Light on the train

Tags

Assault, AVO, Compassion, Insights, Suffering, Train ride

The story so far (in chronological order):

• Once upon a time
• Ground zero
• Those eyes – or – don’t step in the glass
• Extracting splinters
• A day and a week later

*******************

Friday morning arrived – a whole week after that horrible night. And it was time for action. I needed to finalise the AVO so Andre could never come near me again.

My body still doesn’t feel as though it belongs to me. And I’m terrified, utterly, that Andre will turn up to the court.

For those unfamiliar with the Australian AVO process, it goes something like this. The person making the complaint obtains an emergency AVO with valid reason as decided by a magistrate. The person about whom the complaint is being made doesn’t have to be present at this point, but the emergency AVO is only valid for a week, or until a hearing can be organised at which both parties can be present. However, the other party doesn’t have to turn up – this is simply an opportunity for them to do so.

I have no reason to think he won’t turn up, and I have no idea what I’ll do if he does.

For seven days, I’d lived with broken glass in my front door, and I didn’t want that reminder any longer. So I’d emailed my landlord and asked for contact details of any glaziers they used. And at 7am that Friday he was coming to make that scar invisible, if not forgotten.

Right around that time, my mother was due to turn up at my place. Prepared for war if need be. There are definitely some things my mother is great at, and one of them is playing the avenging mother in times of need!

As if in a dream, we’re walking to my normal go-to-work train station. Except today’s destination is the Melbourne Magistrate’s Court, at the ‘toff’ end of town. Despite the official nature of my trip, the best I manage to dress myself in is jeans and sneakers.

I am clutching print outs of pictures I made my sister take. Pictures of my face all bruised and beaten up. A black eye, an extremely down-trodden look in my eyes. And the front door, with its jagged edges silently whispering of the violence that has been. I have purposely not worn any make up so the marks Andre left on my face are plain to see.

We board the train and I feel like I have a secret – one that all the other people on the train couldn’t guess. And I look around at my fellow commuters. Those I would normally be going to work with.

Being the yogi that I am, I’ve been contemplating the nature of human suffering in my attempt to understand what happened, what’s still happening to me every nano-second.

And then I see it.

I truly notice the faces of everyone on the train. I see them more clearly than ever, as if my own pain has sand-papered away my air of indifference.

Everyone around me – everyone – looks utterly miserable. Or angry. Or upset. Or bored. Or… And I think – wow – is this what they look like every day? Is this what I look like??

Quick as lightning, I realised that when on public transport, everyone is in their own zone. Doing their best to ignore the too-closeness of other people packed tightly around them. And because of this, their thoughts turn inwards. And for many people this is not a happy place. Whether they are thoughts of self-hatred, physical or emotional pain, anger and so on, it is suffering. The human condition of suffering. Right there in front of me, plain as day. Unconcealed.

This was an “ah-ha!” moment – where I first realised that suffering is an every day, moment to moment experience for everyone. Previously, my idea of suffering had been that people suffer over an incident, like being assaulted. But I what I saw made it clear that everyone is suffering all of the time – unless you are enlightened ofcourse! Others may beg to differ, but in my philosophical understanding of the world – it made sense. It still does.

And wow, did that put where I was at into perspective. Despite what I’ve been through, I am no different than anyone else on this train. I felt my heart open up and melt into… I have no idea what! Actually, the sensation is one of expansion, incredible expansion.

My train trip transformed, I was still terrified, but no longer feeling so alone at that moment. It was the first major descent of Grace following the assault.

Luckily for me, Andre didn’t show up – for which I was extremely grateful. However, being in court for two weeks in a row still wasn’t my idea of a good time. I still shook, I still cried and I still had to tell another magistrate I didn’t know what had happened. I had to show my shame and my fear in public to ask for protection, and that sucks. I offered my face up for scrutiny. I showed her the photos, which made me feel both strong and miserably weak. But I got my AVO in place. And finally, finally, I started to feel a tiny bit relieved.

Since that day, I always try to catch people unawares on public transport. I try to read what their faces give away. And yep, it still stands true. It’s not always every single person on the train or the bus. Occasionally there’s a being that looks truly happy, serene and content. But they are the exception rather than the rule.

My response is always the same – to feel my heart opening/expanding, and try to send the energy of love as much as I can to any and all of my fellow transiting folk.

Peace be with you all.

Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti.

~ Svasti

(Next: Quietly Devastated)

A day and a week later

Tags

AVO, Scared, The Aftermath, Violence

The story so far (in chronological order):

• Once upon a time
• Ground zero
• Those eyes – or – don’t step in the glass
• Extracting splinters

*******************

Buffy got me through the night. Til it was Friday morning. For that, I will always be gratefully loyal to the Slayer. But I hadn’t had any sleep yet. I was still crying on and off. My face still burned every moment. The nightmare continued in the daylight, but at least there were things to do now.

K woke up, needing to get to work and left amidst hugs knowing that my sister was on the way over. I still hadn’t explained to my sis why I needed her to come, just that I really did. I think she heard it in my voice.

Andre’s ex rang me back – I told her what had happened and I discovered that he’d hit women before. We mutually discovered the lies about the sale of my car – he’d tried to rip us both off. Perhaps that was part of why he snapped? Their kids were meant to spend time with him today. She frantically tried to figure out how to get her kids away from him without him knowing that she knew. Crucially, she gave me some missing information I needed to take out an AVO (Apprehended Violence Order) on Andre.

My sis arrived and I told her what happened. She’s always been great, knowing what to do, what to say. We made plans to go to the police station. But the police sent us to the magistrates court, once again telling me there wasn’t much they could do. Thanks guys!

Shaking, always shaking. Feeling disconnected from my body. Except ofcourse the pain in my face. Everything felt surreal. All day long, every moment. I felt like I was living someone else’s life. Nothing made sense.

My sister drove us into the CBD, in the traffic, trying to find a park.

The courts were great. Helpful. They assigned a lawyer from a women’s’ domestic violence group to keep me calm company and explain the process of the courts.

There was some waiting involved. I texted some people at work and tried to give them the short version of what happened to explain why I wasn’t coming in. Texting was much easier than talking to people.

When it was my turn to sit before the magistrate, my appointed lawyer had the courtroom cleared for me, and spoke on my behalf. Bless her.

I sat there, feeling naked and dishevelled and trying to talk without crying and shaking. I couldn’t. I didn’t need to say very much before the merciful magistrate granted an emergency AVO. I did however; need to come back a week later to get the permanent order in place. We took the AVO to the police station in Andre’s local area to make sure it was served ASAP. I think the first time I physically stopped shaking was once the order was in place.

My sis decided I needed to stay at my parents’ place for the weekend. Just bundle up the cat and go. Only thing is, I hadn’t told them yet about what happened. I asked my sis to do it – I was too embarrassed and felt they would judge me, wouldn’t understand.

I might have mentioned this before, but they weren’t the best people to go to in the middle of a crisis. What they are good for is the support stuff, like giving me a place to go. But not when I’m crying and shaking. So whilst the idea of staying with them was good, it meant for me that it was time to get myself a little more under control if I could. Crying and falling apart would not compute.

So the weekend went by in a state of weirdness. I couldn’t sleep much still. My parents didn’t know what to say so they avoided the topic. I sent a few friends some texts to tell them a little about what had happened. But I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone else. To tell anyone what had happened. Mostly because I still couldn’t believe it myself.

Sunday afternoon I went home. Whilst my parents meant well, it really wasn’t the most nourishing place for me to be. So I thanked them, and Cleo and I jumped in my car and left.

Arriving home felt odd. There was the cardboard covering up the broken glass. But otherwise it was all quiet and peaceful. And sad. Invisibly stained by violence and terror.

For some reason, I felt compelled to go to work the next day. I really should have taken the next week off! But, what I really wanted was for all the pain and sadness to go away. And, I recalled that several years ago in the midst of one of the worst break ups of my life, work had been the best respite – just throwing myself into a stupid mindless job had helped. Still, it was a bad idea.

Monday arrived.

I had to cover up my black eye without looking as though the makeup was caked on too heavily. Generally my makeup style is very natural so too much would draw attention. The sensation of make up on top of the bruising was that of a big layer of foam over flesh. I thought it would be obvious to everyone, but apparently I did a pretty good job – years of practice I guess.

I pulled aside a couple of people I’m close to and told them what happened in brief, halting sentences. Every word battled against tears, against falling apart. In that air conditioned place of employment I somehow felt safer. But every meeting with other people meant another effort to hold back the dam of emotion threatening to burst at any second.

Stupidly, I also told my boss – who was a stand-in boss at the time. I think she’s one of those people who sees things like this as a weakness to be used against you. She wasn’t sympathetic in the least. A normal person might have sent me home, but not her. She made me take the day I was at court as annual leave instead of sick leave. She couldn’t have cared less. And that hurt, on a human to human level. Thanks a lot. You competitive and heartless automaton!

I worked with a huge number of people that I didn’t tell. Most of them don’t know to this day. I must have seemed odd to them, I certainly felt odd. Lucky for me the DNA in my body is good at repression, so eventually I began to see it as a sign of strength, my ability to act normally when inside I felt like screaming. I’m not entirely sure how normal I really acted either!

I did however, take advantage of a work program that provided four free psychology sessions a year. I was pretty broke, so free was good. I did my first session on the Tuesday I think. Not that four sessions was in any way sufficient however! Although it was enough to get me started…

Each night of that week was marked with fear – of people, noises, nightmares, falling apart and dread of the upcoming second day in court. My mum had agreed to come with me which was good. But I felt like a deer in headlights – was Andre going to show up for the hearing? Would he contest the AVO? I hadn’t heard from him at all, thankfully. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t.

Every night I locked the security door as well as the normal locks, something I hadn’t done before that time.

I was sad, I was alone. And more than anything, I felt like I couldn’t ask for help.

~Svasti

(Next… Light on the train)

Ground zero

Tags

Anger, Assault, Black eye, Broken glass, Confusion, Fear, Memory loss, Pain, Panic, Violence

Confused and a little disturbed, I couldn’t work out why he was shouting at me.

We’d just had dinner. A slamming pumpkin soup I made with sweet potato and a little ginger, paprika and rosemary. He checked his emails on my computer and later played some tunes on his guitar, plugged in to his mini amplifier. It was all very chilled.

He’d come to see me as a favour to his ex, who recently bought my old car. She still owed me a bit more money and this was the final payment.

Everything was going pretty smoothly, even though Andre sort of mentioned the fact that we weren’t seeing each other any more left him sexually frustrated. But I let that comment slide through to the keeper.

I hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks until this night, a Thursday night. I ended things because I knew it wasn’t going anywhere. I think we both knew that. So when the ‘car drama’ happened, it seemed like a natural break.

He looked a little sad, and whilst I can’t recall exactly what he said (memory loss issues!); he brought up the topic of the ‘car drama’. Somewhat apologetically I think.

My response was something like: You know, I should have listened to my gut instinct. I don’t really like doing business with friends because money often causes problems. I shouldn’t have sold your ex the car.

Then the shouting began. Don’t ask me what the content was. It just sounded like loud white noise ringing in my ears.

Now – I don’t like shouting. I never have. I’ve always been sensitive to outright bursts of anger. I find it very draining and upsetting. I don’t mind having disagreements, but shouting puts me off-balance.

My first response was: I think you misunderstood what I said. I just meant that money and friends often don’t mix well – and look and what’s happening here. Please stop shouting.

But he didn’t. He got meaner. More cutting and insulting.

Please leave my house, I said.

I recall feeling composed at this point. I was telling myself how well I was handling the situation.

Asking him to leave just made him angrier. He made no effort to do as I’d asked. He just stood there shouting at me.

Please leave, I repeated.

He began taunting me. Why don’t you call the police?

I have no idea why I didn’t.

Except, my innocence about people and their motives is rather child-like. I tend to believe people are who they present themselves as. This is despite plenty of evidence over the years that most people aren’t that honest.

So, even though he was mad for some reason I couldn’t fathom… I thought he was ‘just’ mad. I didn’t expect the situation to escalate. And I thought I could handle things – that I was handling things.

From this point on, my memories aren’t coherent. I see snapshots of things that happened, but I have no idea whether they directly are connected to each other or not. Perhaps there was something in between each flash, but perhaps not. Also, the conversations below are all ‘approximate’ because I just don’t remember what was said. I have more of a general feeling of the words used only.

I know I kept trying to explain that I wasn’t accusing him of anything, that I was talking about the whole ‘friends/money don’t mix’ thing. I also know that he wasn’t listening; he just kept shouting at me and refusing to leave.

He hadn’t put his shoes on yet. His shoes, guitar, amp and a small bag were sitting in the hall. I decided that if he wouldn’t leave, I’d start moving his stuff outside. Possibly not the wisest move, but my therapist thinks I have a history of taking unnecessary risks…

I grabbed his shoes and his bag and opened the front door, ferrying his belongings to the driveway. When I came back in I felt, rather than saw, a shift in his attitude. I went to pick up his amp.

Before I could, he grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me against the wall. The flat part at the base of my skull hit the plaster with a crack. My vision went white for a few seconds.

Don’t touch my instruments! he thundered.

Well get your shit out of here and just LEAVE, I demanded, in shock. And how dare you touch me, get your hands off me!

Now we were both standing in the hall, the front door was wide open.

He was taking cheap shots, attempting to use things I’d told him against me. Trying to upset me. No wonder your mother… I can’t remember the rest. Only that in the face of this maelstrom I remained strong.

You don’t know what you’re talking about, quite clearly. My parents love me.

Things were very tense. Stressful. Extreme.

I slowly inched him towards the door. I was getting desperate. The verbal abuse continued. More nonsense. Menacing nonsense.

The very next thing I remember was afterwards. You see, I didn’t know it had happened til it was done.

He looked at me with intense anger in his deep brown eyes, staring defiantly.

The world was surreal.

WHAT JUST HAPPENED? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? WHY IS HE LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?

Then I started to feel the pain.

Oh. My. God. My face… Did he? Hit me?

I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t even see his arm move.

What the hell did you do? Did you just HIT me? Why would you do that? You fucking PRICK, I was crying.

He stood there silently then said, Go on, hit me back. Go on.

Andre is incredibly strong, muscular and a martial artist. I’m also trained in martial arts, but my inner voice was screaming at me not to respond. DON’T BE CRAZY. HE’S MUCH STRONGER THAN YOU ARE. DON’T DO IT!

But somehow I clumsily slapped him, with almost no strength in my arm. Yet the earring in his right ear fell out, onto the carpet.

Good. Now you can’t complain to the police. You hit me as well. And geez, I hardly touched you. If I really wanted to hurt you, you’d know about it. I could smash your fucking head in if I wanted to. And I might just do that some time… he mumbled in a low deep growl.

I focused on that earring even though I was shaking and crying. I needed the situation to change. I wanted the shouting to stop. I wanted him gone, but I didn’t have a plan. I was totally winging it.

Your earring fell out. It’s on the carpet. Pick it up, and get the FUCK out of my house!

What? Is this a joke?

No. Get your fucking earring and leave.

As he bent down and grabbed it, I used all the power I could muster to physically push him backwards, out the door, and I closed the door in his face.

Only I wasn’t quite fast enough.

He regained his balance and leapt forwards, his guitar slung over his shoulder. The head of the guitar smashed one of the glass panels as he put his shoulder into the door and forced his way back into the hall.

There was more verbal abuse, screaming, shouting, threats of further violence. Words that are lost to me, drowned out by shock. Drowned out by the ugliness and anger in Andre’s face.

In desperation, I remembered something. A strategy. A way of breaking the energy of a confrontation.

So I started screaming at the top of my lungs. HELP!! HELP, SOMEONE HELP ME. HELP, I NEED HELP. SOMEONE PLEASE COME AND HELP! I’M BEING ATTACKED!! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME! HELP, HELP, HELP!!!

Directly over the fence from my front door was a block of flats, no more than three meters away. There were multiple tenants, some of whom must have heard me. I was also living in a split residence with neighbours who always complained about the slightest noise. So they must have heard me too.

But no one came.

The night was dark and freezing cold, and my screams were lost in the chill blackness. Not even an echo remained. And no help came.

Inexplicably my screaming seemed to break the spell and he walked out. I slammed the door. But he didn’t go away. Instead he stood outside yelling abuse, making threats. Terrorising me a little more.

JUST GO AWAY!!

I was in tears, pain, shock, distress and fear. I was terribly confused. My body was shaking non-stop, which lasted the rest of the night and much of the following day.

I was still trying to work out what just happened. Why it happened.

The rest of that night’s story is told here: Those eyes – or – don’t step in the glass

*********************************************************************************************

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ground_zero

The term Ground Zero may be used to describe the point on the earth’s surface where an explosion occurs. In the case of an explosion above the ground, Ground Zero refers to the point on the ground directly below an explosion (see hypocenter). The term has often been associated with nuclear explosions and other large bombs, but is also used in relation to earthquakes, epidemics and other disasters to mark the point of the most severe damage or destruction. Damage gradually decreases with distance from this point.

~Svasti

Courage

Tags

Assault, Courage, Fear, Memory loss, Therapy

I had a really great session with my therapist this week. H is a truly down to earth, realistic and caring person. She’s also fantastic at zeroing in on anything I’m stumbling over.

So just after I’d confessed on this blog how much trouble I’m having writing about the actual assault, she helped break down a few more of my blind spots.

I know some of the lovely people reading and commenting on my posts haven’t necessarily agreed that I should feel the need to write about this topic. But H thinks its good for me. She’s seen the benefits I’ve achieved from what I’ve written so far and she’s supportive.

There’s definitely a massive sense of panic and distress still associated with these memories. Whether I like it or not, if I start talking about it, its instant tears, raised heart rate and body temperature. Sometimes its easier to control than others, but the point is that I have to try to control it or I go to pieces. Not ideal.

H said, “I think for you to be able to get a handle on what happened, you need to face the fear and the panic. If you don’t, it won’t be possible for you to take the emotion out of that experience”.

Hmmm… good point. I know this of course. But it helped to have her re-state it anyway. So we talked.

It seems there’s a few key pillars.

The trauma associated with the assault has dulled my memories. To the point that the event often feels like a bad dream. Which was convenient when I was just trying to survive. But now, its a pain in my ass.

H also suggested that at some point, its possible I thought I would die. That he would kill me. He certainly seemed crazed enough. I think that on some level, she’s right.

There’s also the shock and the total loss of control I experienced. My gentle friend turning into a monster? Completely unexpected and outrageous things going on? Freaky shit, I’m telling you!

And of course, my internal Supreme Judge. If I could visualise him, I think he’s about 80 with grey hair, bushy eyebrows and both nose and ear hair. He’s all bent over, his skin is flecked and craggy. He has a comb over with what’s left of his thin whispy hair. He wears a dark grey suit and he walks with a limp. He has seen the worst of humanity and its left a deep imprint. He is narrow minded and he’s intolerant of weakness. He’s friggin’ scary!

I’ve written posts about this already, but I know the Supreme Judge seriously judged me as having failed. I failed to control the situation. I failed by having it end the way it did.

Crucially, in talking to my therapist, I remembered a teeny tiny detail – it was when I noticed Andre’s demeanour change. Not overtly. It was more like an internal… ‘click’. Something went ‘click’ and I felt it.

What happened just before the ‘click’ is that I started moving his belongings out onto the porch, trying to encourage him to leave. He hadn’t hit me yet.

And for this one action… I’ve been holding myself accountable. There’s been a game of ‘what if’ going on deep within. What if… I never touched his stuff. What if… I’d stopped trying to handle the situation myself and just called the police? What if… would things be different now? Is it possible he might not have assaulted me?

The catch-cry of those comforting people who’ve been assaulted or abused is ‘its not your fault’. I know. Its logical, and its true. I can use logic and reason til the cows come home. Intellectually I can explain an awful lot about what happened, why I think it happened etc. But the Judge still gives me a hard time.

And whilst I allow those memories to remain hazy and scary, the Judge remains. But I think I can change the paradigm if I confront the lurking ‘boogie men’.

What I really need right now is a good dose of courage. You know, just stating that fact… helps bring my courage into being. And now its slowly building.

I’m calling on all benevolent beings who hear this call for assistance to send me love and support. Ganesha, Yeshe Tysogel, Dattatreya, Siva, Sarasvati – and all mahasiddhas and enlightened beings! Please help me!!

I do promise, I’m not teasing any of the readers of this blog. I’m not being coy on purpose. Its just really f*cking hard to get it out.

BUT – I have started. I’m currently writing ‘stream of conciousness’ style which will need some re-shaping. And shortening!

And so, in the words of the Cowardly Lion:

Courage! What makes a king out of a slave? Courage! What makes the flag on the mast to wave? Courage! What makes the elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist, or the dusky dusk? What makes the muskrat guard his musk? Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder? Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder? Courage! What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the “ape” in apricot? What have they got that I ain’t got?

Courage!

~Svasti

Once upon a time…

Tags

Car sale, Drums, Friends, Friendship, Meeting, Money, Relationship, Sex

This is also not “that” post… (but this one is!) 😉

We met at a nightclub.

I was out with K (my heroine) and her friend. You could say it was a fairly wild evening. Full of costumes, dress ups and people expressing their sexuality as they saw fit. The theme for the night was ‘fur’.

He was there playing bongos as part of the entertainment. I was drawn ofcourse, to the percussion as I always am. The heartbeat of a dancer, it pulls at my hips and my pulse. He was wild, muscular and tattooed. The drums could only just be heard above the rest of the music being played. He moved his drums and asked me to follow – up on the balcony where it was easier to hear the rhythms and there was more room to dance with abandon.

We connected that night, Andre and I.

Oh god – how much to tell? I am trying to be honest, but I’m also trying to stick to the point… so let’s just say there’s more to describe but not here. Not now.

After 12 years living in Sydney, I hadn’t been back home in Melbourne for very long. Not quite eight months in fact. I was starved of friendship and good company. Especially the company of people with a spiritual nature. I worked with plenty of people who… are either married or in long term relationships with established circles of friends. But none that I felt a great deal of resonance with. Great people, just not my people.

I’m also not the sort of person who makes friends quickly. Unless ofcourse, I do. There are some people I can make instant friends with, but otherwise it takes me a long time. The ‘instant’ friends are few in number but when it happens, its friggin’ awesome.

So we hit it off, and were seeing each other almost from the start. The sex was amazing. I’ve always been spoiled in that respect – having incredible sex in my various relationships/flings. In fact, its one of my biggest downfalls – I stay involved with someone longer than I should because the sex is great! Eventually I wake up, and get out… but not as quickly as I could do.

Andre would come over and play me music and I’d cook. He is Afro-American and a brilliant jazz and blues musician. He plays a gazillion instruments, writes poetry, paints and does kung fu. We’d go out dancing, or hang at a local pub and chat about life, the universe, everything! Also, he wasn’t freaked out by pictures of gurus and Indian gods and goddesses in my home. So in many ways, he was my sort of person.

Despite all the great things about him, I started to notice that when he left my place, I felt drained. It seemed to take a lot out of me to have him over. Also, he was really mysterious and didn’t share a lot of details about himself. He spoke in riddles a lot and whilst the more creative part of my nature didn’t have a problem with this… I’d gathered enough information to know that he and I weren’t going to be long term.

Towards the end of our time together, he’d convinced me to sell my old car to his ex-girlfriend (and mother of his kids) where he was acting as the go-between for us both. However, there was some drama around the deal, in which I had to assert my need to be paid in full at the time of the sale. Andre did some shouting at this point, but it wasn’t anything terribly odd.

Later on ofcourse, I found out the significance of that situation.

Anyway, his ex and I spoke on the phone, and worked things out. There was also a further misunderstanding around whether the car was being sold registered or not. I had said unregistered, but this didn’t translate via the middleman somehow. So she agreed to pay me another $200 or so, and I agreed this amount could wait another couple of weeks.

I should state that it was around the time of the ‘car drama’ that my intimate relationship with Andre was over. In part, this was due to the situation, but also, I think it was clear that other things weren’t in synch for us. We didn’t speak for a couple of weeks.

Andre’s ex was meant to meet me to hand over the last of the money she owed me. With her kids and work, she was finding it tough to make a time with me. So she asked me if it was okay for Andre to bring it over to my place.

I said yes.

~Svasti

Dragging my heels

Tags

Anxiety, Assault, Confusion, Courage, Fear, Memory loss, Procrastination, Trauma, Violence

I admit it, I’ve been putting off my next post – which is not this one.

Ever since I decided my next post would be about the actual assault and not the direct aftermath or any of the myriad of related topics… I’ve found many reasons for not sitting down to write in more detail about the night that brought drastic changes to my life.

The two strong contributing factors are confusion and fear.

Speaking on behalf of my confusion – I actually don’t remember that night too well. Not the part of the night that’s “pre-assault” anyway. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do recall that Andre was coming over to drop off money I was owed and that he stayed for dinner. I vibrantly recall that I made pumpkin soup for dinner. Really great pumpkin soup actually. I remember that he played some guitar for me (he is a jazz/blues musician). And branded on my brain is the moment everything turned bad.

But after that… its not entirely clear. The order that things happened in. The exact chain of events. How I ended up standing so close to him that he could – without me seeing his arm move – punch me in the face.

Its a ghostly memory of a movie. One you’ve seen before and sort of know the details. But when you watch the movie again, everything comes back to you. And so I know what’s waiting for me.

As for fear – the twisting and churning of my stomach as I draw those memories up from their hidey hole is sickening. I feel my internal temperature rise, the skin tightening in my body and face, and the definite sensation of wishing I could throw up even though I don’t have the urge in any way. The tears well, and my eyeballs sting.

It was much easier to write about the direct aftermath – what happened after he finally left. Why? Well, time slowed down. I was living microsecond to microsecond. Everything moment was enhanced by the fear, the shaking, the crying and the pain. In some ways, perhaps this too, has played a part in sending the ‘just before’ memories into the background?

Despite all this, I’m determined to write this story. I need to write it. To get it out. I’m at a loss in terms of where to start, but I know that to find the words, I need to journey further. Deeper.

The creative urge and desire for truth to come out are ready to go. Its just my courage that’s having a few issues here. But its coming…

~Svasti

Those eyes – or – don’t step in the glass

Tags

Assault, Friends, Pain, Shaking, Terror, Violence

Kitty, don’t step in the glass, be careful. Don’t cut your paws. I’m so sorry for all the loud noises. You must be scared.
Oh fuck, its freezing. I have to fix the door, its letting all the cold air in.
Oh god, my face is BURNING…

He was gone by then, I think. But I’m not 100% sure because my hearing was off. Between the shuddering and shaking of my body, the flood of tears streaming down my face, the deathly silence in my flat, my haggard breathing and the pain in my body – I wasn’t really hearing properly any more.

There were only two things I could be sure of right then. I needed to board up the broken glass in my front door to stop the cold getting in and vacuum up the shards of glass in the hall.

Every inch of my body was shaking violently. My face was a mess of fiery swelling that seemed to scream at me, creating a buzzing in my ears. I was alone with a cat who was very worried about me. I was terrified.

First, I grabbed the dustpan and swept up the big shards of glass. Then I think I grabbed the vacuum. All the while, an icy blast was pouring through the jagged gash in the door. How was I going to fix that?? My brain had trouble coming up with anything… and then I remembered some thick artist’s cardboard I had. Got the scissors and packing tape and the chill winds were stopped.

I can ring the police! I rang the police. Something I didn’t think to do until after he’d gone. I don’t know why that is?!

Hi [sob, sob], I need to report [shake, shake, sob] an assault [shake, heave]

Okay can you tell me what happened?

Yes, [sob, sob] my friend was over for dinner [sob, sob] and he went crazy and he hit me [sob, sob] and threatened me [sob, sob]. Can you please come? [sob, shake, shake, shake]

Is he still there ma’am?

I’m not sure, [sob, sob] I think he’s outside [hyperventilate]. He was still there just before yelling and making threats. He broke the glass in my front door. I’m really scared. Can you come over?

Have you got the door locked?

Yyess… yes I have.

Do you have a security door?

Yes…

Okay, lock that too

O-o-okay [sob, shake, shiver]

Right, did anyone else see what happened?

No… it was just the two of us here [sob, sob]

If he’s gone there’s probably not that much we can do for you tonight. We can’t really arrest him for assault because it’s his word against yours.

Are you serious? You should see my face! And my door! [shaking]

I’m really sorry. You should go to the magistrate’s court tomorrow and take out an AVO. Do you know what that is ma’am?

Yes…

Good. And can you call a friend to come over tonight?

I… I guess so…

That’s good. If he comes back, call us again and we’ll come straight over.

Oh, okay. Bye…

I found my house keys and listened at the door for a while. Was he still lurking around? It was silent outside but that could mean anything. I took a deep breath and opened the door so I could lock the security door. Okay, good. My heart beat a little faster, but it didn’t compare to the ruckus going on in my face.

He’d only hit me on the left side of my face, and thrown me against the wall. My cheekbone throbbed and vibrated. The back of my head ached where it smacked into the wall. I couldn’t feel the rest of my body – just my face. The heat, the pain, was spreading up to my hairline, into my scalp and down my neck. And I couldn’t stop shaking or crying. I could barely catch my breath as the shock set in.

I don’t really recall the moments in between. Only fragments of that time, when I was trying to figure out what to do.

The policeman had said to call someone. I didn’t think to call my sister – she lived a very long way away. There was no question of calling my parents. I knew from experience they aren’t emotionally equipped to deal with a crisis.

But I’d only recently moved back to Melbourne and I didn’t have a lot of friends here yet. But I started calling anyway. Who was in my phone? Who did I know here? Did I know any men I could call? I desperately wanted to feel safe, to be around a male who wasn’t going to attack me. Who else?

I called M, an ex lover who is a very sweet person. I got voicemail – Help me, can you please call? I really need to talk to you. I called K – we’d met through a mutual friend in Sydney. Voicemail again. Please call me back if you get this message. I really need to talk to someone.

I can’t remember who else I called. There were a couple of people I think. But not many, because by that time already, Embarrassment and Shame were starting to rear their ugly heads.

Suddenly K rings me back.

What happened? What’s going on?

Through the unrest of my trembling and teary voice, I try to explain…

You remember Andre? That guy we met? He was over here tonight and he went nuts. It was like he was suddenly a different person. He made all these threats and then he hit me. I’m so freaked out, I’m so scared.

I’m coming over. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

Thank god.

K comes over, prepared to stay for the night. She’s tiny in stature compared to me, but her hug was the most comforting experience I could have asked for. She takes charge, making endless cups of hot sugary tea.

M rings back too. He and his girlfriend are nearby, just on their way home from something or other. Although he offers to come over, the fact that his girlfriend is with him makes me say no. I can’t have a complete stranger come to my place and see me in this state. I’m already so ashamed that this thing has happened to me. M thinks I should leave, go and stay at K’s place for the night.

He and K talk whilst I sit and shake. M thinks it would be good to get out of the place where it all happened. K is just worried. M hangs up and I talk to K about it. But I don’t want to go anywhere. I just want the world to open up and swallow me. So K says no, let’s stay. Let’s not flee the scene.

We talk for hours I think, until K needs to sleep. By this time she announces that I’ve warmed up a shade or two, and don’t look so pale and grey any more. I guess that’s a good thing? So we both get in my bed – so reassuring – and turn off the lights. But as soon as I shut my eyes, all I can see are his.

Not so much the colour or the shape. But the look in his eyes, right there at the back. It’s like he was saying, What are you going to do now? I’m the one with the power here. Don’t defy me, girl. Don’t even try.

His eyes didn’t look like my friend’s eyes. Gone was the gentle musician with the heart of a poet. Gone was the warmth and caring. It was a cold, soulless look. It was alien and deadly.

And now those eyes haunted me and stole any notion of sleep or tiredness. I got up, letting K sleep.

I sent my sister a text – Call me in the morning as soon as you get this. I need you to come over.

I sent Andre’s ex-girlfriend a text – Please call me when you get this message. You need to know what Andre has done tonight.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was numb throughout my body, except for the constant reminder of my face. Throbbing, aching, keening. I had no idea of how to spend the time until morning. Closing my eyes was not an option, although I tried – but every time, his eyes were there, waiting for me. Scaring me silly.

Every now and then, waves of tears would erupt, and each time I would shake non-stop. The sort of shaking you have when you’re really cold, chilled to the bone. Only, I was warm. The heater was working hard and I was wearing many layers of clothing.

Eventually I found some solace watching episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (of all things!). It carried me through the night in a state that felt oddly dissociative. Heck, who cares – Buffy and her friends kept me from losing the plot too badly.

(To be continued…)