Surprisingly many days had passed by without any major incidents and I was happy that I managed to keep my normal schedule, that I succeeded in doing all the things I was told to do, the right way and on time, even though I was stuck in thoughts almost all the time. I went through the motions, responding to input more or less automatically – probably very like those years when I hadn't really been there fully, my days in the gray mist – hoping that my upset thoughts about the world, my life and love as I knew it wouldn't be picked up by my husband and his family.
Some days I found myself making great plans for my future life, plans that somehow always fell short when it came to the first part, the actual escape. Other days I read online stories about abused women, the descriptions of their lives turning my stomach and bringing tears to my eyes. The planning and the stories about the women who had actually gotten away gave me a sense of purpose and made me want to live and fight another day and then another.
I realized that no story was exactly alike and that there was no such thing as "normally" or "usually" when it came to hurtful, abusive relationships and domestic violence, but I thought I could detect some common points that painted parts of a pattern.
Many stories described the prince charming effect, where a seriously attentive male would turn your head just as much as what other people were saying about him, him being the catch of a lifetime. In most of the stories you could read, at least between the lines, that the woman being wooed felt inferior to the man in one way or the other, which made for an imbalanced relationship from the beginning; making the woman strive extra hard to please and appease the man.
Once love and devotion had taken its hold, the serious game of making the woman doubt herself and trust the man would ensue and the most important part, getting rid of the woman's social network, making her cut all ties to her family and friends would be done as quickly as possible. Once isolated the woman would be made to believe she was to blame for what happened to her.
My story didn't really fit into the pattern I detected, except the first part where I met and fell in love with an attractive and charming man. I didn't really feel inferior to my husband, he hadn't been able to make me doubt myself fully or make me believe that his punishments were fair, and above all – I still had my friends. I started thinking that if my mom and dad hadn't died in that car crash, I might actually have gotten away. As it was, my grief for my parents had somehow done what those first weeks of mental and physical abuse hadn't been able to do, it had turned me into a non-feeling shadow of myself that could be easily controlled and directed, like a living, breathing doll.
Was it a blessing or a curse to be back in the land of the living? I really couldn't say...
- - - - -
"Crap," I whispered as I scanned the long list of unread e-mails on my phone "why do I keep getting this spiritual guidance, yoga, meditation crap in my mailbox?"
I had started getting annoyingly many spam e-mails, all with the same "find your true self/inner beauty" message. I wondered what page I had visited or what e-mail list service I had signed up for that had my mailbox exploding with unwanted messages. I wasn't even interested in that new age stuff.
I sat in the beauty parlor, muttering to myself and tapping on my phone, waiting for my once-a-week overhaul. When I had walked in just a few minutes earlier I had been informed that my beautician was running a bit late and I knew I had at least ten more minutes to wait. The weak tea I had been given interested me as little as the shiny magazines in front of me so I settled down with my phone, deciding to read some of the messages before deleting them, needing to keep busy to still the restless energy that was running through my body.
After quickly reading a few of the e-mails I realized that most of them seemed to be from local businesses. There was a yoga place just down the street, a regression specialist, whatever that meant, three blocks away and some sort of tarot card reader/fortune teller just a few blocks further away. The next two were from two different massage parlors, also in the neighborhood. I stopped reading and thought about that idea for a while; some help soothing my tense muscles wouldn't go amiss, would it? I looked at the prices and deleted the messages quickly just as I had done with the first ones; no use dreaming about things you couldn't afford.
I ruthlessly deleted all of the messages until I reached the last one, where the subject caught my eye. According to the electronic information there was supposed to be a "Spiritual Wellness" exhibition that exact day, just one block away from the beauty parlor. I was struck by an impulsive thought, that perhaps seeing a few new things might show me new ways of solving my personal puzzle. And if I didn't get any new ideas, perhaps I could get some free advice on how to grow stronger both mentally and physically?
My thoughts were interrupted by the familiar voice of my beautician.
"Rose, I'm so sorry you had to wait!" she said as she walked towards me with quick steps.
As a high priority client I was one of a handful of people that actually got the services of this particular beautician; seeing that she was both extremely skilled and that she was the actual owner of the parlor. I had a standing appointment with her every week, my beauty an investment that had to be well cared for, according to the family.
I smiled at her and nodded with a short "Gabriella" thrown back at her, happy that she used my first name when she approached. I had asked her to call me Rose many years ago, but it had taken her a long time to agree. I remembered the day she had first called me Rose with mixed feelings of sadness and relief, since it was also the first time she had accidently seen some lingering bruises on my body.
I followed her into her luxurious rooms and sat down in the soft and comfortable chair in the corner, waiting for her standard comment about the frequency with which I visited her.
"You know you don't have to come here every week, don't you?" she said with her accompanying smile.
I smiled back at her and shook my head, knowing that she didn't expect me to answer. I looked at the dark haired, middle aged beauty before me, seeing her flawless skin that still had no visible wrinkles, even though she was perhaps 15 years, or more, older than I was. I looked at my own face in the mirror shortly before turning my eyes away, glad that my age was not yet showing and still annoyed about the way my looks had brought me nothing but trouble.
