Twisted in You

by Fabiola Francisco

  “You good?” His eyebrows are drawn down, but I see the smile threatening to take over his face.

  “We’re ridiculous, you know?” I look around the cafeteria. “We’re stuck in here, against our will because we refuse to admit we have a problem. What is wrong with us?” I ask amused.

  It’s suddenly all so comical. As if I was stuck in some cartoon, looking from the outside in.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yup . . .” I try not to laugh again. It’s the inappropriate laugh that happens when an entire room is silent and the silence alone makes you burst into hilarity. Tyler smiles slowly.

  “Never thought I’d see the day Red would crack a smile, let alone serenade us with her laughter. You should do it more often.”

  “Thanks.” I slide down a few inches in my chair, using the table as a barrier, embarrassment seeping in. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Me either, but don’t let it get away. Progress . . .” he muses before excusing himself and leaving the cafeteria.

  I catch Sam looking at me briefly before pretending to busy herself with some papers she’s holding.

  Progress. Could it be? Could it be that telling Sam and Tyler what I lived through liberated me a bit?

  I take a stroll down the stone pathway in the outdoor area. I think back to my conversation with Sam. Forgiveness. That’s a hard one. I think eventually I can accept that I’m no longer a victim, but I don’t think I can forgive him for what he did. Some people don’t deserve forgiveness.

  I was so sheltered growing up. Not because my family was overprotective, but because we were so fucked up. I never had a computer or a smart phone. It wasn’t a part of my life. The library was my friend. I would use the computers for schoolwork and check out books to read. Sometimes I would sit in the aisles and read them there, to avoid going home.

  I would read anything that caught my eye, but our library was somewhat dated so they were mostly older books. My favorites were Little Women and The Great Gatsby. Such different eras than the one I lived in. I remember sitting on the floor and wishing the books would never end or the sun would never set.

  I take in the shaded patch as I continue to walk. For being such a large property, I sure do feel locked up. Possibly because my mind has me imprisoned. If I want to leave here a little stronger than when I entered, I’m going to have to break the bonds of my memories. At least make my stay here worthwhile. I’m meeting Sam later today for another session. If anyone can help me, I know it’s her.

  I walk back into the building and change for yoga. Not only does it allow me to relax, but I also feel myself getting physically stronger little by little. Building some kind of strength is better than none.

  “Good afternoon, Mikayla,” Carrie says as I roll out a mat.

  “Hi,” I smile tightly. I’m working on being less defensive.

  I begin to sweat as I flow through the poses. I breathe deeply, my focus on what I need to do and nothing else. It’s the one time of day that my mind is clear of anything. No memories wash up to the surface and no emotions burst through. It’s only me, my body, and the mat. I stare at the faint scars from my breakdown while my head is hanging upside down in downward dog. I didn’t get too deep, with an audience and all, but it was also a moment of insanity triggered by an unknown subject. Using the scissor was more an act of individuality than actually wanting to harm myself. I was rebelling.

  I rest in child’s pose a few seconds before Carrie guides us through another sun salutation. I think back to how the sun felt on me as I was walking earlier. Then, I think about Tyler’s smirk as I laughed wildly. I think deep down he’s a good person. It’d been so long since anything has made me laugh, even the ridiculousness of my situation. However insane I looked, there was no way I could keep it in.

  As I walk back to my room to get a change of clothes and to shower, I see a group of people sitting and hear music playing. I look and notice Tyler is sitting across from them, singing a song as he plays his guitar. This isn’t the kind of music I expected from him, but it does remind me of the song I peeked into when I heard him playing in his room.

  His voice is soft as he jumps from one song to another. I don’t sit, but I stand in the entrance of the room and listen. The words are soulful. They talk about life and pain. He sings about sorrow and deliverance. When his eyes meet mine, it’s clear he sings about himself. I watch as everyone is quiet and focused on him. I have a feeling this isn’t a usual for him while he’s here. I listen for a few more minutes before I need to shower to meet with Sam.

  “How are you doing today?” I shrug when Sam begins asking me questions. “That’s normal.” She smiles compassionately. “I want to talk about your mother today.”

  “What about her?” My back straightens.

  “Tell me more about her. Did you get along?”

  I resist rolling my eyes, but I’m pretty sure that Sam sees my annoyance regardless. “Not really. I mean, I don’t know. She worked a lot. And she refused to see what was going on until it was too late. She left me there with him. She didn’t protect me like a mother should.”

  “Ah, first thing we’re going to do is release the word should. Should is our own analysis of what is supposed to happen. It’s our judgment and we need to let go of our judgment in order to see things from all perspectives.” I tilt my head and look at her.

  “Sam, I’m totally judging.”

  “You’ll get there . . . by releasing words and thoughts like should. So, you feel like your mother didn’t protect you.” She nods her head for me to go on. I sigh purposely.

  “Yeah. Could she have been so oblivious?”

  “You never told her?” I shake my head.

  “She should ha—She would have known had she been paying attention.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that she had no idea how to view the truth?”

  “How can someone be that blind?” Sam smiles slowly, secretively.

  “You have no idea how blind people actually are.”

  “I was her daughter.” I feel myself getting agitated.

  “Yes, but she was also human.”

  “Fuck that.” Sam sits back, relaxed for the both of us, and waits for me to get a hold of myself. I analyze her while I breathe. Her eyes are dark and her hair is almost black, cut short. She’s the opposite of me. Sam is strong and dominant. I am fragile.

  “What made you who you are?”

  “We’re not talking about me. Let’s continue. Do you have any memory that brings you joy in relation to your mother?” I shrug. “You also need to dig deep and release your own shield.”

  “I guess I did. I mean, I must have some good memories.” I pause and think back. “She used to read to me when I was a little girl. I was always the quiet type.” Sam nods, encouraging me to continue. “She taught me to bake. Then, she started working more hours and I saw less of her. Maybe that’s when the abuse started and I had forgotten.” I ponder.

  “Our mind tends to protect us from memories we don’t want to have. It blocks traumas. The thing is that instead of protecting us, it betrays us because the memory is still stored within. We don’t remember it. Then, we begin to feel confused, hurt, depressed, but we can’t figure out why. It’s a defense mechanism that backfires. However painful a memory is, it is easier to work through it than live your entire life covering parts of your story.”

  “I remember enough.”

  “Yes, you remember a lot, which is to your advantage, but if the abuse began before you remember, there’s more to your story.” I nod as I let what she says sink in.

  “Is it like ripping off a Band-Aid?”

  “It’s a little more painful.” I grimace, but like that Sam is honest.

  “Fine. Let’s go.” I’m too tired of continuing this cycle.

  “When did your mom marry?”

  “Ever since I can remember she was married to him. I must have been about six.” I notice her taking notes, and then watch as
the back of the pen taps the notepad as she stares off.

  “What makes you happy?” I furrow my brows at her. “What do you like to do that puts you at peace?”

  “Reading?”

  “Don’t ask me. Tell me. What does Mikayla like to do?”

  “I like to read. It’s what I used to do growing up to stay out of the house. I’d go to the library and read books when I would finish my homework.”

  “What’s your favorite book?”

  “I love Little Women.”

  “Good choice.” She exhales strongly and I turn to look at her. “I loved Of Mice and Men growing up. Now it’s The Alchemist.” I nod. I enjoyed Of Mice and Men, too.

  “How is the art going?”

  “Good.” I slump back. “I like it.”

  “The writing?”

  “Not as much.”

  “Can we do an exercise?”

  “I guess.”

  “Here.” She hands me a couple of lined papers and a pen. “I want you to write what you remember. Don’t over think or question what comes to you. Simply write. It doesn’t have to be legible or in sequence of events. I won’t read it, but it may help release.” I look at her skeptically. She looks at me amused. “It’s not that bad.”

  I lean over and use the side table next to me to place my papers. I close my eyes a second but nothing comes to mind. I don’t know what to write. This must be writer’s block. I stare at white lines as they blur. Then, I hear soft music. I look up at Sam, and she’s placing an iPod down.

  “Pretend I’m not here, if it helps.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “It’ll come. Write anything.”

  I close my eyes and begin writing as I listen to the instrumental music. I’m sure the words aren’t following the lines and I hope I don’t write on the table. It’s easier not to watch what I’m doing.

  My eyes snap open.

  That’s what I used to do. Close my eyes shut to pretend I wasn’t witnessing it, when I was living it. I’m living this right now. I can’t deny the truth. I open my eyes and ignore the slanted writing and continue, but this time with eyes open.

  It’s not much that I write, but Sam says it’s a start. I shake my head when she asks if I want to read it to myself. I don’t throw it away though.

  “When I had my eyes closed in the beginning, I realized I was shutting them to not live what I was doing. It’s what I did when he would come into my room. I would close my eyes and pretend it wasn’t real. But it was.”

  “It’s easier to shut everything out.”

  “It is.”

  “But in shutting things out, we lose our truth. It may be painful to go through this, but once you overcome it, you’ll come out stronger.”

  “I hope so,” I murmur.

  “Trust me.”

  “I do. That’s why I’m here. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t waste my time.”

  “I know, and I’m glad I can help you. You’re not wasting your time.”

  “Poor choice of words, I guess.”

  “Before you go, I want to do one last exercise.” I nod my head slowly. “Close your eyes.” I look at her with confusion. “Trust me,” she emphasizes.

  Fine.

  I close my eyes and breathe. I hear the music, but what surprises me is hearing Sam chant ho’oponopono. Her voice is soft and she repeatedly speaks the phrase. I open one eye and see that hers are also closed. My breath comes in heavily and I close my eyes again, leaning back on the chair.

  I wait for her to finish, not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling. When she stops, I open my eyes and watch her looking at me.

  “We’ll practice on that.” She smirks knowingly.

  “That might be a good idea.” I stand and wipe my hands down my leggings. “Thanks, Sam.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “How’d it go?” Tyler walks beside me as I move down the hall. I turn my head to look at him. “What?” I raise my eyebrows, silently asking him what his deal is. “Want to make sure you’re doing okay.”

  “I’m fine, Tyler.” I walk ahead of him. I hear his heavy steps quickly beside me.

  “Good. Do you wanna hear a new song I wrote?”

  “I heard it when you were playing in the Lounge Room. Sounds good.”

  “It’s a different one.”

  “Um, I guess.”

  “Great.” He leads the way and I stop outside of his room. His guitar is leaning against his bed. “You can come in.”

  I stay standing, unsure.

  “Red, I’m not going to hurt you. You can sit across the room. I wanted to show you this song.” He says this so normal. Noting that the door is open, I walk in and sit on the floor next to the door. “You’re ridiculous.” He shakes his head, chuckling to himself.

  He begins to play the guitar and his voice is pained as he sings. I listen carefully and I can only assume the song is about his father.

  I refuse to be like you.

  I watch him continue his song, noting that it’s the best I’ve heard from him so far. Once he’s done, he places down the guitar and looks at me.

  “That’s amazing,” I compliment.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m guessing that won’t make the album cut.” Tyler shakes his head. “Why not?”

  “I have a brand. Its what people expect from me. I need to stick to that. I can’t throw something like this at my audience. It doesn’t match.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I was under the impression that you did what you wanted.”

  “I built this brand. It was my choice, but that also means I have to stick to it.”

  “Whatever. I say you do what you want. Screw the brand.”

  “You’re something else.”

  “Why did you want to show me the song then?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the only person I know here.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “No, I mean, I thought you’d appreciate it. Besides, you don’t know my music so it would be an unbiased opinion. And okay . . . I wanted to show it to you. You’re cool, Red.”

  I know I’m socially inept, considering I haven’t had any friends, but I think that’s a compliment.

  “Wanna hear another one?” I nod and smile when Tyler’s eyes sparkle. Music is his thing. I lean against the wall and listen quietly.

  “Play me one of your real songs.”

  “Real songs?” Tyler tilts his head back, puzzled.

  “Yeah, like the ones that don’t get blacklisted.”

  “Just because they aren’t included in my albums doesn’t make them fake.”

  “No one else hears them, so as far as everyone is concerned, they don’t exist,” I counter. In the past week, Tyler has been showing me all the songs he’s written that have never seen the light of day. I don’t know why he doesn’t share them. Make an album for those songs. He has plenty.

  He ignores my jab and picks up his guitar. His voice is gruffer in this song and the rhythm is more rock and a lot rougher. I listen intently—noting that I’m comparing this song to the others I’ve heard—as he sings about bikers and country life.

  “So?” He looks at me, waiting for a response.

  “It’s good.”

  “It sounds better with more instruments.”

  “I said it was good, but seeing you need to defend it against the other songs . . . you should reflect on that.”

  “Not defending it. I love this song. I love my sound. It’s me.”

  “But so are the other songs. I gotta go see Sam.”

  “That’s good?” His eyes stare at me intently.

  “Yeah.” I walk out of his room and head to meet Sam.

  This will be my fifth session with her. She’s slowly helping me chip away the fear I hold. I sit in my usual spot and apologize for being late.

  “It’s okay.” She looks at me expectantly, and I begin doing what I’m supposed to do. I grab paper and being sketchin
g what comes to me. Although the writing was working, drawing is more my thing. We decided that the first five minutes of each session I would sketch what comes to me. Then we discuss it. It provides an opener and topic from my subconscious instead of judgment.

  “Ready?” Sam asks and I nod, looking at the paper. Most times I’m not sure what I’m drawing until I step back and look at the whole picture.

  “It’s a bedroom.”

  “Is that where—” I nod, interrupting her. “We haven’t touched upon him yet.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “You’ll never be ready.”

  “You already know everything. How many times am I going to have to tell it again?”

  “It’s not repeating the experience, it’s working through it. Or do you want to live your life with scars on your body?” She raises her eyebrows in a challenge.

  “The scars are a release! It’s the only thing that lets me feel better.”

  “How great would it be to have nothing to feel better about? How great if you enjoyed life without needing a reason to release from.”

  “Fine.” I cross my arms over my chest. “What do you want to know? How he entered me? How he would sneak into my room with alcohol-laced breath and trespass? Or do I need to get more vulgar? Because Sam, he raped me, over and over, and I didn’t stop him. Is that enough?”

  “Mikayla . . .” Her voice is measured, but I ignore her.

  “How his hands would snake down and force my legs open, no matter how tightly I closed them. Or how he would slap me around if I didn’t comply?”

  “Enough!” She stands up and paces the room.

  “Why does that upset you?” I look up at her.

  “I want to help you.” She runs a hand down her face. She sits back down after a few beats, determined to help me. I shiver involuntarily and close my eyes, holding myself together.

  “Stand up.”

  “What?”

  “Stand.” She stands in front of me. I get up and look at her. “Ho’oponopono can be done in four steps. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you. It’s an ancient practice. Don’t worry about who you’re speaking to, repeat after me and maintain eye contact.”