Wine

“You are so strong!”

This is what my friends tell me when I update them on my life. It is what my boyfriend reassures me with when I am struggling. It is what my counselor reminds me of when I am afraid. Why does a history of abuse automatically make me strong? I am not strong; God is strong. I am weak.

If I were strong, I would be able to control my emotions, my thoughts, and my body. Yet, time and time again, I find myself at their mercy. I try to fight; I fight with numbers, breathing exercises, redirection, and grounding routines. Sometimes I win, but mostly I lose.

A couple weeks ago I was at my dear boyfriend’s home for dinner. I suspected that there would be wine there, and I thought I was ready. I had been around alcohol and drinkers enough to know how to keep calm and stay grounded. Heck, I could even manage a drunk man getting in my space and yelling at me without losing it like before. I just pick something around me and try to understand every part of it. Or, if that is too hard at the moment, I focus on the material of something near me whether that be my shirt, a table, or a wall. It is all about redirection–don’t think about it and don’t lose. A quiet family meal with a little wine was no big deal.

It was a wonderful meal with special people. Our plates were nearly half empty, and my breathing was still relaxed. My boyfriend had a glass of wine, which I knew would happen eventually in our relationship. I trust him like no other, so what difference would one glass of expired grape juice do?

Our plates were nearly empty and so was his glass of wine. He asked for a second. My mind began to calculate: he is fit and does not drink often. . . two glasses could affect him. No, stop! Don’t go there. He knows what he is doing. It’s a big glass. . . stop this!

He finished his plate and leaned over to whisper something in my ear. I can’t remember what he said because I did not hear it. Instead, I heard, “Aren’t you a pretty lil thang. Lookin’ fine today aren’t we?” He stepped towards me but tripped over the crowbar on the floor. Curses filled the shop. I could run, but if I were to get caught before I got to the door it would be a lot worse. More curses rang out as he banged his head against a newly-stained frame hanging from the ceiling. Being 6’4 had its disadvantages.

“You’re quite the distraction, ain’t ya? Got me full of bruises before 4 p. m. Whatcha gonna do to fix it, huh?” He stepped across the last few feet, his long stride covering it before I could make my decision. It was too late to run. His breath hit me, reeking of beer. My stomach turned, and I wondered what he would do if I puked on him. He reached for my wrist, and I closed my eyes, beginning to count. 3 6 9 12 15 18 21 24 27 30. . . I felt his hand begin on my knee as it began its climb. It interrupted my counting, and I began again with 4 8 12 16 20. . . but the hand stopped.

“Are you okay?” My boyfriend’s loving green and hazel eyes were looking back at me, but all I saw was the way the veins in his eyes were larger and redder than normal. His pupils were tiny specks and covered by an unusual gloss. It’s Joe–you are fine. He knows what he is doing. Plus, remember that one time he told you about? He said he was a polite drunk. Even if he gets drunk, which he is not because you’re just crazy, he will be nice. 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55. . . look at him you psycho!

The second glass of wine was gone. I was at my 5th time counting to hundred by every number up to ten. You’d think I’d be better at math for all the counting I do. All the plates were cleaned and something economy and government was being discussed. On a good day I barely follow, and today was not a good day. You’ve got to say something or they are going to know something is wrong too. Stop thinking about the stupid wine and pay attention. His voice is louder than usual. Okay, they are o a new topic–follow it! Why is his voice so loud? It isn’t that loud–I need to stop being so sensitive. Wait what. . . he just said he would punch somebody! Don’t react, do not react, 7 14 21 28 35. . . why would he say that! No quit this you idiot he was just joking. I need to be nicer to myself–this is a result of trauma. My heart is racing, I am having trouble breathing, I am sweating. Shoot, do I have deodorant in my purse? I think I do. Why are his hands flying around like that? He doesn’t normally do that. He’s leaning in. . . I think he is going to kiss me! Breathe! 8 16 24 32 40 48 56 64 72 80. Okay, he is done but he is looking at you weird again. Do not cry. Do not cry!

We are now in the kitchen. He went to the restroom, and it is just me and his mom. I can breathe again. My heart rate is slowing. His mom has a warm smile, and I feel safe. The toilet flushes, and my breath catches. What is wrong with me! I should not feel this way about my boyfriend–I love him. I want to marry him. He won’t hurt me. He loves me. Relax.

He comes into the kitchen, but his movements are off. They are more exaggerated, and it looks as if the air is thicker to him somehow. His speech is slower now too, and his words are fading into one another. He is drunk! I need to leave now. You can’t leave; if you leave you will never come back here. Do you want that? Is that what you want? How are you going to marry him if you can’t go to his parents’ house? But he is drunk! He is not drunk. You’re just overly vigilant. He is drunk! No he is not. Here he comes. . . act normal or his mom will think something wrong.

He goes to the nuts sitting on the counter on the other side of me and his mom. Good, this will take him a bit. You are fine. Five minutes pass by, and I manage to not count for them. His mom helps a lot and so do the nuts. Then he brushes off his hands and comes near me. Shoot this is it. He is just going to hug you, stop freaking out. Look at his eyes! His breath! Oh my gosh his breath. He puts his arm around me and gives me another kiss on the cheek. I feel my eyes start to water, and I can’t tell if I am going to cry or if it is from the alcohol smell. Let go of me. . . please just let go of me. He starts to move his hand, and it is a little rougher than normal. Don’t touch me. Shoot, I am going to cry! His mom is right there. Oh no. . . 9 18 27 36 45 54 63 72 81 90 99. Okay, you’re not crying–good.

And the night went on. . . and on. . . and on. I should have enjoyed that night, but instead all I could do was minute by minute try to hold it together. I hate the flashbacks and the emotions, and I hate what they do. Feeling such trepidation and disgust towards someone I love so dearly was a feeling I never want to have again, but I feel so weak to control it. Once the emotions get ahold of me, I can’t shake them. My mind becomes a place I don’t want to go, but it is the only place I can go during those times.

Later that night, Joe held me for a long time while I cried and explained to him. Then he came and held me again the next day after I had a night full of nightmares and a morning full internal battles. I began to feel safe in his arms again, and it was beautiful.

I am weak. I lose to my fear and my mind all the time, but God is strong, and He sustains me. When I am weak, He is strong. In those moments when I am losing, I need to reach out to God who is all-powerful. He has brought me this far, so why should I doubt Him? In my weaknesses, struggles, and hardships, His power and healing shine. I am thankful that I have a loving boyfriend whose patience and commitment continuously amaze me, dear friends who share the hardships of life with me, a Mom who loves me unconditionally, and a God who turns my brokenness into beauty.

“‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. ¹⁰ That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” – 2 Corinthians 12:9-11