Tension gathers in my body. As much as I enjoy what I do, it’s also hard never knowing what you’re walking into. Hearing the stories that are so similar to my own, it’s just a lot when you’re still bleeding. I grab my camera and the tablet provided by the clinic.
“Lead the way,” I mutter softly, following her lead as she heads down the hall, her heels clicking and echoing through the space. The corridor is an open space that unites, in which each side shows you a different scene. A garden to your left in the center of everything, and to your right, the beach that hosts many therapeutic sessions. Nieves comes to a full stop at the last room in the hall, men and women all sitting on cushions on the floor, forming a circle.
Wasting no time, I place the tablet down and begin to adjust the lenses as the counselors and therapists introduce themselves. Dr. Rivera smiles as she introduces me. “Everyone, I would like to give a warm welcome to Veronica Vargas. She’s here to take pictures of the session. If anyone, at any point, feels uncomfortable or simply would not want their pictures taken, please kindly let us know.”
Everyone focuses their attention on me, making me feel awkward and uncomfortable. Still, I put on a smile and gave a small wave. “Hi, thank you for sharing your space with me.” The survivors all nod before turning their attention back to Nieves, who now stands beside Lorena, one of the therapists who leads the circle. One by one, each person introduces themselves, while I begin to work, making sure to take full advantage of the sun, which offers good lighting, and the shadows provide enough cover to give me a vintage effect.
I stay in the back, making sure not to disturb anyone as they speak about their assault. Suddenly, the room spins, making me queasy at the sight of the woman who cradles her stomach with adoration. “This baby is a reminder of what I survived,” she adds. “It might not be a choice many could understand. But it was the choice that felt right.”
Her story hits every trigger in my body, my hands go clammy and sweaty, trying to focus the lens as I snap away. Making sure to capture the grace of her long neck as she stares into the horizon, the sun illuminates the soft brown of her skin, giving her an ethereal glow. My pulse hammers inside my chest, the sound of blood rushing between my ears drowning out the stories. I need to breathe.
I lean into the wall behind me to stop myself from collapsing. “There are nights that I wake up screaming,” a woman begins, and my chest rises slowly, my camera falling away from my face, observing her without the lens. “I think the part I miss the most is surprisingly the things I would take for granted. Like sleep.”
A weight settles in my chest, growing heavier and heavier with each word that leaves her lips, because I understand it all too well. I would give anything to go back to feeling safe, to being able to sleep without feeling like I would wake up in the basement and my freedom would be nothing but a dream. A figment of my imagination, my brain conjured up to spare me from the hell I experienced.
Forgetting about the picture, I listen attentively through the low hum of the air conditioner and the loud roar of blood pulsating in my head as the woman continues to explain her struggles that resemble my own. The more she shares, the more my chest begins to tighten… that familiar feeling of drowning begins to crawl up my ribs. Dr. Rivera steps beside me, and I freeze. My eyes blur, distorting her features. “Respira, nena1.”
I’m trying.
Cold hands cup my face, and I blink. Inhaling deeply before exhaling, practicing breathing while trying to contain the shake in my body. “Respire.” And I do. My lungs expand with her help. “In through your nose, that’s it.” My eyes focus on her, and not on the people—who… wait… They are not looking at me because this is a normal part of healing. The ugly parts people try to skip past. “Exhale, now.” Which I do, exhaling a large huff of air. Dr. Rivera smiles.
I can’t help the embarrassment that consumes me right now. My cheeks grow hot, and I’m sure red. Shit. Tears prick the corner of my eyes, which I quickly wipe away. “I’m so sorry. I’m okay.”
“No, don’t apologize. It’s okay if you’re not,” she whispers quietly, her gaze drifting towards the circle. “Trauma is something that manyexperience, and how we cope with it and heal is personal and unique to everyone. You don’t have to bear the weight of it alone, when there are others who would help carry the load.”
My eyes fix on her, my mind scrambling to find an excuse, and all that I blurt out is the only thing I can think of. Lifting the camera into the air, “I’m sorry that shouldn’t have happened. I’m just here to take pictures.”
My throat burns, and I clear it. Or at least try to swallow the lump forming within it. Dr. Rivera clasps her hands behind her back, her lips quirk to the side as she sucks in a long breath. “I don’t think you’re here only to take pictures, but rather to stop hiding or maybe running.”
I turn to her, trying to find a rebuttal good enough for her, but my mind comes up empty. “You can sit with us, you know.”
With a shake of my head, I mutter softly, “I’m not ready.”
She smiles, her lips stretching wide, exposing her beautiful row of white teeth, contrasting with her beautiful brown skin. “That’s the thing about healing, you don’t have to be ready, only willing.” With that, she walks away, leaving me to fester in the truth behind her words.
After what feels like hours of countless edits, I look over the pictures, deciding on a couple from last week’s session for this week’s message blast. This month, we are focusing on survivors of domestic violence. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I admire the woman in the frame. Old enough to be my mother, burn marks cover about eighty percent of her flesh. Yet her eyes remain warm and inviting. Still beautiful and full of strength after surviving a brutal attack that almost killed her. Through her session, I learned about 2% of women suffer fromintentional burn violence. She met every demographic criterion but rose above the statistic that contributes to domestic violence deaths.
Work consumes me, in the best way. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Listening to their stories and hearing them overcome the storm makes me hopeful that one day I can. Slowly, I feel like I’ve been piecing together parts of myself, just by being a passenger in someone else’s story. I’m still not quite ready to participate, but I can see it being the next step. My everyday life revolves around people, their pain, their confessions, and their courage, giving me the little push I need to find the spark of life within me.
Some mornings, it’s easier for me to breathe. I can feel the way the layers slowly peel away. In the circle, Nieves says that trauma changes us; like a phoenix, we birth an entirely different person. That we must let go of the old to accept the new. That’s been my goal, finding the things that make me, not the woman I used to be, but who I am now. I learned I suck at dancing salsa, but I enjoy trying anyway. I also love dancing merengue and bachata.
And throughout the process of my rebirth, I have also let my hair slowly grow.
From inside the office, I hear the girls from the front office. Now that I’m learning to live a little, I’ve made more friends. I’ve opened up to all that the Isla de Encanto has to offer. Friends. Found family. A smile tugs on my lips as I hear them bicker about who’s the better dancer. Now I actually know their names, Juleysi and Bianca. Two women who have taught me a thing or two about dancing through the pain. “Vero, ven,” Bianca calls me over from outside, and I stop what I’m doing and step out of my office. “Salsa tonight?” Juleysi asks as she shimmies her body, showing off the talented dancer that she is. A small chuckle escapes me. It’s been happening more often. The sound no longer catches me off guard. I went from faking it, and one day, I just laughed. An actual laugh. And from that moment on, I decided I would try to do it more.
Even though I didn’t think I was ready for nights out. Bars. Or anything that remotely reminded me of that night, I took the leap, and deep down, I needed that. And those two are the reasons for it. “Come on, Vero. Tonight is Nochesde Salsa at Tonitos.” Bianca shrugs. “We have to go. Especially you, mami, your dancing is horrible.”
I laugh at that, it’s not like she’s wrong. “Okay, when you put it like that. I guess.”
Juleysi stops mid-turn, her vibrant red hair falling over her shoulder. “Que2, what do you mean you guess? It’s mandatory that you learn to dance. Mami, tú eres boricua; tú tienes que saber bailar.3”
She’s right there, so I don’t argue that. “Fine, but I gotta go back to work.”
That night, I, like every Tuesday that followed after, joined the pair for Salsa Nightsat Tonitos…
My phone rings, I look at the screen and smile seeing Nixie’s message pop up on the screen.
Nixie:
