Fault

 A fault is fostered by concealment. --Virgil

 There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet. --Samuel Beckett

The other night one of my closets friends came to me crying, currently going through a difficult time with a breakup. Instead of rage crying most of us are familiar with, she blamed herself for the difficulties her now ex-boyfriend had put her through, knowing full well what he did was wrong, but feeling responsible for him following through with his actions. Most of us would be appalled and tell her that, yes, she is being stupid because it isn't her fault and curse his name until it no longer held any meaning. But I couldn't bring myself to do that.

As she sat across from me, hiccuping and arms flailing, trying to finally verbalize the thoughts and emotions she had kept to herself since the relationship had ended, all I could see was myself, perhaps only two years ago, finally telling someone why I was so bitter and so unhappy, and why I couldn't just simply "get over it" because I felt it was my fault. The cheating, keeping me from my friends and family, demanding that I give up my education because it interfered with his life (and, hey, he got along just fine without college), telling me I was worthless, the only thing he would remember about me was having sex with me --the night after one of the many times he had broken up with me and gone out with another girl, had come home and tried to have sex with me while I was sleeping-- not paying for anything, yet telling everyone I was living off of him, yelling at me for something the dog had done, for something the government had done, sending him off to Iraq. For the American citizens not appreciating him the way he wanted to be when he came home.

I sympathized with his sense of loss and confusion, and blamed myself when he became enraged with me or treated me poorly because if I was a good girlfriend, a good person, he wouldn't be so unhappy with me. It took me years to accept that I was manipulated and taken advantage of, and that while the love I held for him at the time was genuine, his wasn't, that isn't what love is supposed to be. However, it's still difficult to accept that, being the stubborn and proud person that I am, I was shaped and controlled by someone other than me. At some point I had given up my free will in order to appease him, and it's frightening knowing that I'm capable of doing such a thing.

We look at these girls and we call them stupid and silly for not getting out sooner and putting up with behavior that they should know, and do know, is toxic. Perhaps the most haunting part of surviving an abusive relationship is simply surviving, knowing that at one point you were stupid and silly and the guilt and shame that comes with that realization. This isn't something where you tripped and fell or said something completely inappropriate, as embarrassing as those situations are, they pass and are forgotten with time. Abusive relationships do not. The memories always resurface when a new one is being foraged, "Is he a good guy, is he going to hurt me?" "Should I comply with what he says this time, is this a healthy compromise or am I falling into the same habit?" "He's angry, is it my fault?"

And not just with relationships, with everything. The loss of self often has me questioning what kind of person am I, can I be the person I want to be, and my own self worth. If I continue to look at myself as a victim I give up my agency and give him power, which is exactly the opposite of what I wish to achieve. But bearing the weight of everything that's happen to me is cruel, it's like excusing him for what he did and never having to suffer the consequences, and there's simply no excuse for his part of the ordeal. My scars aren't going to disappear because one drunken night he left a message saying "sorry and stuff" and that he reportedly feels badly about the way he had treated me.

The damage, there's so much of it. I suppressed much of it for so long because I simply could not function trying to piece it all together so soon after we had ended. I'd spend my days as busy as possible, in class and out with friends, and my nights gasping for air between sobs. It took a year, even with the help of family and friends, to build the mental stability necessary for me to face the shame and guilt that had built up over time and to finally tell someone that yes, I am a statistic, and this is what happened to me when I should have said "no."

What I do know is that my friend is stronger than me. Despite everything she's been through, she is still one of the sweetest and caring people I have met. While I sit embittered and wishing death upon my abuser, only now finding my life satisfactory three years later and thinking maybe one day I will be happy, she's smiling and loving, and moving on to the next chapter in her life.

Big City

You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you'll discover will be wonderful. What you'll discover is yourself. --Alan Alda

All I really had was a suitcase and my drums. So I took them up to Seattle and hoped it would work. --Dave Grohl

One of my friends told me that her long distance boyfriend of maybe two months had spent almost how much she pays in rent on a piece of jewelry for her. They're in love, he's adamant that he's the only one for her, and have began to discuss their lives as newlyweds. I'm sure a few of you clutched your heart a bit, or shook your head, like I did; and if you didn't, perhaps you have no reason to feel so jaded. And I'm sure there's at least one of you wondering why I'm talking about my friend's boyfriend when the title of this entry is "Big City."

Let me explain.

I mentioned briefly to some that I had been in a rather unsavory relationship. At eighteen I opted to date a twenty two year old, I fresh out of high school and he fresh off his first half of tour of duty on the front lines of Iraq. This scenario in no way automatically spells trouble, though I feel that to a certain degree I should have known better, or at least expected the possibility of what was to come.

At eighteen I was headstrong and fighting for my independence and my place in things. I've never considered myself beautiful in any capacity, and my lack of popularity never bothered me because I firmly believed then, and now, that a person must love you for who you are, not what they expect. Even still, the idea that a nice enough looking guy four years my senior, off doing worldly things and being an adult, wanted to date me was nice. I loved him and he said the same, he believed he was the only one for me, and so on, and it pleased me. So much so that I endured nearly two years of mental abuse and severe depression as he tried to cope with his anxieties about the war and himself by using me as his point of rage.

I'm not saying my friend will end up like me (mostly because I simply won't allow to watch my friends be brutalized in such a fashion after having gone through that myself), but it reminded me of why I moved to Seattle in the first place.

Yes, a large portion of my decision was based on the fact that I was accepted into the University of Washington after I had completed my AA degree at my local community college, but UW was the only four year institution that I had applied for. I reasoned to my parents later that it was because UW is the only institution that doesn't automatically accept transfers-- and that's true-- and if they didn't accept me, I could easily go to Central like my mother wanted me to.

In reality I craved Seattle. My dearest friends lived there, urging me to move out to be with them. I wanted so desperately to move on to some semblance of normalcy, normalcy for a young woman of twenty one, and be with my friends my age that my ex had done nearly everything in his power to keep me away from. I wanted to see them, I wanted some control over my life, and desired to try something new, even if that meant moving three hours away from everything I knew.

Most importantly, I wanted to leave me behind. My friends in Seattle, while close and dear to me, did not see the me that had been broken and devastated, all they know of are accounts that I have told them. They remembered me as the vibrant and stubborn teenager bounding down the field in my purple graduation robes, smile and laughing and happy. Part of me is sad that they weren't there for that part of my life, regardless of how sad it was, because it is very much a part of me and something they have difficulties understanding, but back then I relished in the thought of no one knowing I was a statistic, a dumb girl who let herself be abused, and could be seen again as the cheery and intelligent girl that I had left behind only a few years prior.

Seattle has done many things for me. I still have my insecurities and neuroses like every woman does, but I feel alive again, and proud. I met new people, reinstated my social life, succeeded in school, and while I purposely strayed away from romantic relations, forged friendships with people who love me, and mean it. It took an act of anonymity to bring me back to acknowledging myself, to love myself, and for that I will always be in love with this city and its inability to cope with snow.