A Panicked Adult

Sometimes I wish he left bruises on my body, then I wouldn’t want to toss my computer after every hopeless article. Another wasted night. Another box of tissues littering the cold wood floor. Although I hate thinking in absolutes, I’m almost certain tomorrow morning my body will ache from another night of anxious dreams. Maybe I’ll luck out with only apocalyptic dreams tonight, I almost miss the escapism. Almost. But no matter what type of terror awaits my silk sheets, the bags under my eyes will be mature enough to sing their ABCs. New knots will join the plethora of old ones rupturing any peace in between my shoulder blades. I’d bet good money my brain will prevent my stomach from receiving nutrition. God, I don’t want to go to sleep.

           My normal haze of pain and frustration carries my feet all the way to the office in the morning. Half the time I can’t remember how I made it to my desk, one of the few joys of disassociation.

           “Wren! Good morning, how was your weekend? I bet you did something cool. Gosh how I miss my twenties, you’re so lucky. Still in your prime, not an old fart like me,” Barb giggles at herself, “Any fun dates?” She rattles off two more questions I don’t hear, I force myself to politely look at the irritating smile on her face to accompany the high-pitched voice she shares with every female anime character.

           “Morning Barb, my weekend was great. Got a lot accomplished, how was Susan’s recital?”

           “Oh! Susan was wonderful,” she gushes, “I cried the whole way through. She strokes the keys so wonderfully.” If only she knew our weekend did have one thing in common, if only I cried because my child performed below average at some stupid piano recital.

           I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. Instead, I spend my day dreading the evening while absent mindedly combing through color-coded excel spreadsheets. Enzo is coming over tonight, I imagine he wants to discuss the latest mistake I made. A mistake I’ve made a million times before, a mistake I keep telling him I won’t make in the future. I wish he knew how much I mean the words I said, wish he knew it wasn’t my lack of willpower. My body just betrays my mind, over and over again. Who knows, maybe he’s right. Maybe it is my willpower. I’m slowing losing my place in his life, I know it and he knows it. But maybe tonight we’ll forget.

           As soon as I get home, I start cooking the fanciest dinner I can muster. Glazed salmon, brussels sprouts, and garlic mashed potatoes. All delectable scents that will rush his nose when the door opens, I hope the forced homeliness temporarily seduces Enzo. A momentary reprieve from reality, a reminder I’m still the woman he fell in love with.

           Enzo enters like a cat; the click of the door is the only way I know he arrived. “Baby, I’m here,” he says but his words are deceitful. They seem soft but his voice is cold. He’s forgotten the way those words used to cause flowers to bloom. Now baby is laced with arsenic. I know I can conjure up the antidote, I just need more time.

           We make small talk. No, I make small talk and Enzo obliges but I can see the tenseness in his jaw. I want to bring up the other night, I want to bridge the gap between us, but my body is frozen. The pit in my stomach keeps growing, soon it’ll rival the big blue holes in Belize. I know what I should say but knowing doesn’t make it any easier. The words simply dance on my tongue in a dangerous folk circle, mocking me. All I need is for one word to break formation, but the words feel a false security in my mouth. My tongue won’t listen to my brain and my brain is too occupied to devote the energy it needs to remedy the vocal resistance. Currently, my brain is too busy convincing my limbs that there are no weights being piled on top of them. My limbs are relentless, battling back with my brain. Certainly my brain is just confused, what other reason would my limbs have to lie, there’s no other explanation to feel immobile and pinned to the chair.

           “Wren,” Enzo jolts my body into combat readiness, “are we seriously not going to talk about the other night? We need to talk about it, you know this.”

           I force words out of my mouth like its my dying wish, “I know. I’ve been doing so much better; the other night was a mistake. I was panicked and I said things out of fear, I’m-”

           “Wren, your apology doesn’t mean anything anymore. You’ve used all your apologies and little to nothing has changed,” exasperated Enzo continues, “I’m sick of initiating these conversations after you’ve fucked up. I’m sick of your apologies. I’m so tired, do you like seeing me this way? Do you have some sick need for us to go through this over and over?”

           “No of course not,” my small voice barely able to contain the tremble in my vocal cords.

           “Why do you keep hurting us. It’s not that hard Wren, it really isn’t. What’s hard is this,” he aggressively circles his finger around the table. “This is what’s hard, wanting to have a peaceful dinner with a girl I want to love but you are making it so damn difficult. How is it we are still talking about the same issues. Do you remember when we first started talking about your freezing and inability to care about something until it comes back to affect you?” I open my mouth to speak but he cuts me off.

           “Two years ago, Wren. I’ve been lonely for two fucking years. I’ve been patient with you for. Two. Fucking. Years. For what? For you to tell me it’s another mistake? How many does that make? Fifty? A hundred? I’m tired Wren. How many more mistakes, I want to know? Tell me how many more you need to get out of your system until you can treat me the way you should have been treating me two years ago?”

           Panic fills my veins. I don’t know how to answer, there’s no right answer. All these mistakes have put me in a position where there are no right answers unless a time machine miraculously pops up next to the cold salmon. God, I’d give anything for a time machine. I could make it right then, all the knowledge I have now could make it right. Defeated and confused I share, “I don’t know but I’m going to stop, I can stop.”

           The conversation carries on for another hour or so, a conversation we’ve had before but with different phrases between increasingly defeated souls. I go to bed exhausted but afraid to sleep. At least tonight, Enzo’s body will lie next to mine. I hold him like it is the last night he’ll let me…because maybe it is.

           The next morning when I’m brushing my teeth after Enzo leaves, heat envelopes my body. A foreign feeling I’m too scared to acknowledge. But as the heat builds, I have no choice but to recognize it as anger. The feeling is visceral, tangible even. Anger exploding through every orifice of my body. My nostrils flare as my lungs open wider to consume enough air to fuel my rage. My hands feel stronger than they ever have, I grip the sink to keep myself from doing something dangerous. But the desire to destroy everything, anything is extraordinary.

           Bitter thoughts race through my head. I hate him, I think. How could he do this to me? He is supposed to love me, but it isn’t love. How could it be? If he loved me, I wouldn’t be in this state. I wouldn’t panic every time someone made a sour face if he hadn’t scarred me so many times before. My freezing is his fault…his fault. How pathetic, he’s pathetic. I’m not pathetic, I’m traumatized. He only ever taught me how to love out of fear, so now I don’t know anything else.  And I hate myself for it. He forced me to hate myself before I hated him. He doesn’t love me, he never did.

           My shaking hands can’t keep up with the hot tears streaming down my face. Rage explores my unknown terrain, finally unleashed from the dark depths I’ve managed to conceal it in all these years. Without notice, I race to my bedroom to grab my full-length mirror and slam it on the floor. Seductive adrenaline scatters through my body like the shards of glass on the wood beneath my feet.

Vision blurred, I walk across the room, not caring about the pockets of fresh blood I feel form on the soles of my feet. Adrenaline and anger masks the insignificant pain, no amount of blood can overwhelm this anger. I grab the set of Harry Potter books he bought me from my bookshelf, and I start ripping apart random pages. Instinct tells me to throw The Half Blood Prince across my room as hard as I can, so I do. My eyes dart to my dresser, I can already hear the echo it’ll make it I shove it from the wall to join its glass comrades on the floor. With all my body weight I charge the dresser, watching the symphony of shelves reverberate on the ground.

It’s then that all my anger turns to despair. Without notice, my body collapses next to the dresser and I sob. Each individual whimper leaves my body to take up residence in my room. Half an hour later my bed is filled full of whimpers, they comfort each other on top of my pillows and under my blankets. After an hour my closet is occupied with more whimpers. They pull cardigans and and fuzzy hats on their love-starved bodies. Three hours later and I am far from alone in my room filled with broken sobs and woebegone whimpers. We hug and slowly make peace with the existence of each other. The blood on my feet has turned to flaky brown crusts.

The whimpers tell me I don’t hate my father, but they confirm I’m right to hate what he’s done to me. They tell me my anger is justified; they warn me I’m just feeling the beginning. And as the whimpers and sobs say their goodbyes, they assure me they’ll be back soon. I believe them. For the first time in years, my sleep is nightmare free.

For the next few months, I journal every possible moment. In cars. In elevators. Before I fall asleep. And everywhere in between. Every other week I find myself in Barnes and Nobles buying new journals to replace old ones. I accept Barnes and Nobles is more of a home to me than my father’s house ever was.

I get a therapist; she tells me to write down everything I can remember. All the manipulation and heartache. All the instances of emotional abuse, she reminds me to call it emotional abuse because it was. I relent and recognize my scars. She gives me the vocabulary to stop wishing for bruises. Narcissistic rage. Parentification. Narcissistic abuse. c-PTSD. Freeze stress response.  Finally, I have a starting point and the endless hours I used to spend scouring the web dwindle down. I read a book and it tells me psychiatrists see no noticeable difference in the trauma of children of addicts versus children of narcissists. Relief breathes life into my body. I feel less crazy. I stop trying to salvage a relationship, I won’t look for healing at the feet of someone who broke me.

The blinders come off my childhood, all the pieces and pain start filing into their rightful place. My whimpers and sobs return often. Sometimes I meet them in the bathroom stales of restaurants, other times they lay in bed with me. We’re well acquainted, I trust they will help me as I heal. But most importantly, I’m healing. As I close my journal, I hear Enzo’s cat like movements.

“Hi babe, I brought home some take out,” the arsenic is no longer coating his words.