Out of Love

by Hazel Hayes

  ‘I still have a scar,’ I say, holding out my right forearm so Nadia can see. She leans forward to take a look.

  ‘What made you think of that dog?’ she asks, even though she already knows the answer. Therapists do that a lot.

  ‘The way I was with Theo that night,’ I tell her. ‘It just reminded me.’

  ‘I see.’

  She frowns as though realising something and asks, ‘Have you ever been angry with that dog for lashing out at you?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘it was just scared.’

  ‘But you are angry with yourself for lashing out at Theo,’ she says.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Well, are you?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I should know better. I’m not a dog.’

  She smiles, then says, ‘We’re not that dissimilar, you know, especially when we’re scared.’

  Nadia asks what happened next with Theo and the thing I remember most clearly was an overwhelming desire to go home. I wanted to be back in my own bed. I wanted to hear my mother snoring through the wall. I wanted my duvet, my toothpaste, my glow-in-the-dark stars above me and the familiar sound of the creaky floorboards below me. But Theo wouldn’t let me go home alone in such a state; he told me afterwards that I was so exhausted, my eyes were practically rolling back in my head. So he put me in his bed and stroked my hair until I fell asleep and apparently I apologised over and over as I drifted off. Theo made a bed on the floor next to me and in the morning he brought me a cup of tea. Then I went home, completely mortified and convinced he’d never want to see me again.

  I didn’t talk to him for a few days. I couldn’t. I physically couldn’t. Every time I so much as pictured his face, or thought of his name, everything got suddenly too bright and too loud, my chest tightened, my stomach turned and a wave of heat burned across the back of my neck, like someone was holding a hot iron just an inch away from my skin. I kept myself distracted as best I could, but I knew I had to see him. And when I did, I knew I had to end it.

  He couldn’t understand why I was breaking up with him. As far as he was concerned it was just a silly fight; he didn’t care about the tattoo, he didn’t mean to say those things and he was sorry he upset me. And maybe that’s what I looked like on the outside, just a very upset woman, but on the inside I felt like I was fighting for my life.

  The urge to run away was all I could focus on. Thoughts swam around in my head and they all seemed logical … It was too soon. I shouldn’t have rushed into another relationship. We were getting too serious too fast. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t need another man in my life. I didn’t need the hassle. So I should just end it, I decided, I should just end it and take care of myself for a while.

  I lasted a week.

  As soon as I removed the pressure of being with Theo, all of my symptoms went away: the tight chest, the nausea, the hot neck. I felt absolutely fine. And suddenly, breaking up with him seemed drastic and entirely unnecessary. I missed him. I wanted to be with him. So I called him to explain.

  Cold feet, I said. Nerves, I said. A little anxiety maybe. It might even have been PMS!

  We arranged to meet up that weekend, see a movie, and go for a drink. Theo understood completely that it had all been too much too soon, and before we hung up he said he wanted to take things slow. He told me there was no rush, that he was just happy to be with me, and he would wait for me if I needed more time.

  WAIT FOR ME?

  In an instant all those horrid feelings came flooding back. I was right back in it, and this time I had a guarantee that he wasn’t going anywhere!

  No.

  I didn’t want that.

  Did I?

  I wanted to be with him.

  But I didn’t want to feel like this.

  For fuck’s sake!

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  I should be happy.

  Why can’t I be happy!?

  ‘And that’s when I picked up the phone to make this appointment,’ I say.

  Nadia takes a long breath, then stares out of the window for a few moments, tapping her pen against her lower lip. She asks when I first began to feel this way – the tight chest and so on – and I tell her it was when I was still with Zak. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly when it started; there are moments I remember vividly, and entire segments of our relationship that feel blurry and dislodged. It’s like my brain is a messy filing cabinet with some memories in the wrong drawer, some with smudged ink, and some missing completely.

  But as Nadia carefully presses me for information, I am forced to open up those drawers and look at things I’d never really looked at before. And as we trawl further and further back through my relationship with Zak, I start to see all the warning signs with a stinging sort of clarity. There were countless incidents that should have rung big, booming alarm bells in my head and suddenly I’m furious with myself for being so blind, and for staying so long.

  I was just going through the motions like some broken automaton with a plastered-on smile. I would see friends and family enough that they didn’t worry, but behind the scenes I was spending days, sometimes weeks, unable to get out of bed, go to work or live my life at all. I would convince myself I was ill, a viral infection perhaps, and tell myself, and Zak, that all I needed was rest. I’ll just stay here in the dark until I’m better, dear. And he’d go off to work and come back in the evening none the wiser. Sometimes I made myself sick; I’d have big meals, then feel immediately nauseous, so I’d ram my fingers down my throat until I vomited. Afterwards I’d tell myself it was something I ate. I saw numerous doctors but they couldn’t find anything physically wrong. They’d ask if things were all right at home and I’d lie and say everything was fine.

  I’ve tried to tell people what it was like – I’ve even tried to tell Theo – but the first thing they all ask is, ‘Why didn’t you just leave?’

  Good question.

  Why didn’t I?

  I ask myself this a lot. It plagues me. Especially late at night. It is the theme of most of my nightmares, where I’m trapped in a house with Zak and I can’t get out, and I know the real world exists somewhere, but I can’t quite remember what it looks like or where it is or who’s there waiting for me, and he won’t stop shouting long enough for me to figure it out.

  Even when I was still with him I would ask myself why. I’d lie awake at night, the harsh blue glare of my phone screen lighting up my face as I trawled through forums and articles and advice columns, searching for answers. I’d take quizzes and tick off checklists.

  Does your partner ever belittle or humiliate you?

  Does your partner blame his bad behaviour on his mental health or family history?

  Does your partner ever shout or act out violently?

  Does your partner make you do things you don’t want to do?

  Are you ever afraid of your partner?

  I’d score too high and then I’d retake the tests so I could answer more conservatively. Maybe I was being too harsh, I’d tell myself. But whichever way you sliced it, all signs pointed to abuse. Zak’s methods looked so different from my father’s that somehow they had slipped under the radar until it was too late.

  So, why didn’t I leave? If he was so awful. And I knew he was abusing me. Why didn’t I leave?

  I tried to, but every time I did, Zak convinced me to stay. He told me he’d die without me. Threatened to hurt himself. Even threatened to make my life hell. As if it wasn’t already. I’d tell him I wasn’t happy, and he’d promise me things would get better. But they never did. He’d behave himself for a few weeks and then he’d get drunk, lash out, scream and shout and say the cruellest things. After every episode like this he’d break down, clutch at me and cry on me and beg for me to stay. He said that he’d get help, that he was only like this because of the things his father did to him, and he’d question what kind of person I was for even considering leaving him
in such a time of need. He’d describe in grotesque detail how his father would hurt him as a child. And because I was never left to starve or beaten with a hammer, I told myself Zak had had it worse than me. That he needed me. That I had to help him.

  By the end I was focusing all my attention on the stupid minutiae of the wedding, because maybe if I had the right dress and the right flowers and the perfect fucking three-tiered cupcake tower, it wouldn’t matter that I was terrified of the groom.

  I’ve done enough research to know that people get stuck in these relationships all the time – strong, successful, seemingly happy people. I know that it takes women, on average, seven attempts before they finally leave an abusive partner. I know that I was young when I met him, practically a child, and still highly impressionable. I know my history of abuse made me an easy target. I know some part of him knew this too and that’s why he chose me. I know the seven-year age gap meant he could tell me how things were ‘supposed to be’ and I believed him. I know my only model of a relationship growing up was an unhealthy one. And I know now that he did this to other girls too.

  I know that staying with him doesn’t mean I’m weak. I know it wasn’t my fault. I know all this. But knowing something and believing something are two very different things.

  And part of me still blames myself for staying.

  My fists are clenched. Nadia asks if I’m all right.

  ‘I’m pissed off,’ I say.

  ‘With?’

  ‘Myself,’ I spit back, ‘I’m so fucking angry with myself. I should know better. I know about mental illness. I have friends with depression and eating disorders. I knew a guy who got so bad he killed himself. But I let myself unravel. I just stood back and watched it happen.’

  Nadia looks out of the window again and thinks a moment.

  ‘Are you still making yourself sick?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘that stopped as soon I left him.’

  ‘Good,’ she says, then her gaze shifts from the window back to me.

  ‘There was a study, a long time ago, with three groups of puppies,’ she says, finally. ‘The first group was always treated with love and affection. The second group were beaten and mistreated all the time. And the third group received a mixture of both love and punishment, with no particular rhyme or reason for either. Now, which group of puppies do you think showed the most loyalty and obedience to their handlers?’

  ‘The first one?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘The third group of puppies became the most loyal, subservient dogs, because while they were sometimes mistreated, there was always the hope that this time, maybe, they’d receive love instead. And so they always came back for more.’

  ‘That’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,’ I say.

  Nadia tells me about another study they did where they put three groups of dogs in harnesses. Nothing happened to the first group, the second group received electric shocks that they could stop by pushing a lever, and the third group were shocked too, but they had no way of stopping it. Later, they put all the dogs in cages, which they could easily escape from, and administered electric shocks again. The first and second group just walked out, but the third lay down and took it.

  ‘They had learned that there was nothing they could do to stop the pain,’ says Nadia. ‘They believed they had no control, and so they allowed themselves to suffer. It’s called learned helplessness.’

  ‘People really need to ease up on dogs,’ I say.

  ‘They don’t do those studies any more,’ she replies, ‘but the findings are fascinating. Like I said, we’re not all that different from dogs, or any animal, for that matter. When we’re afraid, in danger, or suffering, logic goes out of the window, our primary goal is survival. You were afraid, and you felt you had no control, so you did what you believed you had to in order to survive.’

  ‘But why do I feel this way now?’ I ask. ‘I left him. He’s gone.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to guess at a diagnosis based solely on what you’ve told me today,’ says Nadia, ‘but it sounds like you have an acute anxiety disorder. The panic, depression and sickness you felt were all physical manifestations of the suffering and conflict in your mind. Your body was trying to warn you that something was wrong, but Zak’s erratic behaviour confused you into thinking there wasn’t a problem, or indeed, that you were the problem, not him. So you ignored all the warnings and pushed through. Now, the new relationship, the fight, Theo being a bit controlling, have all triggered those old feelings.’

  ‘So I’m allergic to love?’ I ask.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ she says, ‘but in a way, yes.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘You were wrong about your butterfly effect, though. Singing in the shower, getting that tattoo … that’s not where it started. It goes back much further, and you would have ended up here eventually, I think.’

  She’s right. There are more files stashed away down the back of my messy filing cabinet, all gathering dust in the dark.

  ‘You talk about your mother a lot but you haven’t mentioned your father once,’ says Nadia. Her voice has softened a little.

  ‘There’s not much to say,’ I reply, matter-of-factly. ‘He was an abusive, alcoholic asshole who occasionally beat my mother, made all our lives hell and finally fucked off when I was eight years old.’

  ‘Did he ever hit you?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘he’d just tickle us until we puked, and dangle us over the staircase by our ankles, and throw cold water on us in our beds sometimes. You know, fun stuff. Stuff that doesn’t leave any visible marks.’

  Nadia seems surprisingly unfazed.

  ‘What about Zak?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘he kicked things a lot. And punched holes in the walls. But he never hit me.’

  Nadia nods. She’s stopped making notes.

  ‘Were either of them sexually abusive towards you?’

  I stare at her for a moment. I want to tell her but the words won’t come out. All I can do is nod, then I look away immediately.

  ‘Both of them?’ she asks.

  I nod again, staring at the floor.

  ‘Until I met Theo,’ I say, tears in my eyes, ‘I didn’t know what sex was supposed to be.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘And for what it’s worth, I understand.’

  She does, too. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me now. We’re like mirrors, silently reflecting one another’s sad truth. Our quiet nods speaking volumes. Our soundless stories shared.

  Nadia hands me a tissue and waits for me to compose myself, then she does something I never knew I would need when this moment came; she thanks me for trusting her enough to share this with her, she acknowledges how hard it must have been for me, and she promises that the information will stay between us.

  ‘Am I the first person you’ve told?’ she asks.

  I nod again.

  ‘And what are you afraid will happen if you tell someone?’

  ‘That they’ll want to know the details,’ I say.

  Nadia nods. She gets it.

  ‘It’s like when someone commits suicide,’ I say. ‘The first question everyone asks is, “How?” Like it matters how they killed themselves. Like knowing the gory details might somehow change what happened.’

  ‘I don’t want to be the subject of someone’s morbid curiosity. I don’t want them to imagine me that way. I don’t want people to think about me like that every time they hug me or touch me. I’d rather they just didn’t know. I’d rather carry it myself.’

  My voice cracks under the weight of these last words. Nadia hands me a tissue and says nothing until I’m ready to speak again.

  ‘Can you fix me?’ I ask finally.

  ‘No,’ she says, ‘but you can.’

  ‘Nice. Very Karate Kid.’

  ‘Do you always deflect difficult emotions with humour?’ asks Nadia, deadpan.

  ‘Not always,’ I say, still da
bbing my eyes. ‘Sometimes I light small fires.’

  I smile at her. She doesn’t smile back.

  ‘I don’t do that.’

  ‘I know,’ she says. Then, ‘Yes, you can get better. And I can help. But it’s going to take a lot of hard work and dedication. This won’t be easy.’

  ‘Nothing is,’ I say.

  Nadia glances at the clock and realises we only have five minutes left, so she suggests we use the remaining time on something that will help tide me over until my next session. My next session, she says, and I flash back to this morning when I naively thought I might only need one, like all those people who go to the gym one time and wonder why they’re not buff yet.

  I ask how many sessions we’ll need. I like plans, strategies, certainties, and I want her to tell me on exactly which future date I will be fixed. She, of course, can’t tell me that – all she can say is that we’ll need a few months, at least – so we schedule another appointment for the following week and she writes it down in her diary. Then she closes the little notebook in her lap, looks up at me and asks what my biggest concern is in this moment.

  I tell Nadia that I’m afraid what happened with Theo will happen again. I confess that sometimes I feel like someone else is behind the wheel, some other version of me, my fear perhaps, and I’m just cowering in the back seat, watching my fear drive me around. I can see everything happening through the windscreen, but I can’t do anything about it. Then this ‘other me’ looks back over her shoulder and tells me it’s better this way: You shouldn’t be driving, she says, you shouldn’t make the decisions, because look what happens when you do.

  ‘She tells me I’m broken and I can’t be fixed. And I’m afraid she might be right.’

  Nadia regards me a moment before speaking.

  ‘Are you a banana?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Are you a banana?’ she asks again, with no hesitation and not a hint of a smile.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I am not a banana.’