the repercussions for my actions. That I should live wildly because I haven’t had the opportunity to. She’s wrong though. I used to.
Walking back to the bathroom and closing the door behind me, I remember that there was a time, long ago, when I had been wild and reckless. I found myself pregnant at eighteen. I had been a good girl, a good student, and I came from a good family. Like so many others, I made a mistake. My parents, as the old Christians that they were, didn’t believe in birth control, having talks about safe sex, or sex education. What little I knew came from high school with a substitute teacher who couldn’t care less if we knew about the importance of condoms or the likelihood of getting pregnant. I guess I shouldn’t blame my science teacher. Perhaps it should have been common sense, but when you are young and in love with the idea of love, you don’t worry about silly things like surprise babies or how your life will be forever altered by six minutes of semi enjoyable encounters.
Laughing now, I walk to the mirror and slowly dim the lights, creating a soft glow around myself. Reaching arms to my hair, I unclip it and let the soft blonde waves tumble to my collarbone.
Six-minute encounters. I feel like that could become some kind of book series where women confess their disappointment in the act itself. In my experience, sex hasn’t been worth the mess or the emotional toll.
With Brad, Holly’s biological father, I figured I could chalk that up to just a lack of experience. It was the first time for both of us and neither of us really knew what the other was doing. Mostly I laid there and cringed because, well, it didn’t feel amazing. After that, we did it four more times, all equally anti-climatic for me. And then we broke up. Maybe that sounds bad, but I guess it was high school. Then, when I was with men after, Holly was born: Again, not terrible, not great. Then finally, we come to my most recent sexual partner: Michael. The first time we were together, it was nice. I was happy enough. Mostly it was wonderful to have the attention of a man as important and as bold as Michael. He made me feel special in the beginning. It was one of the things that drew me close to him. We were years apart, and he is an average looking man, but it was the way he looked at me. The way he treasured me or, at least, I thought he did. Now, I wonder if it just came down to his ego.
Turning away from the mirror, I walk to the tub and slide into the high water and the bubbles. I couldn’t see it then, but now I know he needed me to adore him; and how do you get a woman to adore you? You treat her like a queen. But then things slowly began to change. It was subtle. The little jabs, the dismissive comments, the way he slowly worked more and more, having less time for me and Holly. Then one night in a fit of rage, he slapped me. I was so stunned by the impact, I fell backwards onto the floor. I can still remember the way I felt as I looked up into those cold eyes and realized that he wasn’t the man that I thought he was.
From then on out, everything changed. That’s not to say that I wasn’t rewarded for good behavior for making him look good in public or for hosting elegant dinner parties. But when I disobeyed him, or simply walked into the room while he was in a bad mood, well, I found myself catching quite a few slaps.
Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply the lavender aroma and try to clear my mind. Though it’s been almost a year, I find myself still stuck. These repetitive intrusive thoughts come out of nowhere, and once I get started, it’s like I can’t stop thinking about him.
“Trauma,” my therapist says. “Trauma response.” It’s something she and I are working on as well as the flashbacks. God, those are the worst. I shudder while sliding deeper, as the bubbles tickle my chin, and my toes peek out under the faucet that’s still running. So many times I came in here looking to escape, to hide. I would imagine myself sinking deep below and drowning