TW – Domestic Violence, Sexual Assault, Mental Illness

I am sitting next to my husband in the car as we drive towards my neurologist appointment. I’m trying so hard to focus on the traffic but also talking to them. I can see their worry for me on their face. I can feel their fear at the idea that what if, what if whatever was in my MRI scan was fatal. What if I wasn’t going to be here long? What if was really affecting our anxiety. We mostly avoided talking about those.

Instead we were talking about another trauma we had to deal with. One that we had dealt with before in other situations like this one we were about to deal with. One we shouldn’t have to deal with…

What if they tried to stop my husband from going in with me to see the neurologist? But the likelihood of this what if was very likely. It had happened in other occasions where they were asked to wait outside while I had to wait inside. Not just because of Covid, because if that had been the case…the older couple sitting together wouldn’t have been there…or the husband and wife that sat next to each other and got to comfort each other…no, it was because we weren’t recognised as a real couple.

So, what if the neurologist appointment did the same thing? What if I had to be alone to hear the news? What if my husband was forced, yet again, to sit outside and wonder what I was being told and if I needed them with me?

My husband was adamant they would say something this time. They would insist they be with me. They would fight to sit at my side and hold my hand when I heard the news and hug me afterwards no matter the results. They were going to do that. And I agreed.

But it’s something we shouldn’t have to fight for, you know? I should be only worrying about the results and what it was that the scans picked up in my brain? What was I going to face? Mortality? We knew nothing but the concern my GP had and his insistence that I see a neurologist as soon as possible.

Anxiety catastrophises to prepare for what could be the worst. Most cases it causes more anxiety, but it also protects us from further trauma. Some cases it can cause more trauma. Either way, we walked into the neurologist appointment as close as we could stand next to each other. My husband used soothing tones and didn’t make physical contact with me until I initiated it. They knew that in this state I’d be in self-protection mode, but they knew I wanted them there.

They knew that there was no one else I’d rather be at my side than them and they were prepared to ensure they stayed that way.

The neurologist let them in. He just asked if they were related and I said that they weren’t and that they were my husband. They wore a pin on their shirt that told people their preferred pronouns. The receptionist had already referred to them by it and so did the neurologist. It was very unlike the experience we had at other specialists in previous years.

I brushed my hand against my husband’s. They took my hand for a moment and I squeezed back as the neurologist asked some questions as he looked at the results of my scans. I could tell already he was seeing things on the scan and he was trying to figure out what had caused them by his questions.

“Were you ever in any severe accidents?”

It was then I knew what he might have been seeing. It was like this understanding without even looking at the pictures. My husband later said they had a good view of the pictures and could see what the neurologist was seeing.

I answered, “I haven’t. But I’ve been severely abused by my father. He punched me, kicked me…lashed me with a belt. Tossed me aside off of stairs.”

The neurologist stopped me. I think he could see I was spiralling as I do sometimes. My eyes felt distant. I was seeing each of these things happen to me as I listed them. The neurologist was kind. He thanked me for answering his question and explained that what these scans was showing was scar tissues and quite a bit of it. He said that it is definitely from head trauma but it was nothing life threatening. Not something we need to be too worried about.

At those last statements, I teared up and looked at my husband. They looked at me with tears in their eyes.

Nothing life threatening.

And as we shared the joy with those words, the other words sank in and the heaviness hit me and I could see my husband’s facial expressions turn from relief and love to anger and loathing. I could see the fire in their eyes and I could feel it in my heaviness.

Definitely from head trauma.

All those times as a child, he lashed me with a belt. I can still feel the metal buckle hit the back of my head, my ears, my neck and the rest of my body with his rage. A truth many of you who read He Was A Boy Who Smiled: Book Two will recognise.

Or the time, he was tired of me and wanted me out of his way because I was too damn slow and barged passed me up cement stairs leading into the house and I flew off and hit the back of my head on the ground. My head rang so loudly I was deafened but not for long. I still heard my mom tisk, “Dean,” as she followed him into the house. I remember the headache that didn’t go away that night. The breath finally coming back to me.

But I story I’ve never told in written form that I know won’t make it to He Was A Boy Who Smiled. When he punched me in the face and forehead as I slammed my bedroom door open and screamed at him after I couldn’t standing listening to my mother’s whimpers anymore. I was 18. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” was the last thing I said to him before I stumbled back in disbelief. But he didn’t stop there. He kept punching and kicking. I flew back into the bed facedown and blocked the rest of his blows the best that I could but his fists kept slamming into the back of my head. His feet stomped into my sides. “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!” he kept screaming at me. I could hear my mother screaming, “OH GOD, DEAN, STOP, THIS IS YOUR SON?!” as if that made a difference that it was me again instead of her.

He was never held accountable for any of that. Not for what he did to me. Not for me. Not for any of it.

And as we shared that rage with each other, my husband’s face softened and they touched my knee fondly. We continued to listen to the details of what we were seeing from the neurologist and the lasting effects that will happen for the rest of my life. The migraines won’t go away. The headaches will still come. The damage to my eyes and nerves won’t ever be healed. We faced it together and left together. We talked about it together. We shared our relief over it not being life threatening.

And we shared in the anger of the truth behind it all.

Child abuse has a lasting effect. It doesn’t get healed quickly. It doesn’t go away completely. There are scars both mentally and physically that stay forever. It’s why it needs to stop. We need to put a stop to it.

And we need to hold people accountable. I’m not talking cancel culture. I’m not talking a slap on the wrist or a shrug. I’m not talking an acceptance that that is just how that person is.

We can’t let the cycle of abuse continue. My biological dad will never get the accountability he deserves for what he has done to me.

But…I got to have my husband at my side. I got to see the smile on their face hours later when they treated me to a coffee and told me that they loved me.

And I…I love them…forever…scars and all.

You’re my happy ending, Joel.

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