trauma does not exist. part 2

our roles are scripted, our movements choreographed. she is usually reclining on a sofa or a bed. i stand in front of her, tense and ready for our ritual. 

she doesn’t remember what set her off but that hardly matters. she’ll stray so far from the original slight that neither of us will recall why this is happening. what’s important is only that it happens.

there will be no violent eruption. no, there is something delicate about her. the way a tiny crack spiderveins across the surface of glass before it shatters.

I wouldn’t call it screaming, though it is loud and unpleasant. it’s more of a release because she’s finally safe enough. her body is simply letting out a long, deep, and ragged breath.

she addresses the matter at hand, cursory and careless because that’s not what we’re here for. before long we are on familiar ground. we telescope back to a time and place when the roles were reversed -- she was small and she was alone. these are the moments when I learn about Him, and through Him, myself. 

he was a scientist. he drank. he was violent. he was cruel. He was a monster, so i too am monstrous. i am my father’s daughter. 

i suspect there’s a bit more to it. it’s been years, and what does she have to show for it? another useless husband, another failed marriage.

but this is why she needs me. she can’t carry all that pain by herself. she needs someone who will commiserate with her, who will grieve the loss of what no one ever promised her. and who better than the only being who reminds her of the darkest period of her life.

I know my part. I stand, an empty receptacle for the stream of invective. there’s no malice to it, it’s just what we have to do every once in a while. we both know it won’t stop until I cry, like waving a white flag. you’d think I would learn to cry sooner. I tried that once. it didn’t work.

I learn to grit my teeth, set my jaw, ball my fists. in each act, she sees more evidence of Him. good, I think to myself. at least I can still hurt her.

at first, I pray for it to end. but after a while, I begin to take a perverse enjoyment in these moments. it’s the only time I get to hear about Him. it’s only like this, when it’s just the two of us again, that she will tell me who I am. 

she doesn’t know it but I’m becoming like her, too. with each of our sessions, our intimacy grows. because this must be how He made her feel – mute and powerless, simmering with resentment. in this way, I become my mother’s daughter.

it’s around this time when I will wonder for the first time, but not the last, why she didn’t just leave me in the snow that night too.