A Fictional (?) Story of Emotional Abuse
Trigger Warning: The following article contains sensitive content that might be triggering to abuse survivors.
Recently, I found something I wrote in 2022. I even posted it on my Medium page, which I never use and forgot existed, but it’s still there, hanging in the digital air like dust in the aftermath of a demolition.
I wrote it as a fictional story, but looking back on it today, I realize how much it reveals about me. However, I won’t get into that. But I would like to post it here for anyone who might find it helpful.
“You, my friend, feel guilty. I understand; believe me, I understand.
The thought of leaving him to make yourself happy—to protect yourself—to live the life you long to live, is almost unbearable. And you usually ignore it.
Because you’re kindhearted; otherwise, you would have left a long time ago. And that is the problem with people like us—we care too much. We care so much about others, their feelings, their situations, and their circumstances that we neglect our own. We are not living our own lives, we are living everybody else’s, and sometimes we have to let go.”
My sister knew. She knew it the moment she looked at me. There were no bruises on my face or tears in my eyes—she knew because she had been there before. Just as our mother was before us, and our grandmother before her. I imagined it must run in the family, like breast cancer or heart disease.
“How are things with Grant?” she asked. (“Did he hurt you?”) is what she really wanted to say.
“Oh, things are good,” I told her with a smile in my voice. Does she know I’m lying? Am I fooling her?
She set a glass of iced tea in front of me, then pulled out a chair from the table and joined me there. Her kitchen was always so clean and bright; it had to be for all the photography and filming she did between its far-apart walls and tall ceiling. My sister was a food vlogger; she made a decent income preparing magic meals nobody had ever heard of and baking magic desserts that twenty-thousand-and-following subscribers salivated over. I envied her. She had a hobby she could be passionate about, something to keep her busy when life wasn’t being too kind.
On the other hand, I could only dream about that kind of passion anymore. My love for painting lost its luster about four years ago.
“Are you sure things are good, Olivia?” she asked. “It’s not like you to show up here. Randomly. On a Tuesday. At least, not anymore.”
Lifting the glass to my lips, I took a sip, if for anything, a distraction.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I knew what it meant, of course.
“Well, you used to show up randomly all the time,” she said, paused, and then added with caution, “before you got married.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, “things always change when people get married.”
“Not all things.” She stood and went to the counter, rummaging inside her big slouchy hobo purse. “I wanna show you something.”
She returned with her phone in hand, pulled her chair closer, and sat down again. Running her finger over the glass screen, she opened her photos and began to scroll. Down, down, down, until she made it all the way to the top. She set the phone on the table in front of me.
“Have a look.” She nodded toward the phone, insisting.
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