It had taken me two sessions at this Survivors of Domestic Violence support group to open up about my story. After weeks of feeling guilty, ashamed, anxious, and happy, I was free, but sad I was alone — far too many emotions for a person to handle on her own — I plucked up the courage to attend a meeting. I saw the fliers at the hospital while visiting Lily. She had encouraged me to attend these meetings after we made a pact to heal together.
I joined in with the rest of the group as we responded to Libby’s question. “We are survivors.”
Some, myself included, were more enthusiastic with our responses, while others muttered or remained silent. They still needed to find that confidence again.
For most of the women in our group, showing up was enough.
With a lighter feel to my step after the meeting wrapped up for the day, I followed the others through the corridor to the front exit of an old Williamsburg dance studio, pulling on my new leather jacket as a cool breeze whipped through the exit doors. I inhaled it with a growing sense of closure, freedom, and love for myself again. These group sessions, held once a week for two hours, helped with all of that. The group provided a safe environment to sit, talk, and grow.
A soft tune rang from within my patchwork tote bag, and I quickly pulled out my phone, already smiling at the incoming FaceTime notification on my screen.
I answered quickly. “Hi! Perfect timing. I just left my meeting.”
“How was it?” Alex, aka Mom One, asked. Her shoulder-length wavy red hair framed her kind face with feather bangs.
“It was good! I’m feeling more and more like myself again,” I said earnestly, and then tilted my head. “Where’s Laura?”
“She’s finishing with a client on a video call.” Alex took a seat on their couch as she propped the phone up on the coffee table. Her attention went to someone off-camera as her smile grew. “Kira’s on the phone.”
There was an excited “Oh!” before Alex scooted over and Laura, aka Mom Two, took a seat beside her. Laura was the complete opposite of Alex. While Alex was a calm, critical thinker and a high school teacher, Laura was the outgoing, energized, and enthusiastic other half who spent her time as a youth worker. She had blonde hair as wild as my own, sun-kissed skin, and a constant smile in her brown eyes.
They only learned about what I went through with Aiden after I was in the hospital. My guilt over that hadn’t quite faded, but they had been nothing but supportive since.
“Hello, baby!” Laura beamed.
I waved to my phone, unable to contain my smile. “I was saying to Mom that these meetings are really working for me.”
“That is so good to hear!”
“I still think she should keep a balance. Maybe go to a rage room or something,” Alex suggested, raising a brow knowingly. “Just to really gethimout of your system.”
“I would, but I’d look a little silly going on my own,” I laughed, stepping out the exit doors onto the stoop outside. That same breeze from before lifted my hair away from my face.
“Bring Lily,” Laura shrugged.
“I don’t think she’s quite ready to make those steps yet. She’s doing better, it’s just taking longer, considering she’s healing from something else.”
They nodded in understanding before Laura clicked her fingers. “What about that boy you’ve been hanging out with? He seems nice.”
“Seb?” I spoke his name as if I hadn’t been seeing him every week. Or like the mere mention of him had me feeling all warm inside.
“That explains the jacket,” Alex nodded, eyeing the leather jacket she could see on my shoulders before she looked up wistfully. “God, I miss my bike…”
“I’m sure he’d be interested in going to a rage room with you.” Laura smiled eagerly.
I laughed softly. “I’ll have to ask him.”
We talked while I waited outside the building, offside to the other women hanging back to chat amongst themselves.
There was a food truck a little way down the sidewalk. For a moment, as my eyes skimmed the line outside the food truck, I caught sight of a young man whose light brown hair was pulled back into a bun. I took a breath, knowing it wasn’t him. It would never be him. Not when I knew his jaw was still wired shut, he couldn’t walk without crutches, and he no longer had a man bun.This young man in the line had a different face anyway. And wasn’t wearing plaid.
And I was moving on.
I said goodbye to my moms when they told me a call from Grandpa was coming through — a call from him was a rare occurrence, considering he despised technology, so Laura was eager to answer it.
I slipped my phone into my bag, right beside where a vintage film camera sat. Photography was very quickly becoming a new hobby of mine. Much like any other hobbies I picked up, this one probably had an expiration date too, but that didn’t stop me from pursuing it. Along with the group sessions, photography gave me something else to think about. Every time I focused the lens on a subject, it was like drawing focus to the present instead of the past. A section of my bedroom wall at home was quickly filling with pictures of friends, family, and miscellaneous shots from around the city because of my new hobby.
I secured my unruly hair into a quick braid. Right on time, the sound of an engine, a low sort of hum, pulled my attention to a sleek, matte black motorbike. It stopped at the curb a few cars down on my right. The rider, once he turned the bike off and kicked down the stand, saluted me, and I couldn’t fight the smile already spreading to my lips.
