I don't know this woman staring back at me.
She's not me.
My long, dark-brown hair that I'm so proud of is in disarray, and my skin is washed-out. Lowering my gaze, I lament at the sight of my brand new red dress that's now torn at the strap and hanging off my shoulder. Ruined. Inspecting my face closer, I notice that my medium-tan skin is turning a shade darker at my jaw. Raising my gaze once more to my eyes again hopefully, I grimace as I observe that my spark is indeed gone.
My stomach knots, and my fingers white-knuckle the sink as I search even harder, seeingnothing.
Desperate, I lean forward even closer as if that'll help and search again. My lips twist, and my face contorts at therealization that he's beat it out of me. I can't find it because it's not there.
It's gone.
Standing there, being overwhelmed by fresh feelings of inadequacy and confusion, I let go of the sink and wrap my arms around myself in a soothing motion, wondering how on earth I found myself in this situation. Because this is recent...Brandon didn’t start physically abusing me untilafterhe’d found out I was pregnant.
Once he’d received the news of my pregnancy, he'd started anxiously binge drinking. Shortly after that, he started hitting me, and it's becoming progressively worse as the weeks tick by. Now the hits come accompanied by nasty words fueled by hate. Words I’d never thought I’d ever hear come from him, now come as easily as if he was ordering his favorite Starbucks drink. Except it's unfortunately atmyexpense. Not his.
Knowing that I can't afford to abandon my nightly routine, I take a deep breath and sigh.
Picking up a rolled face towel off the stack nearby, I turn the faucet on and wet it with cold water. Moving slow, I sniff, trying to stem tears that won't stop. My fingers are shaky as I open the mirror and grab my face wash, and I try to calm myself as I squirt some onto the white terrycloth. Going through the motions, I wipe my face, all the while careful to avoid my gaze in the mirror, taking pains to not press too hard into my jaw where a deep throbbing is ensuing. I'm probably not going to get any sleep tonight.
When I'm done, I grab my red hairbrush, pull my hip-length hair to either side of my front, and begin to detangle my hair in short strokes.
Ignoring the slight pain of the bristles snagging the knots, I carry on with my nightly duties with a sort of dissociative stoicism I teach my clients not to have. Feeling like a hypocrite,I blink through the hot sting of tears that won't subside for anything.
Replacing the brush in its holder, I plug in my purple hot brush that I use to straighten the frizziness out in the mornings before work, and turn it on, sighing yet again. I wish I had a routine that was simpler. Because right now, all I want is a warm shower to wash the night away and to go straight to bed without having to worry about my hair. Ashamed, I keep my eyes averted from my reflection as I work by muscle memory to smooth my hair out with the hot brush.
I don't really want to look at this unrecognizable woman in the mirror.
She's not me.
Feeling like I'm having an out of body experience, I mechanically twist my hair into a thick bun at the top of my head. I ignore the painful twinging of my back smarting as I secure it all up the best that I can manage with a clip and turn to start the shower.
I return back to the vanity and look over my makeup stash, picking up the almost empty tube of light-mocha concealer. Irritated, I frown at the realization that I'm going to have to buy yet another bottle as it's running low. I never can tell when Brandon is going to hit me lately, and I’d run through almost two extra bottles than normal in the last month and a half.
My muscles twitch with pain as I gently peel the torn dress off, dejected and upset.
I had such a good time singing at the lounge tonight despite the fact that the crowd requested me to sing a song that Brandon didn’t want me to. Foolishly, I thought with him not being present for my performance tonight that'd it'd be okay for once to give the crowd what they wanted. However, because he’d been overbearing lately, he came to my performance when he’d gottenoff work and I didn't know. It’s what set this whole thing off tonight. Not that it was any excuse for him to beat me like this.
As a therapist who owns her own practice, Iknowthat, and I would never advocate for any of my clients to stay in an abusive relationship. Ever.
Turning back to the shower, I place my fingers under the water before securing a plastic shower cap over my hair to protect it from getting wet, and step under the warm spray. I moan quietly as the hot water seeps into my sore muscles, but the stinging of my abraded skin soon has me crashing back to reality.
Knowing I'm safe in the shower, I break, placing my head into my hands and letting myself cry. With nothing but the sounds of the water bouncing off the cap to accompany my sobs, the pain I feel on the inside swells high enough to match the pain I feel on the outside.
My shoulders droop under weight I don't think I'm strong enough to hold anymore.
Slowly sliding to the floor, I ignore my body screaming out in pain, lean against the white subway tiles and sob into my knees, knowing I need to get away from him. But how? I'm pregnant and have no family close by.
How am I supposed to leave?
Early the next morning, I lean into the bathroom mirror and wince, closing my eyes tight in pain as I work to dab concealer onto the discolored bruise on my jaw. Pausing, I stifle a yawn against my palm before moving on to my eyeliner and fight to not blink. Nervous I'd oversleep, I'd set my alarm for a half hour earlier than usual to give myself extra time to get ready.
But all I want to do is crawl back in bed, pull the covers over my head, and shut out the world. I don't want to go to work, especially in pain like this and not feeling my best. However, if I don't, I'll lose clients, won't be able to pay my bills, and my reputation will be smeared. At the end of the day, I need my job; I don't think I could rebound from a hit to my reputation.
Sniffling and trying to hold back tears, I try my hardest to blend it in well enough to prevent the bruise from showing through the concealer. I turn my face this way and that, inspecting from all angles. You could barely tell Brandon hit me across the face like he would a man, I did such a good job covering it up.
I blink again, my eyes stinging from all the crying I've been doing. Reaching into the medicine cabinet, I grab some eyedrops and put a drop in each eye, blinking against the initial sting.
I hate him.
