the far side of grief work
on becoming human
The Little Mermaid, Original Story by Gabriela Valencia
The 7th hit slipped, just an eyebrow raise high. My flinch’s fault, resulting in aftermath more delicate than skin. “Don’t tell anyone, or else Dad will get in trouble.” Trouble meant more pain than I could process, best to avoid. I protected him, like her. I resented being like her. The 8th hit struck like a towel striking water as I swam towards a shell blowing across the seafloor.
“They did a good job, didn’t they?” They did, but when I touched his left temple it was too gooey to be skin. Through dry eyes, I watched her cry through Tears in Heaven. No note, but choosing Mother’s Day was a clear message. I resented her for it. Through dry eyes, I read the last note he left me: “Got you these. Merry Christmas —your favorite cousin.” I took them, and I closed my eyes. But they opened, so I wrote:
I woke up. In an attempt to release tight white knuckles by turning limp and grey, I’m still here. Grip loosened, but sill flush. Like a newborn too weak to hold anything but open. I feel embarrassed. I feel embarrassed. I feel thankful. I feel thankful. I feel thankful. Then I think of you, because when you woke up you didn’t. You got a gun.
“She’s a self-righteous bitch. Such a liar.” I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t sleep through what’s seeping through the walls. I wasn’t lying, but maybe I was a little too honest. Especially when only one person was honest with me. It’s just campus politics. Why am I screenshotting death threats? Why am I getting job offers revoked? Oh, the articles. I read all the articles about it. There was one I liked, so I reread it.
The 7th line stuck, welling rare salt in my eyes. “You need to clean your act up, you’re just like your Aunt Glenda.” My drinking’s fault, resulting in aftermath more delicate than consent. I was terrified of being like her. She hurt him, and now he’s gone. “Never tell him, he won’t want to be with you now.” Abandonment meant more fear than I could process, best to avoid. “Dad, I’m not ready, I need time.” The 8th line splintered lives into forks. “Caroline that’s selfish. You’re hurting his career.” I didn’t want to hurt him, and when you’re a child bride, there’s not much difference between a pastor’s kid and a pastor’s wife anyways. I’ve always been competent at my job. So I threw myself into work.
“What we have is a he-said she-said off company property, and we’ve deemed it was likely consensual.” I answered the questions honestly. March 13th. Couldn’t drive, got in his car for a ride home, but he drove to his. He poured one shot. Then I was swimming in it. No, I don’t know how far it went. Did he tell you? Oh, wow. No, I don’t think I said much at all. I don’t remember, honestly. Do you speak when you’re swimming? You speak to the people on your team, so I started speaking to him.
“Can you identify yourself in this video? No, you’re not going to have to testify.” An FBI subpoena said otherwise. My eyes joined 12 strange sets to watch a video made by a man who’s guilty of watching a kid who’s naked and innocent. We all see it that way, so why doesn’t it feel that way? They sentenced his life’s bright future as if that corrects the past’s darker life-sentence. Where are my sunglasses? I squint, jasmine squints into my breath, and for a second I can see. I don’t read the articles about it.
“You’re safe, you’re okay.” He whispered in my ear as I locked eyes with his wife from across the room. A failed cry for help. She didn’t see what was happening. I moved his hand. “Stop.” He moved it back. “You’re safe. You’re okay.” I moved the blanket. She saw. Something flashed before his eyes, and I wondered what it was. Maybe his best man’s view of the pulpit on my wedding day? Maybe his view from the pulpit of her walking towards him on his wedding day? Maybe a hundred wide eyes staring up at his own precious pulpit? He threatened to kill himself. He didn’t, I got the guns. “He’s safe, he’s okay.” She stayed with him. I resented her for it. I stopped speaking to her, but I missed her, so I wrote:
It just feels boring. Is it fucked to call assault boring? Probably. But it is. I’ve been here before, but I feel nothing this time. I can’t even feel hunger anymore. When was the last time I ate? I can’t remember. I think no, God. Is becoming No god.
“If you leave me, your family will abandon you.” I let the truth silently sink in. True enough to motivate 11 years together, and I accepted it may never change. But I changed. I changed the subject to a truth I hadn’t quite accepted. “When was the last time we had sex? I can’t remember.” “You were dissociated.” “Oh… what? Please don’t do that.” “It only happened once. You never want to anymore.” “I just need time. A lot has happened. And that’s not what we’re talking about.” “You weren’t clear enough.” “How is this my fault?” He simply left for work. It made me sad that he couldn’t see why this clearly made me sad. I just let myself be sad.
“Caroline. Caroline. Caroline. HEY.” He had been waving his hand in front of my face for a while. I didn’t see his hand. I looked down at my own hands. They were shaking, so I clenched them.
“I need to decide what to do with my hands. Turn you into a spiderweb again, something everybody understands.” I was hurting him. Or was it priors and projections? I wasn’t sure. But when I saw him, I read it in the words on his skin. I didn’t want to hurt him, not him. Hurting him meant more contempt than I could process, how do I fix it? I need help. I’m not okay. I’m not here anymore, and I don’t know what to do anymore. How do I ask for help? I reached, but maybe I was a little too honest. I flailed, I hurt him. He showed more love than I could process, was that really still best to avoid? I didn’t see his hand, so I drowned.
“You’re rapidly deteriorating towards psychosis. Do you have anywhere safe to go to stabilize?” I answered his questions honestly. Around 2 hours of sleep a night. Like six months, maybe nine, actually longer I don’t know, really. 105? No, it’s not. Umm, like 35, maybe 40 pounds. I don’t remember. What? Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. No, I’m living alone. No, I can’t go back. My friend brought me here. She didn’t know what to do. He prepared one shot. It helped with the shaking. He handed me pills and a list of inpatient referrals. I took them. They kept my eyes open, so I could read all the articles about it. I found one I liked, so I checked myself in.
The 7th hit spilled, scattering sour candy and smiling faces and ripped out pages across the floor. Good friends, 218 hours of therapy, 18 self help books, strangers on the internet, some ketamine, myself, and god helped. But nothing felt better than beating the shit out of a piñata holding it all. Hitting back, without hurting anyone.
My eyes strain, trying to find the line where the starless sky kisses black waves. I can’t see it, but I feel it. The wind kisses my sea licked toes, and I feel so small. I feel like weeping, so I do.
For most of my life, I never called it neglect or abuse, because I called it love. As I grew up, I started calling neglect neglect and abuse abuse, and I panicked like a dying child king. But recently I noticed I stopped, because I’m not a kid anymore. Powerlessness always felt like a self-defeating position anyways. I resented myself for taking it for as long as I can remember. Even as a kid, I felt some level of autonomy, and I always tried to Do The Right Thing. But despite my best effort, it felt like life kept looping all the wrong things, and I felt out of control. But darkness has its teachings. These days, I just say I lived more life than I could process at the time, but in time, life taught me how to process anything. Power under control is a sacred position. I can’t change what happened, but I can change what it means, and I can change how I respond. And I want to, so I do.
Maybe you’re reading this, and some judgement is coming up. I might, I judge a lot of things I read. Judging the mistakes of a stranger is an easy thing to do, and it feels pretty good. Grieving the mistakes of a loved one is a hard thing to do, and it feels like hell. Grieving your own mistakes is hell. But once you forgive the abundance of human ignorance and illusion, you can see the far side of grief, and there is a far side of grief. It ends right back where it began: love.
I used to stay in dynamics I didn’t want to be in, in ways I didn’t want to be in them, and I’d call it love, but it wasn’t. It was fear. I feared love because love meant more hurt than I could process. More than that, I feared hurting the people I loved because I couldn’t handle my own hurt. But hurt doesn’t scare me anymore, because I learned how to lick my deepest wounds rather than look through them. That can still hurt like hell, but the tears run hot and taste sweet, because they let me love myself and my people and my god in evermore understanding ways.
These days, I only stay in dynamics I want to be in, and only in ways I want to be in them. Still, I’m starting to see what they’re actually saying. What they’ve always been saying: “The desire to be loved is the last illusion. Give it up and you will be free.” I used to think I was unlovable, so I feared love. Then I just thought I was unloved, so I desired love. Now, I see I am love. When I give up the desire to be loved, I can see the love in the undercurrent of everything. I am free to create abundant love and share it generously, no matter what happens. So I do.
So deep! You are love and always will be!!!