Confined

by Barbi Barnard

  She shrugged, sniffling. “Reliving the past.”

  I got up and crossed the kitchen, standing next to her, but respecting her boundaries, and said, “I wish I had some ingenious words of wisdom. You say you’re afraid of reliving the past, but it seems like, to me, you’re still there. You let what happened define you. You let it become who you are. Therapy will help you let go of all that. You’re still holding onto it.”

  I knew, and I’m sure she did too, that she wasn’t afraid of reliving the past. She was afraid of letting go. The rape had become her crutch and her shield. It was her way of keeping people out, without it, she’d have to find a new way to hide.

  “You said I could talk to the department’s therapist?” she asked, looking up at me with watery brown eyes.

  I nodded. “I can take you to see him on Monday, if you like.”

  “I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that a lot.”

  Chapter Eight

  Every decision is a complicated battle between what if and reality. “What happens if I can’t accomplish my goals,” what if cries.

  “You’ve already accomplished things much harder,” reality counters.

  And back and forth they go, what if whining and reality countering. Such was the battle raging in my head right now. What if I went back to therapy and it made me even more of a basket case than I already was? What if I never got better? What if I was destined to be the girl who was raped and never got over it?

  By the time I fell asleep Saturday night I felt myself equally torn in two. I knew I had to go, but I didn’t want to. On Sunday, I woke Emma up early and we drove into Seattle because the foreboding feeling lingering around Mora was too damn oppressive. We spent the day strolling around Pike Place Market and even went to the Starbucks there. Emma found it amusing that there that was where the phenomenon that was Starbucks started. She whispered loudly to me that Dunkin was still better, causing those around us to smile at her. It was late when we finally got home. As I pull into the driveway, I discreetly checked the street to make sure there were no mysterious cars parked along the street.

  At that precise moment, I knew it was time to take back my life. I wasn’t setting a good example for my daughter, how could I tell her to be brave or strong if I wasn’t?

  At first, the thought of going to therapy was one of those things that you decide rashly. It was like one of those decisions that come after being induced by a moment, kind of like being arrested for possession of crack and vowing the entire time you’re in lockup that when you get out you’ll never touch the stuff again, but as soon as you’re released the first thing you do is seek out that first fix. I’d fooled myself into believing that I was fine, that I’d gotten over what happened and that I didn’t need help, that I was actually better off without it.

  I shut the car off and gently shook Emma awake. “Come on, baby girl, we’re home.” Emma grumbled and rolled over, her face pressed against the window. “Emma, come on.”

  She shot me a dirty look and reached for her seatbelt. Satisfied she was awake; I got out of the car and popped the trunk to collect our shopping bags. Emma got out of the car as I slammed the trunk, the pair of us made our way sleepily up the front walk and into the warmth of the house.

  I dropped the bags in the foyer, locked the door, and trail up the stairs behind Emma. In my room, I glanced at the alarm clock and sigh. Monday morning would be here in just a few short hours. I unbutton my jeans and toss them in the clothesbasket by the closet then climb into bed.

  As usual, the alarm clock went off at seven a.m. I roll over and smack it, mentally willing it to cease its whiny scream. Once the silence is restored, I close my eyes and exhale, happy for a few more minutes of blissful silence.

  A few minutes turn into an hour. When I wake up again it was quarter after eight and I can hear the school bus chugging its way down the street. I hop up and call Emma’s name. “Get up,” I shout. “We’re gonna be late!” I dash into the closet and look around for something to wear to work.

  I pull on a pair of khaki slacks and a black sweater as quickly as I can. Hopping into the hallway, the heel of my one shoe clicking on the floorboards as I attempt to pull on the second one roused Emma out of her room still sporting a shocking bed head ‘doo.

  I push her towards the bathroom. “Go.” I said. “Brush your hair. We’ve got to go.”

  She grumbles under her breath as she shuffles down the hall. I hurry down the stairs and quickly pull out a freezer bag with God only knows what in it toss it in the fridge then turn toward the cabinet where the pop tarts are stashed. I grab two and hurry back toward the stairs.

  “Emma Grace, if you don’t get down here in the next fifteen seconds I swear to God I will make you walk to school!” I shout up the stairs before hurrying to find my purse. I trip over a bag from last night and fall to my knees, hitting them on the cold, hard wood floor. I curse at the bag and push myself up. As I dust myself off, Emma comes clomping down the stairs, a sour look on her face. “Are you ready?” I snap. She nods and picks her backpack up off the floor. I hand her the smashed pop tart and her coat then slip mine on before heading outside.

  I speed through the neighborhood, silently thanking God that I work for the police department, because if I didn’t I would have had about six speeding tickets. After I drop Emma off in front of the school, I rounded the corner and stop at the stop sign. The chiming of bells from the church across the street catches my attention. A sign on the lawn of the church proclaimed, “Staying in bed yelling, “oh God!” does not constitute going to church.” Then in smaller, black letters underneath, a support group meeting was scheduled for tonight at seven.

  As I pull through the intersection, I wonder what kind of support group it was and whether it was something that might be beneficial for me to attend. I was still undecided about therapy. I knew that I had to go, but I still didn’t want to.

  I was, however, sick and tired of being the victim. I was ready to put it all behind me, but equally scared as well. I held onto the fear, used it to protect myself; it helped keep people away, but here was this man, this incredible man who – even after hearing that I was damaged goods – still wanted something to do with me. He wasn’t trying to fix me, or make me into someone I wasn’t. He truly seemed like he wanted me to get better on my own. I knew he wouldn’t wait forever for me to find help, but he would wait a reasonable amount of time.

  Sometime over the weekend, I’d come to the conclusion that I was – am – a self-deprecation junkie. I crave situations that I know will end badly so that I could punish myself for something that happened a long time ago. Take Steve for example. I had a good feeling that if I didn’t get some help and get right in the head we would end badly, and I would wallow in the grief just as I’d wallowed in Kyle. I was an emotional cutter; there weren’t any scars on my porcelain skin, but I’m pretty sure if you cut my chest open, my heart would be a series of puckered and pale scars flaying the smooth lines and valleys of my very human heart.

  Even now, driving to the station with the radio pleading for me to find myself, I still didn’t know what I was going to do. The argument in my head went something like this: go to therapy, no don’t, go, don’t go.

  I feel like I am being pulled in one direction, pushed in another all the while my feet were super glued to the floor and frankly, I’m sick of it. I want a life that will be worth living, a life that – when it was over, I could look back on with pride and say it wasn’t perfect, but I sure as hell lived it the best I could. I’m sick and tired of feeling dirty, unlovable, and used up.

  As I pull into the parking lot of the police station, Steve is walking out the front door talking on his cell phone. I put the car into park and the line of the song caught my attention.

  “With you in time

  There’s nothing else

  My life stands still

  You are the will that makes me strong

  Make me strong

  If ever alone
in this world, I know I’ll always…”

  Across the lot, he looks up and, noticing my car, smiles, lifting his hand in silent greeting. I smile and give a brief wave back. The song on the radio continues,

  “Find me, here in your arms,

  Now I’m wondering where you’ve always been

  Blindly, I came to you

  Knowing you’d breathe new life from within…”

  In that instant I know what I want. I want to be free of the ties that bound me to the past. I want to play the violin again and I want to fall in love with a man and not feel like I was being suffocated from the inside out. I want Emma to have a normal family and a normal mother – not some weirdo circus freak who goes pale if one of the dads sits to close at her school functions.

  I want the years that I lost back. I want so many things, things I’ve been too scared to want before. I want to make love to a man and feel the love in his every touch. I want to hunt down Rodger and Tyler and kick them in the balls about seven times for what they did to me.

  As I get out of the car, Steve approaches me with a smile. “Good morning,” he greets. “How was the city?”

  “It was good; Emma and I had a lot of fun. How was football?”

  “Amazing,” he replies enthusiastically. “Still want to go see Dr. Conrad?”

  “Well,” I say wringing my hands, “I kind of want to see a woman. Do you think you could recommend someone?”

  “Sure,” Steve says. “Actually, I can.”

  I eye him curiously. “Who?”

  “His wife. She has an office in the community hospital. I can get the number for you, if you’d like.”

  “Could you? That would be great.” The inside of my mouth feels like the Sahara desert at noon. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and the strawberry Pop Tart I’d eaten on my way to work was making my stomach upset.

  “Sure,” he smiles. “I’ll have it for you before close of business.”

  ***

  When I came back from lunch, there was a yellow post it note stuck to my phone with a hastily scribbled number on it. I quickly pull it off the phone lest someone recognized the number and stuff it into my pocket. I think about calling from my desk phone, but again, I didn’t want anyone to overhear so I retrieved my cell phone from my purse and lock myself in the bathroom before calling.

  A pleasant sounding secretary answers the phone. “Good afternoon, Doctor Conrad’s office, how may I help you today?”

  “Hi,” I squeak slowly, trying to keep the stutter out of my voice. “I think I need to make an appointment, preferably as soon as possible.”

  “Okay dear, let me see when Dr. Conrad will be available.” There was a short pause, then she returns, “I have a cancellation; we can schedule you for tomorrow at eleven fifteen. Is that too early?”

  “No,” I reply. “That would be great.”

  The secretary collects my information and ends the call with a chipper, “Have a nice day.”

  I thank her and hang up, my head spinning with all the possibilities. I tell Steve that I will be gone tomorrow morning and head home. Tonight, I help Emma with her homework, made fudge and curl up on the couch after she goes to bed with a book that I was only pretending to read. At eleven thirty I wearily climb the stairs knowing I wasn’t going to sleep much that night.

  And I don’t. I spend the night, tossing and turning; fear and anticipation over the upcoming day. Again, the possibilities taunt me; visions of a normal life come to life in my head, scenes where I’m lying in Steve’s arms right now, instead of in my own cold, lonely empty bed.

  The sugar plum ideals all came to a screeching halt the following morning as I sit in my car feeling hollow and numb after my first session with the evil Doctor Conrad. I walked into the hospital this morning, legs shaking, breath uneven. I found Dr. Conrad’s office easily and sat down in the hard plastic chair the receptionist pointed at.

  Fifteen minutes, and several panic attacks, later, Dr. Conrad’s office door opened. She smiled down at me, a reed thin woman with blonde hair who looked just like Goldie Hawn with fangs like a rattlesnake.

  She guided me into her office and waited until I was seated comfortably before snapping the trap. “So,” she said in a hushed voice, “Tell me why you’re here.”

  From her position across from me, she crossed her legs and opened a leather bound notebook; her expensive pen hovered over the blank page. I numbly recounted the night then stared blankly at her. I don’t see how this was supposed to help. “Tell me again,” she ordered.

  I stared at her in disbelief. “Are you some kind of sadist?” I blurted out. “I just told you about how I was raped by three assholes then chucked down a flight of stairs. Oh and knocked up, and you want me to tell you again? Screw you.”

  “You need to come to grips with what happened,” she said. “You spit out the story so fast, like it was trivial or didn’t matter. If that’s the case then why are you here?”

  I stared down at my lap and shrugged. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I whispered.

  “Then leave,” Dr. Conrad said. “I can only do so much for you, but there’s going to come a time when you have to step up and take control of this runaway cart that is your life. I can sit here right now and tell you that even though I don’t know you, I know that you’ve let everyone else think for you, act for you, and do for you, all because you’ve been too afraid to do for yourself. Take the reins and take back the control.”

  I felt like I’d been slapped in the face. I felt like she was basically telling me to get the fuck over it. So what, she was actually saying, you were raped, big deal, get over it.

  “But let me tell you one thing, if you’re willing to wade through the muck, and seriously commit to getting better, then you will. Only you can make yourself better. I can help, but I can’t do it for you. Now if you really want to do this, I want you to make another appointment, go buy yourself a journal and start writing down how you feel. If you express your emotions instead of bottling them up, then maybe you’ll find yourself really starting to heal.”

  And basically, ladies and gentleman, that’s how therapy went. But you know what? I went back. I liked Dr. Conrad’s no nonsense attitude and take on life. I bought the journal like she said and wrote down what I’m feeling or thinking or just whatever popped into my head.

  Before I know it, I’m buying another journal and soon I have a box full of them in the attic. I take up kick boxing, and learn self defense, I even found a group of women who had been through some kind of trauma, some suffered from domestic abuse, others were raped, some were molested, we were all united in some shape, form or fashion.

  The fall melted into the winter, Halloween came, as did thanksgiving and Christmas. Before I knew it, the New Year was knocking on our door. Every day I felt a little bit stronger, a little bit more like a person I wanted to be. Every day I grew closer to Steve, I became a better mother to Emma; I even picked up the violin and started playing again.

  I was rusty and it showed, but holding the instrument in my hands again after all these years felt right. The creepy phone calls stopped and life began. For the first time in a long time, I was happy; happier than I’d probably ever been.

  One evening during the first week of January, the three of us, Emma, Steve and I, were in the living room watching TV. Well, Emma was watching TV, completely absorbed in whatever it was she was watching. I was lying down on the couch with my head in Steve’s lap.

  “This is nice,” I told him.

  He smiled and brushed a strand of hair off my forehead. “It is,” he agreed.

  I sighed, content with my life. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a hell of a lot better than it was a few months ago. As the credits ran on the TV, Emma pushed herself up off the floor.