Pieces For You (3 page)

I walked into breakfast today and the room fell silent.  I thought something happened behind me to capture their attention so I turned around to see, but there was nothing but empty space.  I guess I was the attention grabber.  It took me a minute to figure out why they were staring, then I realized—I got dressed for breakfast.  I’ve been wearing clothes every day (of course), but this morning I actually got dressed—today I wore my Sam clothes.  I wasn’t sure how to interpret their silence, and then it began…catcalls, hoots, and whistles.  There was an entire room of women cheering my transformation.  Geeze, I didn’t think I looked that bad before.  Okay, that’s a lie.  I looked like shit before.  I had broken every fashion rule I previously lived by, wearing baggy t-shirts and yoga pants as if they were acceptable attire for public viewing. 

I told myself that the comfy clothes were practical for physical therapy, but in truth, I was still trying to fade into the background.  Last night I realized something.  By forcing myself to break my cardinal rule against wearing loungewear in public, it was just one more way he was still controlling me.  I decided to dig through a suitcase of clothes Everleigh packed for me and planned an outfit for the next day.  Once I was dressed, I felt another small piece of myself click into place.

Of all the pieces of the Old Sam, I might be most grateful to have regained the fashionista shard—it’s one thing to feel like shit; there is no excuse to look like shit, too.

Over the past few weeks, Shelly has been taking several girls off-premises to help them ease back into the real world…and men.  The girls who went on the “field trips” have been at TPC for a while and are showing “marked progress.”  I am happy to say that includes me! 

Today we went to the mall and I was in heaven.  According to Shelly, it’s the perfect location to start becoming desensitized to large groups of strangers, and the attention of men.  I was thrilled to have a chance to shop with the excuse it was for therapeutic purposes; it takes the sting out of looking at the credit card bill at the end of the month. 

We were all sitting at a table in the food court, sipping coffee and comparing purchases, when a group of twenty-something guys approached our table.  We must have looked like a perfectly ordinary group of girls hanging out at the mall, open to pick-up attempts.  The guys failed to wow us with their played-out lines, bragging about their expensive sports cars and listing their various attributes.  A few of the other girls were visibly uncomfortable, but the guys were not taking the hint.  Shelly tried politely to end the conversation, subtly encouraging them to leave, but they were not picking up what she was putting down.

With a mix of frustration, shock, and humor, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I sweetly advised the guys that while I was sure they were very appealing to most women, they zeroed in on the one table that had no interest in hooking up.

Clearly unhappy with my dismissal, the spokesman said, “What are you, a bunch of lesbians or something?”  As if not wanting them could only mean we didn’t want any man.  Ha!  I tried to do it the nice way with no success, so I decided I’d do it the Sam way.

“No, we aren’t…but with the lines you’ve been using, I bet at least half of us are debating the merits of switching teams.  Congratulations, you just witnessed the birth of a new flock of lesbos.  Good job, boys.”

As the group walked away—calling me a “bitch” under their breaths—the girls applauded.  I took my bow before returning to my lunch with a smile on my face.  It was a good day.  Not only did I spend the day in public with only minor discomfort, but also I got to shop, break out some sass, and school a group of inflated egos.  However, the main reason for the smile still painted on my face was because I stood up to a group of big-ish guys, without fear they would hurt me.  I was brave today.  I said ‘no’ and they listened.  They may have called me a “bitch,” but that was the worst thing that happened…I’ve never been so happy to be called a bitch in my life. 

Tomorrow’s the big day.  I’m going home.  I’m excited and fucking terrified. 

After two months, I’m leaving here stronger.  I’ve conquered most of my panic attacks and anxiety.  I’ve learned to accept that the devastating horror I endured was beyond my control and no fault of my own—I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.  I didn’t ask to be hurt, I didn’t invite the abuse, and I sure as hell didn’t deserve what happened to me.  It had nothing to do with me—it was him.  He was the problem, he made the wrong choices, and he was the one to blame. 

It took me a long time to stop looking for an explanation for why it happened.  I now understand how counterproductive it is to search for reason in a senseless act of violence; it only leads to an endless cycle of blame and ‘what ifs.’ 

When I finally stopped asking myself ‘why me,’ I was able to focus on finding the small joys life still held.  It‘s become a healing game for me, always searching for the little blessings hidden in the mundane.  Sometimes I share them but often hoarding for myself the little hidden treasures others have missed.  It’s silly but it allows me to find beauty in a life that seemed to turn against me for a time.  I’ve also found the humor I thought I lost.  I regained my comfort in expressing thoughts flitting through my mind without censoring myself—in other words, I discovered the pieces of Old Sam that were inappropriate, irreverent, and overshared…god, I missed her. 

Tomorrow, I rejoin society.  Not completely healed, but definitely healing.  I know I still have a long road ahead of me.  The obstacles and bumps are going to suck, but I believe I can make it to my destination and enjoy the ride getting there.  At TPC I found healing and hope, and I will hold them close on my journey.

"While we have the gift of life, it seems to me the only tragedy is to allow part of us to die—whether it is our spirit, our creativity or our glorious uniqueness."  -Gilda Radner

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see.  Something was wrapped around my head, clinging tightly to my face, blocking any traces of light  The strange fabric was moist around my mouth and nose as I panted, struggling to draw oxygen into my burning lungs.  I could feel wetness gathering around my eyes where tears were spilling freely.  I opened my mouth to scream, but terror seized my vocal chords and no sound escaped.  Something hit me—hard—so hard my head rang and I immediately felt warmth oozing down the side of my face.  I tried to raise my hand, hoping to stop the flow, but I couldn’t move.  Oh my god—I was tied down—this couldn’t be happening to me.  I don’t want to die.  “Please.”

“Sam.”

I heard a voice calling me as if through a long tunnel, echoing in my mind.  I tried to answer, but the words died on my lips.

“Sam, wake up,” the voice commanded as my world began to shake turbulently. 

“Dammit!  Samantha Whitney, you open your eyes and look at me right this minute or so help me God—”

Everleigh. 

I recognized the voice of my best friend.  I was safe—I must be safe if Ev was here.  I fought to raise my unwilling eyelids, desperate for the reassurance her voice promised.  I was trapped in my own body, merely a passenger unable to control the vessel containing me. 

“Sam, please, you have to wake up now, it’s not real—none of it is real.  Open your eyes for me—you’re safe.  I promise you’re safe,” she pleaded, her voice thick with tears.

Ev’s desperate pleas were a rope lowered through the black abyss in which I was trapped.  I grabbed hold and tried to pull myself out, hand over hand until glimmers of light appeared.  Finally, my eyes opened and I stared into the pain-etched face of my best friend.  I had to avert my eyes momentarily to avoid her suffering; I hated to be confronted with the agony I caused her…again.  This proved to be a mistake when my vision was unexpectedly filled with Hunter’s sympathetic expression.  

Shit, it just kept getting worse.  It was bad enough when I thought Ev was here for another one of my fits, but her boyfriend was witness too. 

“I’m okay,” I croaked unconvincingly, even to myself.  I was anything but okay; I was as far from okay as a person could get without NASA and a space shuttle’s aid.

Ev’s arms wrapped around my shoulders and I desperately wanted to shrug them off, still unprepared to be touched after the dream.  But I knew the gesture of comfort was also for Ev’s benefit, so I tolerated her embrace…barely.

I focused on my months at TPC and began the breathing techniques I had learned during my stay—my “recovery.”  Slow, even breaths until my lungs were at capacity, hold it for three-count, slow and controlled exhale.  I repeated the process five times before I began to feel grounded again.  I raised my hand and patted Ev’s back, communicating my gratitude and reassurance.  She reluctantly released me as Hunter stepped forward to wrap his arms around her waist from behind.  She leaned her head back against his chest, and I felt a prick of jealousy for the ease with which she accepted his physical comfort.  Guilt swamped me for begrudging Ev and Hunter the happiness they deserved.  What was wrong with me?  I was not a covetous, bitchy person—at least I never used to be.  I’m not sure who or what I was anymore.

“Babe, I think I’m going to sleep in here tonight,” Ev said to Hunter.

“Okay love, I’ll get your pillow and some blankets,” he said as he left the room.

I sighed, wanting to decline but knowing I would never fall back to sleep if left alone.  I returned from TPC six days ago, and Ev had slept on the floor next to my bed for several hours each of the nights.  I don’t know how Hunter—or her back—could stand it night after night.  Hunter was as much a prisoner as Ev to my ridiculous fears.  He may not be camped out on my floor, but I was unable to sleep if he wasn’t in the apartment.  I needed the security his gun-toting, FBI presence provided.

Hunter returned with blankets, a pillow, and a thick foam pad that I had seen in camping commercials…that was new.  He shrugged as if all of this was perfectly normal as he quickly made a bed for her.  He tucked her in and placed a sweet kiss on her lips, telling her he loved her.  Then he stopped by the side of the bed and placed a swift kiss on the top of my head while whispering “sweet dreams.”

Hunter was the only man I could stand to touch me or be near me.  He was a friend and a brother-in-law of sorts, if you discount the fact that Ev and I were not sisters by blood nor were they engaged or married.  Regardless of the technical correctness of his honorary title, the sentiment was 100% accurate.  Hunter had been by my side, supporting me and Ev, every step of the way.

“You okay?” Everleigh asked quietly.

“No,” I answered honestly…for a change.

“You’re going to be,” she said with conviction.