Processing the Process

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The Simple Star

Over a period of 18 years, I was trained to be available. So when he knocks on the door, I don't think-I just move. It's muscle memory. My stomach drops, but my feet walk to the door. Even when I know it's him, and even when I promised myself I wouldn't answer, I find my hand on the latch. 

Every single time, I feel so disappointed in myself. Why did I let him in again?

Today, I put a tiny obstacle in my own way. I put a small star sticker right above the deadbolt.

To anyone else, it looks like my kids were just playing around. More importantly, if he notices it and asks, I have my script ready: "Oh, I didn't even notice. The kids must have put it there. How cute."

But to me, it isn't cute. It is a Stop Sign, a Warning Light.

Now, when there is a knock at the door and my hand reaches for the lock automatically, I see this star. It forces me to pause for just one second. It breaks the spell. It gives me just enough time to remember: I don't have to open this door.

The Price of Hope

I call it "cracking."

It's that moment when I finally get tired of saying no. The moment when I start to think, Maybe this time will be different. Maybe we can just be a normal family for a while again. So I let him in.

We do normal things. We watch movies. We play cards. But underneath the surface, I am working. I have to keep my wits about me. I am monitoring his mood, managing the conversations, all while waiting for the mask to slip. And it always does. 

Once I finally get him to leave, the toll hits me.

As soon as that deadbolt clicks, I collapse. I fall into a sleep so deep it feels like a coma. I might not wake up until 5 PM the next day. 

I used to judge myself harshly for this. I used to wonder why "hanging out" left me bedridden. But now I know: I wasn't just hanging out. I was in high alert survival mode. Once the threat is gone, my body demands its payment.

Stories told in pixels

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