to stop. I don’t. Like I told you before, I’m sick inside. I hold myself hostage and force myself to lay still. I won’t escape from this. I’ll stay until I learn to love it. If I were a bit more human, this would be nothing for me. I’d love it all the same ways all the other humans do. 

It’s only because I am a monster that I feel disgusting inside. 

The night sky is empty, abandoned by the moon, as we climb in the car for him to take me home. He tells me how captivated he is by my smile. How when he saw it for the first time, he felt like he was the only person left in the world. He asks me when he can see me again. I already know the answer as I climb from his car to the asphalt parking lot, glittering in the streetlight. The concrete stairwell swallows me into its many shadows and I am indifferent to the fact I’ll never see him again. 

Another week passes, and I am on her couch again, the Therapist. I can feel the bruises on my thighs. There are marks all over my body she can’t see even as I sit in front of her. It’s always like this. How often do we sit in front of another person’s eyes and they can’t see the wounds covering us? It makes me laugh. Part of me thinks I should confess. I don’t bother. You can’t tell someone about the wounds you inflict on yourself. Wasn’t I asking for it? 

“How are we doing this week, Nicole?” 

“I’m fine, how are you?” 

Small talk makes me gag. Even so, I’ve learned to play the game over the years. It’s empty when someone asks you how you are. They ask, yet I promise when you tell them what’s really beneath your surface, they will avoid you after. We’re all liars here. Monsters like me are more willing to admit the truth. Ironic, isn’t it? 

“How are the nightmares?” 

My body clenches at her words like she hit me. This is what I’m here for, I remind myself. I’m here to fix my disfigured mind, my malformed thinking, my disturbed existence. I’m here to become human again. 

“He was in them,” I admit. 

As soon as I say the words, he’s there with me on the couch. He tucks loose pieces of hair behind my ear and drags me back to our memories together.

“You’re such a pretty girl, Nicole. You know it don’t you?” 

I am ten years old again, and I nod. I love it when he makes me feel special like this. I am the only one he talks to this way. I mean so much to him. He places an innocent hand on my shoulder and then pulls with long fingers at the lace on my sleeves. 

“Do you like this dress I bought for you?”

“I love it,” I tell him, while I give the white lacy dress a twirl for his viewing pleasure. 

I never knew my dad, so this relationship is special for me. Uncle Dean always goes out of his way to do nice things for my sake. No one has to tell me how lucky I am to have him take care of me. He pulls me onto his lap where he tugs at my fly away curls, twisting their chestnut-colored locks in his hands. People tell him all the time what a cute little girl he has. They tell me I look like him. It’s almost as if I’m his daughter, and not his niece. 

“I’ve been thinking, Nicole. You are getting older now, and with what a pretty girl you’re turning out to be, we have some things to talk about.” 

I look at his eyes, a cold mixture of grey and blue, and hang on to his every word. I’ve noticed in the past the way people look at him when we go out together. His hair is blond and wavy in a way that compliments his fair skin. His shoulders are broad and the arms he holds me with are strong with thick muscles. He’s handsome. It’s not just me who listens when he speaks. It’s like the people around him can’t help it. His words are always captivating. His smile makes you feel like you are the only person in the world. I’m proud he belongs to me. 

“I’m worried boys will start giving you problems,” he frowns, and it crushes me.

I study his lips and wonder what’s wrong with me that boys will give me problems. I can’t stand the look of displeasure on his face. I’ll do anything to replace it with a smile. My fingers find the bottom of my dress where I tear at it helplessly. I can’t let myself be a burden to him, not when he took responsibility for a child who wasn’t his.

“I think it’s important for me to teach you how to handle them for when your older, don’t you think?” 

I nod, eager to cheer him up. 

“You’re a good girl, Nicole. I know you’ll do fine,” He leans in close to my ear with my curls still twisted in his fingers, “When you get older, men will expect you to please them. I don’t want you to worry. I’ll teach you how. I’ll teach you everything you need to know.” 

A voice startles me from my memories, “Nicole? Nicole, where did you go?”

I look up and see her, the Therapist. The one who is supposed to hold all the answers to my questions. The angel who tells me none of this is my fault, and how I am not the monster he made me. I smile towards her as if I had been here on the couch with her the whole time. I smile as if I don’t remember every single lesson he taught me. 

“Is everything alright?” Her eyes are concerned. “You have tears running down your face.” 

I lift a hand to my cheek and realize she’s telling the truth. I touch the wetness with fingers that don’t feel like my own. This happens to me all the time. I’m in my body, but I’m not. I don’t understand where the tears come from, either. After all, I am a monster. I’m numb. Whether I hurt others or make them laugh, I feel nothing inside me at all. 

“This is a safe place, Nicole. I’m here to listen.” 

I can’t help finding her words amusing. I’ve been to safe places before, you see. That’s where I discovered “safe places” are the most dangerous places of all. The places where you let down your guard, and trust the people around you, leave you vulnerable. Those kinds of places are where monsters live. You enter them and never know they’re watching you, waiting. They wait for the moments they can bury their claws into your flesh, taking things from you that you will never get back. Monsters are real, despite those who lack conviction. It’s only fools who believe in safe places. 

“Last night I sat on my kitchen floor and ate an entire cake,” I lie to her again, “I couldn’t stop myself. Don’t you think that makes me disgusting?” 

I can’t tell if her sympathy is real or fake. I can’t tell if she only has one face, the face she looks at me with. Or, if she too, has another one buried deep inside her. I study her cheetah print shirt and the gold hoop earrings underneath her straightened hair. I can’t tell if she’s human or if she’s another monster like me. We hide so well, sometimes, that we don’t even recognize the monsters deep inside ourselves. 

“Of course, I don’t think that,” she tells me. 

Her words offer me the smallest amount of relief. I feel myself relax for only a fraction of a second. It’s all I can ever relax after I turned into this creature. I give her my best smile. 

“You don’t think I’m a monster?” 

She reassures me she doesn’t. I slide out of her heavy wooden door after the rest of our session has passed and remind myself, she is a professional. If she saw a human without a beating heart in front of her, she would know it wasn’t human anymore. The fact that she doesn’t, it means there is still hope for me.

I am not a monster.