Opening My Eyes

China smashed against the dining room floor. Shrill shrieks echoed off the walls. The dull thuds, crashes, and screams reached my ears, even though my head pressed tightly between the matress and pillow. Nothing drowned out the noise, ever. This noise followed me everywhere. When I was in class, when I was talking to people, and especially when I was asleep. It was an omnipresent, omnipotent force that never left me alone. It was always backgroud noise: usually quiet, but loud enough so that I could never feel safe.

Now here I was, curled up in bed, smothering my ears between two pillows. It only made everything louder. I threw the pillow off of me, flipped on my back, and stared blankly at the dark ceiling. As I settled into this new position, I winced; now I felt that new bruise, and now I knew where that vase had hit. I shifted a little so the bruise didn't have so much pressure on it, and it felt better.

Then I reached up to my face, and traced the long cut spanning from my left temple to just a bit farther down than my earlobe. It was covered in gauze now, but an hour earlier, it had been bleeding profusely as I plucked out splintered shards of my favorite dinner plate.

Tonight was different than most other nights. I couldn't understand the difference at first. I began to think about it, and the noise was a dull roar in my ears.

Most nights I balled up in the corner of the bathroom, crying while I bandaged myself up, taking a few Tylenol to ease the physical pain. After a while, one of two things would happen. Either Brian would slam the front door and disappear for the night, leaving me completely alone... or he would come in the bathroom. And whenever he came in, he would sit right beside me with his back up against the bathtub like me. He would wrap his arms around me and let me cry on his shoulder. All the while, he'd speak very quietly to me. He'd promise me he was so sorry, that he just lost control. He promised he would never, ever do such a terrible thing again. Oh, those words!

If I had to chose the one thing that made me fall in love with Brian, it would be his voice. He had a masculine, husky voice. He would always speak in a very low, easy tone, so much that you were drawn closer to him from the moment he opened his mouth. Oh, how I loved to hear his voice. Whenever we spoke, he would always be the one talking. I hated to interrupt with my too-loud sounding, imperfect tone; I much preferred watching his thin lips form those beautiful words. I followed that voice like a lamb follows a shepherd. I was helpless to his charm and sweetness.

We hit it off right away. After just six months, we decided that we were a perfect match, and we had a small wedding. As a little girl I always wanted a big wedding. However, this was not really possible. You see, during the six months Brian and I had been dating, all of our friends warned us against getting serious. Even some of his friends warned me that he was very abusive -- both to himself, and his former girlfriends. But I didn't believe a word of it. Brian had never hit me. He told me he loved me, and that his friends were just envious of him because he had the most amazing girlfriend in the world. I believed him. I spouted those words right back into the faces of my friends: they were jealous that I was happier with Brian than they were in their own relationships. Many of those friends stopped talking to us. I didn't care; all I cared about was my Brian.

I'm not sure when exactly it first happened. I even sort of remembered the first time it ever happened. After our six month courtship, I had never once noticed that Brian drank so much. He drank every night. I didn't know how many beers or bottles of Vodka were in the dumpster at the end of the month because of him. I tried not to notice. If I tried hard enough, I really didn't. Not consciously, anyway. I also didn't notice all the nights he wasn't home. I didn't notice the never ending excuses, the growing number of sincere apologies, the pile of unpaid bills on the dining room table. It didn't register; I was content thinking that things were fine.

Things were fine, really. They were... and then that night. That one night, I came in the living room. He was staring at the wall, his eyes bloodshot, brow furrowed, and beer bottle clenched so tightly between his fingers. I picked up the bottlers that were around him. Where there six? Seven? Ten? I don't remember. I gathered a few in my hands and arms, and then quietly murmured, "Baby, you look stressed. Is everything alright?"

Then everything happened. The sound came first. There was a growl, almost animalistic. Then there was a slam, a gasp of pain, and a loud, echoing smash of glass. The last three sounds came from me. My back hit the wall with bulldozer force, and I cried out. The bottles went flying. Amber glass shards popped all over the floor, slicing open my barefeet. But I didn't pay attention to the cuts. I was more concerned with the force that had slammed me into the wall.

Brian hovered over me, glowering. Another snarl formed on his lips, and his perfect, low voice rose to an overpowering, chilling volume that I didn't know he was capable of. "Yeah, of course! Everything's just freaking peachy! Cable's shut off, there's no more booze, and you're only working part time! Dammit, Olivia, does everything LOOK like it's okay?!"

He shouted some more after that, pacing around and kicking glass everywhere. He complained about lots of things. Mostly me. Every thing stung me like the glass that pierced through my flesh that night. I was horrified; I hadn't realized any of this, and yet Brian's word was always right. Now he was telling me all these things, so they had to be right. And I had to be wrong.

I started sobbing, rocking back and forth. Now the glass stuck into my calves, my feet, my knees, my elbows, my palms. He shouted something else. I think it was "shut up" but I don't know. Then he hit me again -- this time I think it was with the bottle in his hand -- and I blacked out.

When I woke up, the bleeding had stopped. However, the glass still stuck in my body. Aching, sore, crying, I literally dragged myself to the bathroom on my back. I pulled a pair of tweezers out of the drawer, and sobbed and cried out in pain as I extracted all of the pieces of glass. It hurt so badly. I saw my cell phone charging on the counter, considered it for a moment, and then went back to what I was doing. I couldn't call an ambulance. I plucked out each piece and dropped them in the tub. I ignored the oozing blood the best I could. If I called an ambulance, they would want to know what happened and why I was covered in glass pieces. I couldn't tell them what happened. Then Brian, my love, Brian would be blamed.

The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Brian was stressed out. So he needed a drink. Then he just got a little bit carried away, and drank a few more. So he was a little drunk, and was under too much strain. That's why he acted the way he did. It wasn't his fault. It was mine. I was the one who was slacking off at work, it was my fault the bills weren't getting paid and why there wasn't always food on the table. It was my fault that he was stressed in the first place. It was only natural that I have to face the consequences for my hurtful actions. It was my fault. Not Brian's.

The sun had rose and set since I'd been in the bathroom. It took that long to pull out every splinter from my body and find enough gauze and toilet paper to cover it all up. Then the door opened. It was him.

I felt no fear, only shame that I had caused him so much trouble. I felt tears welling up again. He looked down at me with worry and pity, and sat beside me. He stroked my cheek, and whispered, "Olivia, I'm so sorry." Then, the dam broke and a flood of tears carved rivers down my face. He held his arms out, and I threw myself on him, crying hysterically into his shoulder. "Brian, Brian, Brian," I whispered. I was so glad. I murmured to him not to apologize. It was my fault. He was perfectly justified in his actions. I swore never to let him down again. All the time, he shushed me quietly and stroked my hair. And everything was okay.

The wounds hadn't even all healed when it happened again. By the fifth time, I'd established that there were two Brians. There was my Brian: the sweet, quiet, Brian with the captivating voice. Then there was the other Brian, the Brian that belonged to the bottle. He was the loud, raging, vengeful Brian. This Brian did not belong to me. So, I couldn't blame the misdeeds of the other Brian on mine. So, I was confused whenever he tried to apologize; why should my Brian apologize for what the other Brian had done? I felt not hate for either, only for myself. I was hurting him more than he was hurting me, I told myself. That's the only reason why there were two Brians, anyway. It was my fault. I was disappointed and disgusted with myself that I had made him like this. Why should I hate him or blame him for something that was my fault?

Over time, a pattern had formed. Brian would drink, and then I would be there for him. It didn't matter what I was doing or what I said. It didn't even matter if I was in the same room as he was. When I set him off with whatever I did, or whenever the stress from what I was doing got to him, he found me. Then he would... do things like he did the first time. He wasn't really beating me. He was just venting. I had to let him vent. It was the only way he could let it all out, so I would be there for him even if he had to hurt me. He's hurting more, I would always remind myself. He's hurting more. He said lots of things to me. He said I was gaining weight, I was eating too much. He said I was the reason why he didn't have any food to eat and why he looked annorexic. He said I should work more than one job than just the hotel receptionist position I'd received. He said I was lazy and needed to get myself in gear and support our two-person family. I was struck by lots of things, too. Beer bottles, my mother's fine china, brooms, loose floor boards he had broken. I had lots of wounds. For the first part of my time in the bathroom, patching myself up, I devised more and more creative excuses for all the cuts and bruises. For the second part, other than when he left and I cried myself to sleep, Brian would come in and crouch beside me. He'd whisper words of comfort, and he'd be my Brian again. Then everything was alright. The only thing different was that I wasn't bleeding when he was my Brian a few hours ago... Not bleeding as much, anyway.

And so, for my first two years of college, I balanced a job, my classes, paying the bills, and being Brian's wife. Those two years we were married were when my Brian and the other Brian switched places...

I sighed as I recalled the date. August 24th -- it was mine and Brian's anniversary. Our second anniversary. I didn't expect him to remember. He didn't last time, either. The only difference was that I'd gone to bed with more bruises last time. Tonight, I was lucky. My broken wrist was nearly healed, and he'd only hit it twice. He used his bare hands most of the time, too; it was easier to hide those bruises rather than open bleeding cuts that porcelain and splintered wood left. The only other thing he'd hit me with was the flower vase. It was in pieces in the trash now, but he'd thrown it at me before it smashed on the floor... Wait a second, he'd thrown the plate at me, too. Right, that's what initiated the switch tonight: I'd dropped the plate. He screamed that I was a dumb klutz. I crouched down to pick up the smaller pieces. He picked up the third of the plate that survived, and shook it in my face, asking if I was happy now that I'd made such a mess. I barely turned my head on time before he threw it at my face.

... That was it... I turned away this time. I moved away from the plate when he threw it at me. I'd suffered a two broken noses, broken most of my fingers, at least three ribs, both wrists, and my left ankle already, not to mention other lacerations and fractures in the last two years. I don't remember doing anything to prevent myself from getting more injured. But I did tonight. I turned away. I moved. If I didn't, he probably would have cracked my skull or something.

... And then something else horrifying occured to me. I acknowledged it tonight for the first time since -- well, since the first time: Brian was the one who hit me. Not the other Brian, not the drinking Brian. My Brian.

It wasn't him! Not my Brian. Not mine. It was the other one, the Brian who made me pay for all the wrongs I'd done...

Why didn't that sound right? Why did that sound so... melodramatic now? ... <i>The pain that I caused him?</i> I wasn't trying to hurt him. How had I hurt him? I skipped meals twice a week or more so he could eat. I worked hard at my job to pay the bills, and for everything else he wanted and needed. Yet... Yet Brian didn't work. He hadn't worked since his paper route in middle school. He could easily have a job because he didn't attend college, and it was summertime anyway. So why didn't he? He could get a part time job and help pay for things, right? So why didn't he? Why did I have to continue to pay for everything? Why did I have to take care of everything?

I didn't mind taking care of Brian. I would baby him for the rest of my life if I could, but... but he just didn''t do <i>anything</i> for himself. Nothing. I wanted to baby him. I wanted to be the perfect wife for him. But I wasn't his wife. I was his slave. I was his slave, his punching bag, his trophy. I was nothing but a girl to him... No, I wasn't even that. He couldn't treat a person that way. I was just... a way of life. I was <i>his</i> way of life. I was the reason why he had a roof over his head and food and alcohol and drugs and expensive video games and a nice car and a big TV and pot and cocaine and... and...

Everything was coming out so fast. It was like my eyes had just been opened and I was seeing everything that I'd lived with for the last two years had come into painful clarity all on fast forward. I was floored.

I came to a very painful, very true conclusion.

There was only one Brian. He was not split into good and smiting. He was not mine and someone else's. He was just Brian.

So, it was Brian who beat me. It was Brian who hurt me, Brian who... who <i>used</i> me, who milked me dry for everything I had. It was the same Brian who I loved, who I married, who I adored. My perfect, horrible, vengeful, comforting, beautiful, terrible Brian.

This was the night he decided to storm out, wasn't it? I sat up slowly, clutching my sweatshirt in my sweaty fists.

I'd been living so horribly for so long. Had I really been so naive as to think that Brian was ever mine, that he ever had one good side and one bad? No, I didn't even consider the "other" Brian to be bad. I considered him judgement for my wrongs. Yet, how had I wronged him? All he ever did when he was drunk was complain and criticize and yell. Everything he said that was untrue was exagerated, and things he could easy do for himself. He could go and buy his own beer. He could go and work at a job. Yet, he chose to stay at home and enslave me. And drink every night. And beat me.

I stood straight up. I was in pain, but not physical. It was emotional. He used me. If he loved me, he wouldn't hurt me like this. That was ridiculous. And the shock of my obliviousness to all of what had happened made it hurt even more.

But something made that pain lessen: <i>I turned away.</i>

If I turned away, I must still have some regard for my own life. So I hadn't been completely brainwashed with Brian, Brian, and more Brian; I could still at least try to defend myself when I was threatened. And now that I thought about it, I'd done it before, too. It just never occured to me...

I didn't know what had triggered it tonight. Maybe it was just like a river whose dam collapsed. Maybe it was like taking off headphones so thick you couldn't hear a thing to hear someone screaming in your face. I don't know who took off the heavy head phones, or what caused the dam to break, but it happened. And with this dawning realization, one thought was plain in my mind: <i>I have to get out.</i>

Five minutes later, I had clothes and money in a backpack. Maybe Maria would forgive me, maybe the kind-hearted Rebecca would lend me her couch for a few nights. As long as I was away from here. My hands shook so badly I could hardly write. Tears spilled over the paper as I wrote the last words I ever wanted to say to Brian. The words I could never be brave enough to say to his face.

I loved him. I know he beat me, used me, enslaved me, hurt me -- but love like what I felt doesn't die like that. I loved Brian, and I still do, despite all that he's done to me. That's what hurt above all: still loving the man who didn't even care about me. More than the bruises, more than my broken arm, more than the flood of the obvious way I'd been neglecting and hurting and blaming myself. More than anything I'd ever felt before in my life.

And as I knocked on the door of my friend's house, I gazed into the flood light blankly. The door creaked open, and a gasp of horror reached my ears. I began to cry as I remembered the short letter Brian would read when he unknowingly came back to his empty home...

<center><i>Brian, I love you, babe, now and forever, but it's time to open your eyes and let go. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Loving you eternally, Olivia.</center></i>