Brush Out The Snags

Wow. It was still there. Right where I left it. The angle of the handle, the hairs in the bristles of the brush, even the darkened smudge of dried blood on the edge of the sink that my traitorous knuckle had left. I look in the mirror and mentally superimpose my current reflection with the memory of my wide eyes, flushed face, and tangled hair from the last time I stood here. I feel like a thousand years have passed between then and now, but it’s only been one. One year since the day the crack opened and the light shined in. One year since I stood here brushing my hair so hard that my scalp screamed. One year since that tiny, timid voice spoke up from the very back of my manic mind. I snatched those words up and hid them, only bringing them out to examine in the darkest parts of the night, when no one was studying my face for signs of independent thought or analyzing my words for traces of rebellion. Those words, beaten out of me since childhood both literally and figuratively, were my most precious and dangerous possessions for the last year. Every time I doubted myself, felt guilty or crazy or lost, those words reminded me. When everything settled down and went back to normal, when I was too lazy or scared to keep making preparations and moving forward, those words kept me honest. Those words had brought me here, to this cabin, looking in this mirror for the last time.

I don’t need him.

Simple, innocuous, obvious, yet powerful. Until that very moment, the idea that she could be okay without him had never occurred to her. Embarrassing as it was, she had started dating him while she still lived with her parents, and she had moved right in with him to save money, at least that’s what he told her. No reason to get your own place when we’re planning to move in together anyway, you’re so anxious that you’d be lonely, you spend most nights at my place anyway; it made sense at the time. Maybe it didn’t make sense, but nothing made sense back then, so it was just one more uneasy feeling stuffed down into her tailbone, one more tiny self-betrayal, so common that they didn’t even register anymore.

I don’t need him.

Sure, maybe my life will look different. Maybe I won’t live in such a nice part of town. Maybe I’ll have to work a little more. Maybe I’ll have to stop going to hot yoga and ordering takeout every night. Maybe I’ll have to learn how to say no to one or two or all of the destination weddings. Maybe my life won’t be as full and as rich and as satisfying because I’ll be poor and alone.

But I won’t die.

That second thought, more fragile than the first, but echoing from a deep fear. An aching terror that she’d carried in her bones since childhood, the knowledge that she could not care for herself, that she was small and weak and helpless, and that the darkness was full of eyes and teeth that would tear you apart if they could. She had always known unconsciously that if she were left alone, she would die. She had been sure of it. And her parents made sure she knew it; they made sure she was properly afraid of being abandoned. She had been a willful child, and almost nothing could make her obey. She didn’t fear losing toys or privileges; she wasn’t bothered by being put in time-out. She ignored admonishments meant to shame and guilt her into compliance. She had never been interested in conforming to the wishes of her caregivers. But it didn’t take them long to learn what she did fear: the teeth in the darkness. Even the slightest hint of abandonment would send her into such anxiety that she would rush in a panic to restore the connection and the safety, no matter the cost to her pride.

And so it came to be that by the age of two that her parents almost exclusively managed her behavior by emotionally withdrawing from her when she was bad, and showing her affection when she was obedient. She quickly learned that it was up to her to decide and manage how well her parents cared for her, because her behavior determined their moods. She knew that if she didn’t listen in the afternoon, there might not be dinner that night. She knew that hugs and kisses were reserved only for children who could do what their parents needed without being asked, which meant she really had to pay attention to clues. One look from her mother was enough to conjure the image of being left in the cold alone, and she grew very skilled at knowing how to keep herself safe. She knew that her parents would protect her from the teeth as long as she did what she should.

I don’t need him. I won’t die.

A little louder the second time, a little braver. At 19, she wasn’t brave enough to live by herself; she didn’t even know how to cook or do laundry, for heaven’s sake! She now thought of the teeth as a mental image of herself being poor, disheveled, as a failure. She couldn’t solve problems of life by herself, and while she knew that she was the age of an adult, she didn’t really view herself that way. In her mind’s eye, she was still a little girl who needed to be protected, although she rarely admitted that to anyone, including herself. Her parents had always solved her problems for her, and so she didn’t have any practice with things like talking to people, standing up for herself, or making decisions. If she were honest, she didn’t really want to get good at these things because it was so much work, and she was worried that her parents wouldn’t like her anymore if she grew up into someone different. That’s why it surprised her that she was so resentful towards her parents. Their veiled threats to abandon her brought on the typical terror, but that had started to turn into shame and rage, and eventually, she was so tired of being scared that she left them before they could reject her completely.

That’s where he came in.

He had it all. He protected her but didn’t make her feel childish. He treated her like a woman, whatever that means, and she didn’t think twice about taking the leap from her parents into his arms. She didn’t spend a single night alone, and she was proud of how smooth the transition had been. She hadn’t needed to move into a cheap apartment and eat dollar store foods like so many of her friends; if anything, her quality of life had improved when she switched from her parents to him.

I don’t need him.

I saw my breath rise in front of my face. The cabin was cold, as it always was in the early spring. He brought me here most weekends in the summer, and it felt romantic for a while. It was just the two of us here, no cell service, no television, just old DVD movies, board games, and conversation. We cooked and we laughed and we made love. I don’t even remember when it started, but I began to dread visits to the cabin over time. He would take offense at a casual remark of mine and sulk about it the whole weekend, and I remember sobbing in this very bathroom the first time he had cornered me in the kitchen, screaming in my face.

I won’t die.

The worn ivory handle of the hairbrush was familiar to my hand. I lifted it and ran it through my hair a few times, whispering through the strands without any snags. I put it into the back pocket of my jeans and walked out the front door. Picking up my grandmother’s hairbrush from the cabin was the last thing on my list. The U-Haul was packed, the apartment lease signed, the new job offer accepted, the phone number changed, and he was out of town at a bachelor party, so he won’t even know I’m gone until I’m settled in a thousand miles away and the restraining order is served.

Maybe I should have told him to his face. But I know he’d do everything he could to bully me into staying, and I can’t take that chance. It took me a long time to hear it, but now I listen to that little girl inside of me. I think she’s saving my life. She didn’t have to say much, but it started an avalanche, and I’m not going to lose momentum. That little girl was a whisper then, and she’s getting louder now, but she’s still saying the same thing.

I don’t need him. I won’t die.