trauma does not exist. part 1

he was so beloved. no one had a bad word to say about him. they envied him. so maybe there was that. 

his widow, a force of nature in front of whom all trembled. they say her hair turned white overnight. not so fearsome anymore, they whispered behind her back, where it was safe.

he’s left behind this shell of a woman and three children. The youngest is 16. the eldest, 24. this latter has become a financial burden overnight now that he’s gone. she’s also nearly unmarriageable at her age. this situation requires quick resolution. 

they put the word out and a dozen proposals land at their doorstep. she may be old, but she’s still desirable in her own way. they select a young man who would seem her equal. his uncle perhaps a little too pushy. but no one notices, blind as they are with grief. this was their first mistake.

they wed, of course. he’s one of those successful engineering types whom everyone wants to imagine has made his fortune in the US. she leaves the only world she’s ever known to live in his home.

she tries. god, does she try. 

she’s never seen this kind of marriage. she’s only seen mutual admiration, respect, what the naive like to call love.  she’s just girlish enough to have expected the same things. you’d expect her to be angry. but it’s almost laughable, this ridiculous marriage. almost. 

she teaches herself to cook, to clean. there were always other people who did these menial tasks. but she learns. because that is what good wives do in this country.

she’s alone. all day. but when he comes home, she’s still alone. just more terrified.

it’s the rage. he has so much rage. and he’s cruel when he drinks. he tells her she’s ugly. he points out with scientific precision every way in which she is lacking. then he laughs and drinks some more. she knows, because she takes the bottles out every morning. 

she keeps it to herself. her mother, her sister – they’re still trying to recover. she can’t add her burden to their own. and even if she could, in those days it cost a small fortune to hear a familiar voice. anyways it’s easier to lie in writing, so she sticks to letters.

the years pass.  other people begin to notice. but as we all know one doesn’t talk about such impolite matters. there are small acts of kindness, a knowing look here and there. brief moments of relief. it’s just enough to keep her from feeling completely alone. but only just. 

she leaves a few times, and she always comes back, because they always go back to those bastards, don’t they? she wises up. either that or her survival instinct finally manages to override the guileless naif in her. she puts some money away. a little here and there. she realizes she has more going for her than she thought. or maybe it’s just that instinct coming to save her from herself again. she does the one thing they promised she would never have to do. she works. she makes enough to start renting a small apartment. her sanctuary against the dumb cruelty of it all. she’ll go back to him, sure, but she has learned enough to hold onto the apartment, just in case.

It's been a decade. She’d hoped to fulfill those other wifely duties, bear children. but they rot in her womb, as though they thought better of it and chose early death instead. our bodies sometimes hold a brutal kind of wisdom. 

she’s honestly too old to be having children. it’s almost embarrassing to get pregnant at this age. but who knows how much say she had in becoming so.

one small and squalling mercy. finally, someone else to bear this burden with. she will love, and cosset, and give, and nourish, and laugh, and cry, and do all the things she is supposed to do. she will mother. and she will do for this being what she has not been able to do for herself all this time. she will leave this man. when he throws them out one night, she will surprise herself. because she is laughing of all things – not what she’d expected at the end. there is no fire, there is no ice. I guess those were lies too, she thinks.

that night will not witness a spectacle. there are no tears, no angry outbursts. they’re beyond such juvenile emotional displays. instead, he will wordlessly hurl her purse out the window. it lands in the snow. she takes the keys and runs. she retreats to the apartment. he won’t even pretend to care. unlike her, he’s not really the romantic sort.

it would be best to go home, but what’s best is not always possible. going home to her mother like this, no more husband, just a useless baby girl. it would be better to return empty-handed. it’s not her mother who would turn her away. not really. it’s the rest of them. the terrible things they would say. the stain that it would leave on the family name.  from this far away, they can keep up the standard illusions — money, domestic bliss, and whatever else bespeaks migrant success. if she came back, she would shatter those lovely illusions. there’s really nothing worse than the truth.

so she stays. her world becomes small, but she doesn’t mind. she lives for this tiny, squirming, angry thing. it’s all that keeps her tethered to this world.

surely there was joy to be had in those years. but if someone were to tell her that this is the best life would have to offer, she wouldn’t have believed it. no one would. because what kind of life is that.