Past, Present, Future

Acutely aware of every move I make; which frown lines will be triggered if I lean to the left, will my neck skin pool to one side if I move my jaw from this god awful lock, are the tiny hairs on my fingers all plucked to perfection if he sees me in the sunlight?

Anxiety creeps as I lay beside him, my hair; is it looking okay on the pillow or does it look like a hat? Are my breasts modestly covered or do I look like a porn-star? If he needs release; I’ll be asking for it if I relax; dare I be seen vulnerable. If I scoot down a little bit, he will see the same angle as he does when he towers over me, as opposed to being my equal. I scoot. He owns me, he needs to own something.

My ingrown hairs disgust me but I can’t let them win. I have no control over what my body does, I just have to accept it to the best of my ability and cover what I can. If I shave my legs in the sink; I have to wear a dress- leggings or jeans irritate freshly shaved legs and I end up with a burning rash. It’s 9pm, I can’t wear a dress. I’ll have to shower but that means I’m naked, it means I have to hold myself; to touch someone who has hurt you so badly- it numbs you. It tightens your muscles and spikes your hairs into cactus pricks; I am a knight trapped in a studded suit of armour.

My neck has hair on it. I’m not a gorilla but I do have PCOS. I grow hair in places women shouldn’t. I spend about 40 minutes a day, in the morning sun or in the car with the right daylight shining on the right places; so from any angle, I’m a woman. I pluck the snail trail from my scarred bellybutton, to my undie-line. I have to press my breasts down so I can see, and I have to shut the curtains so no one else can see. I scan my body from a male’s perspective- what would put me off. I run my hands down my legs and back up. I can’t lose him.

I’m imperfect. I’m damaged goods; and he still wants me.

Some days I’m snarky and bitchy, he’s right. I was up all night with our daughter while he fucked other women in car parks, which I have to bite my tongue about, otherwise I’ll be faced with numerous reasons why it was my fault. Why he needed a ‘shoulder’ (although you can’t have sex with a shoulder) because I wasn’t there for him. He’s going through a rough patch. He’s tired of being needed. She was fun.

Dinner was pushed around the plate while a litre of coca-cola stretched his stomach to its limit. It was cold now, even more inedible. Silently I twist in my studded suit of armour; my stomach stretched to its limit also but not with food.

I am as close to him as I’ve ever been; as close as I’ll ever be. He must be in a good mood. We are connected. I’m not in pain. I can’t feel very much apart from my hair being pulled violently; my eyes wanting to close but unable to, because the skin around them is pulled so tightly. Tears threaten to fall but if I cry he will stop. We will be disconnected, and go to sleep on bad terms. I fight the tears and stifle a moan of pain. He mistakes it for pleasure and continues. We are on different pages; we are in different books completely. I need this closeness, or I thought I did. I was 17 when I sought this bittersweet closeness.

He is done; I am undone in many ways. I am open and vulnerable. My clothes are half on, half ripped and thrown across the room. He must have wanted me. I like being wanted, I am the girl he comes home to, and I am not an easy person to be with, apparently. High maintenance.  I am lucky.

He rolls over. The space between us is hollow.

Days roll on, roll by, roll roll roll.

By night he finds his comfort inside me, pulling my hair and silencing my cries with his heavy tongue. I long for romance. I long to be loved but I am afraid. My studded armour not only traps me; but keeps people out, too.  Sometimes throughout the nights; an arm may fall on me. I hold onto it with every fibre of my being.

I kiss him with everything I have inside of me. I hold him and try to squash the spaces between us, but there are still airy hollows where his body doesn’t quite meet mine. He weighs down on me, leans and rests; my neck hurts, there is no comfort or support. He finds comfort and support.

He is gone; in search for unholy comfort during working hours.

I made tea just for him. I ate extra carbs; I’m trying to lose weight, maybe then he’ll stop cheating. But if he doesn’t eat, he’s angrier.

He doesn’t eat.

My cries are stifled by a hand, this time. A heavy, someone-elses-vagina smelling hand, covers my mouth and nose. I can’t breathe or yell. My arms are pinned down. My legs are numb. Everything is white.

He is calm.

He eats the next night; he must be high.

A heavy, fumbling hand surrounds my neck. Not only can I not breathe; I’m wondering how unattractive I look with my neck pushed up around my face; red, swollen, struggling for life. White.

Weeks pass. He must’ve found comfort elsewhere.

Nights are silent, on my side of the bed anyway. His side tosses and turns, I can see two souls above him. One white, one black. They are struggling in a fight; turning him to grey.

He moans in his sleep, a poor lost soul wading through clouds and charcoal skies, mixed in with the rest. Overheated and drenched with sweat; I wake him. I can’t sleep if he’s restless. I take his shirt off, although the thought of touching him hurts me. I want to hate him but my own soul won’t let me, I am too tired to hate. I need sleep.

Nights roll. Days fly.

There is one hand on my neck, one fumbling between my hair and mouth. Pushing me further away from life; into this grey mass, into the pillows.  White.

Girls come and go. But he always comes back to us. Sometimes I lose my temper because he’s tired and can’t help me with housework.

I wait for a good time to speak to him. If he comes in the door and shuts it with force; it’s not a good time. White.

I am torn between my black soul and white. They never want to fight. They won’t turn to grey. They are adamant that even shaking hands would turn them into a storm cloud. I am two people at once. I am angry, hurting, lost yet unsure where to find myself or if I’ll ever be found. I am tired, weak, cold and afraid to be alone, afraid of myself. Unaware of who I am anymore. I’m not good company or worth loving, so why would I want to be with me?

I find the courage, after our daughter sleeps through the night, to send him an email. I pour my heart onto the white screen and I can almost see the black writing and white page; merge to grey.

I can’t compact it anymore, I’ve written a lot but it’s easy to make sense of. While our daughter sleeps, I cry, I proofread and edit. I make sure it’s not too heavy and not too simple. I need him to know I’m hurting and need some comfort, too.

White, that night.

No reply to my email. Nothing said.

I resend, with a new paragraph asking for a little respect and asking whether I’m worth a reply.

He replies, short of time and angry. If he comes over this evening, the door will be slammed.

I live each day in fear of how the door will be shut. I pluck my eyebrows to perfection. I try so hard to lose weight, to fit into the size I was at 17. Will he eat, this evening? No. Good thing I bought him some vanilla coke, otherwise he would have nothing in his stomach like me.

Somehow, I found out about the new girls. I found out. I looked, and I found. Most importantly, I found the god damn energy to search.

I’m angry. My studded suit cracks and melts into the floor.

I am free.

But now, I’m even more vulnerable. My skin, untouched by sunlight for years, burns. Those burns remain for over 6 months.

Boys come and go from my life; from my bed. I never take my clothes off. I am terrified of being cut, burned, and ridiculed.

I’m not searching for anything but occasionally I feel I’ve found something. I’m not lost.

I spend my days writing, reading, enjoying the sunlight on my skin- forming new freckles; or maybe I’m just recognising I have them already.

I discover who I am. Days roll, nights fly.

Music is too heavy. Too painful or too loud. Just too damn much.

Days are quiet as I answer questions inside of me that I never knew existed. Things I never even knew that I wanted to know about. Religion; spirituality. Abortion, miscarriage.

I become a part of something- a team of women who care. They don’t judge. They cry with me; I, with them.

I learn to love myself. I try to piece together my childhood. My memories are broken and cold, scattered all around a mental driveway. Some nice, some bitterly painful to look at let alone hold and confront.

I string them together. There are pieces missing; love, time, respect. I wonder how those things could’ve been changed. I still hold resentment towards the adults (while I was a child, anyway) who treated me so badly. But the one positive, I’ve figured, is that atleast I know not how to parent let alone be a respectable, lovely human being.

I go about my business. I find motivation and excitement to begin a career or to do a course, I even apply for jobs.

I keep my house tidy. I lose weight without trying.

I can sleep.

I can breathe.

But whenever someone touches my skin, my cactus hairs spike up. I’m afraid I’ll hurt them. I’m aware I’m grimacing, wincing and inwardly turning from their fingertips. My hair is waiting to be pulled, my neck waiting to be pushed into the floor.

I wake at night, waiting to see my black and white soul above me, merging into one. But they don’t. I wait to become numb again, but I don’t.

I lay in the sun. I indulge in it. I roll into the days, they don’t roll into me.

I’m no longer afraid of the dark.

He gently slides my hair off my face as I look at him. He holds my eyes in a beautiful caress. Hazel and blue. We talk for hours. His skin touches mine and I don’t grimace. I don’t hide away. I take my makeup off. He first met me without makeup, I feel okay showing him that side of me. My armour is wiped away.

As I drive, I look at the sky. I can see all the lost souls in the stormclouds, fighting one another, a massive brawl, as their owners are too tired to drag them home and sort it out.

There’s no white. There’s a rainbow.