L, Darling.

I watched Alice, Darling last night with a friend. I don’t think I really knew what it was about. Not really. Maybe I didn’t pay enough attention during the coming attractions, or maybe I deluded myself, or maybe something else altogether.

Let’s start with the positives because I often think that’s a better course to chart. Always. It was brilliant. IMO. I loved every second of it, and also, hated every second (more to come). Ms. Kendrick fucking nailed it. I’ve never seen such a profound representation of a psychologically and emotionally abusive relationship. Every moment of it resonated and every second wounded me to my core.

Let me be clear that these are not new wounds, not by a long shot. In fact, if you’ve been around here for some time, you know that it might be more appropriate to call it scar tissue. Except that it’s not, scar tissue. Scar tissue for me, is tougher skin or clumps of cells, that have built up after a trauma and give you some modicum of protection. Sure, it can cause issues, but its goal is to act as a sort of barrier. You’ve been harmed, it screams, so let me help. Please, it pleads. Nothing gets close, not really.

Sure, my scar tissue does that. I’ve been able to keep people at bay and make marginally better decisions and most importantly, look back and evaluate where I erred and determine how I can do better, for me.

But also, it’s not just scar tissue. It’s deep-seated trauma. Wounds that have closed, but just barely, so at the slightest provocation, they rip open again. Fresh blood, new pain.

Anna’s character, Alice, talks about several things that I don’t want to share here, because I am going to beg you to see the movie. It’s so fucking hard to watch, not just for me, but I think for anyone, but it’s really important. As a society, we stigmatize emotional abuse, and overlook it, and I think so many humans suffer as a result. Unnecessarily. They don’t seek the help they desperately need, because they are ‘not really being hurt.’  

They are being hurt. I was being hurt. I’m still hurt.

I decided to make a list of the things I did in my relationship. An honest list. A list that is humiliating and brutal, but the whole truth and nothing but I want you to understand from my perspective. I want you to understand that I felt more connected to Alice, as a fictional character, than I ever have in any movie I’ve ever watched. And that fact terrifies me and provides me with an odd sort of comfort. Reassurance.

I’ve been seen.

Okay, here goes:

1. I lied about random shit, like talking to my mom in the morning. I took her phone call in the bathroom and hoped that the din of the bathroom fan muted our voices enough. When I was asked if I was on the phone, I would lie, my heart beating out of my chest.
2. I would avoid plans with family and friends, because it was easier to beg out of social engagements than explain my stress over staying too long or worse, having to attend to his needs in a public setting.
3. I would punish my body in ways that I’m not ready to talk about yet, so that I could achieve a certain kind of perfection that would attract him or please him, or at the bare minimum, not repulse him.
4. I would shrink myself when in public so as to avoid saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing or pissing him off for whatever reason that I couldn’t figure out. In particular, I tried very hard to not have any accomplishments unless he could have one of equal value. If I did, I diminished it and did not allow the people in my life to make a thing of it. Ever.
5. I would apologize all the fucking time. He would tell me to stop apologizing. I would apologize for apologizing. For context, I had a weird postnasal drip for a month or so during one year of our relationship (we were together for just about five, for background, and also, I think it was stress induced, in retrospect), and the sound of my sniffling annoyed him. And so, I apologized for sniffling. I also apologized for blowing my nose. I think I apologized for “being gross.”
6. I would make decisions and then, upon realizing I had made the “wrong” decision, I would scramble to try and back off or back out. I couldn’t. No matter what I did, I dug a hole. And then, I would be as solicitous as I could be, to try and fix the thing that I didn’t really do and didn’t really understand.
7. I compared myself endlessly to others. People he seemed to admire. People in “normal” relationships. People who liked him. Everyone. Everywhere.
8. I pretended to like things that I didn’t, and not like things that I did. I agreed and disagreed so often in such a robotic fashion, that it took me over a year after he left me to figure out how I like my coffee and that I never want to eat in a chain restaurant ever again, for as long as I live. When someone orders chicken fingers, I still feel like I’m going to melt down and maybe, vomit. Don’t ever fucking tell me you want to go to the Olive Garden, unless you are prepared to end our connection/relationship. I won’t. I can’t.
9. I became an expert at making nice. All the time. I bought him presents and booked plans that he approved of, and ended friendships that threatened him or pissed him off. I spent time with people I didn’t care for and made excuses for people who he didn’t like, for no reason I could ever understand. I made dinner even when I was exhausted. I let myself be tickled even though I hated it and it physically hurt.
10. I allowed myself to not be touched, kissed, or loved for years. I was told that I was loved, but only under the guise that I was doing everything I was supposed to, at the exact time I was supposed to. The love was conditional and it was clear, and I worked my ass off to hold up my end of the contract.

This is a taste. A garbage appetizer that you instantly regret because it’s too big or too small and too greasy and absolutely fucking gross. Just disgusting. When I read that list, I hate myself and then instantly, I love myself. Because I survived. Because, I am embarrassed, but I own my story now. I own my part in all of it. What I did, who I was, the mistakes I made.

I stayed, for too long.

Someone once asked me when I should have left him and without thinking, I said in the first month. Then. I should have left, then.

I didn’t though. I stayed for nearly five years, until he left me, via text.

And now, I have scars and also, trauma wounds and also, a shit ton of fear.

But I’m hopeful too. I’m hopeful that I can figure it out, that I have been figuring it out, that I will figure it out. One day.

So here is what I will leave you with: Watch the movie. Be compassionate (towards others and yourself). Help destigmatize emotional abuse by giving it the credence it deserves. Love with standards, but also, without conditions.

X

L.