In 2011, NASA's Kepler Space Telescope was trained on a planet circling a distant star deep in the constellation Lyra. The planet (Kepler-19b) had been discovered when scientists observed that the star (Kepler-19a) dimmed at regular intervals, presumably as something passed in front of--or transited-- its face, blocking the light.
As astrophysicists studied Kepler-19b, they noticed something odd. Her transit times periodically varied, coming earlier or later than expected by five minutes. The only inference to be made was that the gravity of another 'invisible' planet was tugging on Kepler-19b and altering its orbit.
The discovery of this third celestial body, dubbed Kepler-19c, marked the first time an unseen planet had been found in this manner-- deducing its presence by evidence of its affect on the orbit of a neighboring world.
They called the method Transit Timing Variation.
*****
My eyes snapped open, instantly awake.
In the faint half light of pre dawn, I stared at the ceiling, studying the subtle white-on-white shadows that revealed where I'd painted thousands of tiny glow-in-the-dark pinpricks-- an entire galaxy hovering over my bed.
You're alone, I told myself reassuringly. I focused on slowing my heartbeat; on dispelling the adrenaline that vibrated through my veins with painful iciness, already numbing my fingers.
It didn't help.
My stomach roiled and I leapt to my feet, making it to the bathroom just in time to empty my stomach or my bowels or both. Afterward, I stared at my own face in the mirror, sickened by the fear I saw behind my eyes.
Enough, I commanded.
I took a dry erase marker, left on the counter for writing daily To Do lists, and with trembling hand scrawled, "You no longer have to share your body" in large, bold letters overtop my reflection.
"You're safe," I whispered aloud.
Even still, as I returned to bed, I wrapped myself -tight, tight, tight- in a blanket and turned my back to the empty space where J used to sleep.
*****
"Has he ever hit you?" Mom asked, a familiar worry line marring the smooth skin between her brows. Her voice was calm, her face expressionless, but her eyes passed over me searchingly, taking in the tense set of my shoulders; my knees drawn instinctively to my chest; the shallow intake of air that betrayed the fact that, for a moment, I'd forgotten how to breath. She saw and she was alarmed, albeit skilled at hiding it.
"No," I answered, looking away. I knew I was overreacting, but her notice made it all the worse.
"Are you afraid that he will?" She probed gently.
"No," I sighed, unable to even imagine it of J. He was weak in every sense of the word; critical, petulant and immature-- disappointing more than threatening. Yet, there I was; shivering with the effort not to bolt at his approach. "I don't know what's wrong with me," I apologized.
Mom nodded, pressing her lips into a thin, determined line and looking at me as though she suspected there were words that I refused to say; as though, were she to gaze long enough, she might be able to divine them.
"It's just--" she started, her hand stretching out tentatively, not quite touching my cheek before letting it drop to her lap once more. "You flinch like a woman who's been beaten."
*****
"It's a form of PTSD," my new therapist intoned, scribbling in her notepad."Your body believes you're in mortal danger, so it directs all blood flow to your core to preserve your life and floods your nervous system with fight-or-flight hormones."
"Well, It's stupid," I declared through chattering teeth, the knit throw over my shoulders doing little to stop my involuntary quaking. I'd removed my shoes and curled my feet beneath me. Even my toes seemed to quiver. "He was a liar and a jerk but he wasn't abusive. There's no reason for my body to freak out like this all the time."
A quiet smile crossed her face as she looked up. "You've been through trauma," she said, her tone patient. "More than you're willing to acknowledge. When pain isn't dealt with or processed, it gets stored in the body and surfaces in other ways. What you're experiencing is a perfectly normal response to abuse."
"I wasn't abused," I muttered stubbornly.
"I can teach you grounding techniques," she continued. "You have racing thoughts? Trouble sleeping? Grounding helps with that."
"How do you know I'm not just overly sensitive?" I asked, my mouth unnaturally dry. I had a flash of J yelling and me cowering, too scared to stand up for myself. I felt my face flush with shame. "I managed just fine for years and now that I suddenly decide that I'm 'Watson', everything--" my voice caught, and I shook my head angrily. "Everything hurts. How do you know that it isn't just me? That I'm not just doing this wrong?"
"How do I know you've been traumatized?" She clarified and I nodded. Her eyes softened and she leaned back in her chair, shrugging as though it should be obvious. "I'm looking at you."
*****
I shut my computer with a loud click and raised my hand, palm down, to the level of my eyes, watching as it trembled violently. Already, an icy shock of nervous energy was sweeping through my limbs, settling in my stomach like a collection of jagged icicles. Sweat prickled the back of my neck and my heartbeat thumped uncomfortably loud in my ears.
$@#%, I mentally cursed, This is going to be bad, and I moved to lace on my running shoes. If I didn't act now, I was bound to be sick at my desk.
Stepping into the cool December air didn't have the mind-clearing affect that I'd hoped. Thoughts and fragments of memories were already crowding the edges of my mind like skittering spiders. With effort, I brushed them aside and concentrated on matching my breath to the movement of my legs.
Stride, stride, breathe.
Stride, stride, breathe.
As I ran, I cast my mind back, searching for what triggered this particular trauma response. Miggy's post? I wondered. Just that morning, she'd written eloquently and passionately about the plague of pornography. I'd had every intention of leaving her a comment commending her efforts, but then-- then I'd started shaking, I realized. But why? I'd lived in this world of betrayal and addiction for years; why would mention of it now bring on such a visceral-
The slip is the color of warm champagne, lace frothing the neckline and hem. I let it slide through my fingers as I lay it out, relishing the cool caress on my skin. "You aren't shy to wear it?" mom asks, something akin to awe on her face. "No," I answer honestly. It's the night before my wedding and I haven't a twinge of apprehension. "I can't imagine," she says wonderingly, "you've made it all this way without baggage or fears or scars. I'm so happy for you."
The memory came so unexpectedly that I stumbled mid-pace.
Not now, I told myself brusquely, sending the spider-thoughts scurrying back to their dark corners. I had to stay present; had to figure out why I couldn't seem to get through a single day without my body falling apart on me. I was tired of feeling broken; tired of feeling helpless and something about Miggy's post had brought it on again. I worried it like a stone between my fingers, convinced it held a hint to what was happening to me.
Innocence, I mused. It has to do with innocen-
We'd discussed this night at length, planning each detail with careful consideration. He unzips my dress slowly, letting it slide from my shoulders and fall to the floor. "Oh," he exclaims softly, but he looks dismayed. "I forgot," he motions to my garments and begins awkwardly peeling them from me until I stand, naked and blushing in front of him. He's my husband, I remind myself and raise my eyes to meet his gaze. What I see on his face is an expression of pure... disappointment.
I tore my mind from the past angrily.
Stop it, I demanded with an edge of panic. Stay focused! I could sense a door in my mind slowly creaking open and I had no desire to see what lurked inside. Whatever it was, I knew it wouldn't be a solution. I turned down a remote dirt road and attempted to pick up speed.
He looms above, looking not at me, but down at himself, frustrated and limp. "I can still do it," he says. I think by "it," he means get an erection, but that isn't what he means. He rubs against me, grunting and groaning in a way that makes me look away uncomfortably until he is finished. I lay in shocked silence as he collapses beside me and asks, "What did you think?" I don't know how to answer. Later, he confides, "You weren't what I expected. I thought your breasts would look different. Bigger. Perkier."
I bit back a curse as my eyes began to sting. Running wasn't helping-- the breathing required for strenuous exercise too closely mimicked sobs, and I could feel the hysteria building in my chest. As if sensing weakness, more thoughts crawled from their dark recesses and I was plunged into memory once more.
We're kissing when he pulls back, places his hands firmly on my shoulders and presses me to my knees. "Hey!" I protest. We've talked about this-- he knows my answer. "C'mon," he sighs, exasperated. "You can't say no unless you've tried it." He un-
He's barely spoken to me in weeks. I fall asleep alone, but wake at three in the morning to him moving over me. I'm so lonely; my lips meet his, desperate and longing. "Not like that," he says, something in his voice that I can't quite place. "Like this," and he shoves-
He's just told his parents that he can't enter the temple for his brother's wedding the next day. I lie in bed, feeling hopelessly lost. He turns to me wordlessly, and though my body tenses, every muscle clearly screaming 'no', I do not say it. I simply turn away and cry while-
I peel off sweaty gym clothes and step into a hot shower. A moment later, he joins me. "What do you think you're doing?" I ask, startled. I must have forgotten to lock the door. "You're such a tease," he smirks, "You're all, 'look, don't touch,' but I know what you really want." He moves to-
My body responds of its own volition, over and over again. "See?" he grins, "You always end up enjoying it. I just wish you'd remember that so I wouldn't have to work so hard to convince-
Stop.
We're in the car when he reaches for me and-
STOP.
He pulls open the bedside drawer-
STOP!
He takes-
STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP!
Gradually, my vision cleared. I became aware of rocks pressed painfully into my knees and shins, and after a moment, came to grasp that I had collapsed in the dirt, shaking uncontrollably and weeping.
Oh God, I gasped internally, digging my fingers into the earth, trying to gain purchase, trying to halt the horrible feeling that I was infinitesimally small and insignificant-- that I might float away and disappear. What was wrong with me? I choked, self loathing making me retch. Why hadn't I stopped him? Why hadn't I protected myself?
Something was building, snowballing, threatening to consume me. I could feel it menacing, preparing to swallow me up; this huge, unfixable realization that would leave me changed and shattered and I did not want it; could not face it-- I should have said no. I should have run. I should have pushed him away, I should have--
For a fraction of a second, time stopped. My thoughts were stilled, the world silenced and a voice-- too small to be heard, yet large enough to encompass my entire being-- reverberated through my body:
The biggest 'should', it said gently, is that he should not have abused you.
I took a slow, shuddering breath.
But it wasn't abuse, I answered in despair, It was my fault. I could have stopped it and I didn't.
In reply, my mind lit up with images, playing back each of the harrowing experiences I had just re-lived with the exception of one minor alteration-- in each of the memories, I was a child. I watched as all of J's painful words-- You weren't what I expected. You can't say no. You're such a tease. You always enjoy it.-- fell on the ears of a frightened, loving and wide-eyed little girl.
And I knew.
Miggy's post had been about protecting the innocence of children, and that is exactly what I'd been-- innocent. It was a rare gift to enter marriage as trusting and virtuous as I had been, and J, rather than cherishing me for it, had taken advantage.
I folded in on myself and sobbed.
It took a long time to get home.
When I walked through the door, mom could tell at a glance that I was wreaked. She ushered me upstairs and closed the door, her face a map of concern.
"What happened?" she asked, already enveloping me in an embrace.
I felt wrung out and defeated, but forced myself to utter the words for the fist time. "I think," I said, my voice breaking, "that my marriage was sexually abusive." Then I leaned on her and cried, surprised that I had any tears left.
"Oh, honey," she murmured, stroking my hair. "I know."
It was raining when I stepped out of the theater following a viewing of a foreign film called Phoenix. I managed to make it to the car before the trembling started in earnest.
The movie took place in the aftermath of World War II; the protagonist-- having barely survived being shot and left for dead in a concentration camp-- is told that her husband was the one who turned her in to the gestapo.
She can't accept it.
She seeks him out, desperate to reconstruct their life together and forget the horrors of the war, but he-- he doesn't recognize her. He doesn't see her or the pain of what she's been through. Instead, he makes a proposition: pretend to be my dead wife and we can split her inheritance.
Wounded and confused, she agrees, and for two torturously long hours I watched her prostrate herself, submitting to insult and humiliation believing that he'll remember-- that he'll love her. She's blind to his callousness until the very end, when finally her eyes are opened and she gains the strength to rise from the ashes.
It was the most vivid, heartbreaking and accurate depiction of betrayal I'd ever seen-- and it sent me into an absolute tailspin.
"I did that for years," I keened into the phone. "Why couldn't I see who he was? What's wrong with me?"
Mom sighed. "You're avoiding the real question," she said sagely. "You keep blaming yourself instead of examining the thing that truly tortures you."
Mom's comment haunted me for days. It spun round and round in my mind until one afternoon while listening to Damian Rice, a few lines from Delicate seemed to stand out to me in stark relief:
Why'd you sing hallelujah
If it means nothing to you?
Why'd you sing with me at all?
And my throat closed, overcome with emotion.
Oh, I realized. The question wasn't, "Why didn't I?" but, "How could he?"
There was no answer.
It's strange now to think that there was a time when I believed that love was supposed to hurt; that it meant sacrificing small pieces of myself until what was left was unrecognizable.
I breathe easier these days.
The shaking has mostly stopped.
Recently, I was sitting with Mom when a thought occurred to me. "You said you knew," I exclaimed, turning to her. "I told you that I thought my marriage had been sexually abusive, and you said you knew. How? I'd denied it for so long-- I didn't even know it myself."
She squeezed my hand, her eyes shining. "It was like Transit Timing Variation," she said. "The cause was unseen, but your whole orbit was off."
And I smiled.
{all images by Emma McNally}
Post Script: This has been an unusually graphic entry and the decision to write it as such was not made lightly. I spent a decade trying to figure out on my own whether what I was experiencing was 'normal' or if I was just 'overreacting'-- a difficult task when so much of our sex lives are spoken of in euphemisms or not at all. I tended to fill in the blanks, concluding that every woman was treated as I was and that that was why marriage was 'hard work'. Then, one day I read a post Shay wrote where she described a scenario with which I was all too familiar-- and she called it rape. It changed my world. I longed for bluntness; I hungered for specifics. This post is for women like me.
The slip is the color of warm champagne, lace frothing the neckline and hem. I let it slide through my fingers as I lay it out, relishing the cool caress on my skin. "You aren't shy to wear it?" mom asks, something akin to awe on her face. "No," I answer honestly. It's the night before my wedding and I haven't a twinge of apprehension. "I can't imagine," she says wonderingly, "you've made it all this way without baggage or fears or scars. I'm so happy for you."
The memory came so unexpectedly that I stumbled mid-pace.
Not now, I told myself brusquely, sending the spider-thoughts scurrying back to their dark corners. I had to stay present; had to figure out why I couldn't seem to get through a single day without my body falling apart on me. I was tired of feeling broken; tired of feeling helpless and something about Miggy's post had brought it on again. I worried it like a stone between my fingers, convinced it held a hint to what was happening to me.
Innocence, I mused. It has to do with innocen-
We'd discussed this night at length, planning each detail with careful consideration. He unzips my dress slowly, letting it slide from my shoulders and fall to the floor. "Oh," he exclaims softly, but he looks dismayed. "I forgot," he motions to my garments and begins awkwardly peeling them from me until I stand, naked and blushing in front of him. He's my husband, I remind myself and raise my eyes to meet his gaze. What I see on his face is an expression of pure... disappointment.
I tore my mind from the past angrily.
Stop it, I demanded with an edge of panic. Stay focused! I could sense a door in my mind slowly creaking open and I had no desire to see what lurked inside. Whatever it was, I knew it wouldn't be a solution. I turned down a remote dirt road and attempted to pick up speed.
He looms above, looking not at me, but down at himself, frustrated and limp. "I can still do it," he says. I think by "it," he means get an erection, but that isn't what he means. He rubs against me, grunting and groaning in a way that makes me look away uncomfortably until he is finished. I lay in shocked silence as he collapses beside me and asks, "What did you think?" I don't know how to answer. Later, he confides, "You weren't what I expected. I thought your breasts would look different. Bigger. Perkier."
I bit back a curse as my eyes began to sting. Running wasn't helping-- the breathing required for strenuous exercise too closely mimicked sobs, and I could feel the hysteria building in my chest. As if sensing weakness, more thoughts crawled from their dark recesses and I was plunged into memory once more.
We're kissing when he pulls back, places his hands firmly on my shoulders and presses me to my knees. "Hey!" I protest. We've talked about this-- he knows my answer. "C'mon," he sighs, exasperated. "You can't say no unless you've tried it." He un-
He's barely spoken to me in weeks. I fall asleep alone, but wake at three in the morning to him moving over me. I'm so lonely; my lips meet his, desperate and longing. "Not like that," he says, something in his voice that I can't quite place. "Like this," and he shoves-
He's just told his parents that he can't enter the temple for his brother's wedding the next day. I lie in bed, feeling hopelessly lost. He turns to me wordlessly, and though my body tenses, every muscle clearly screaming 'no', I do not say it. I simply turn away and cry while-
I peel off sweaty gym clothes and step into a hot shower. A moment later, he joins me. "What do you think you're doing?" I ask, startled. I must have forgotten to lock the door. "You're such a tease," he smirks, "You're all, 'look, don't touch,' but I know what you really want." He moves to-
My body responds of its own volition, over and over again. "See?" he grins, "You always end up enjoying it. I just wish you'd remember that so I wouldn't have to work so hard to convince-
Stop.
We're in the car when he reaches for me and-
STOP.
He pulls open the bedside drawer-
STOP!
He takes-
STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP!
Oh God, I gasped internally, digging my fingers into the earth, trying to gain purchase, trying to halt the horrible feeling that I was infinitesimally small and insignificant-- that I might float away and disappear. What was wrong with me? I choked, self loathing making me retch. Why hadn't I stopped him? Why hadn't I protected myself?
Something was building, snowballing, threatening to consume me. I could feel it menacing, preparing to swallow me up; this huge, unfixable realization that would leave me changed and shattered and I did not want it; could not face it-- I should have said no. I should have run. I should have pushed him away, I should have--
For a fraction of a second, time stopped. My thoughts were stilled, the world silenced and a voice-- too small to be heard, yet large enough to encompass my entire being-- reverberated through my body:
The biggest 'should', it said gently, is that he should not have abused you.
I took a slow, shuddering breath.
But it wasn't abuse, I answered in despair, It was my fault. I could have stopped it and I didn't.
In reply, my mind lit up with images, playing back each of the harrowing experiences I had just re-lived with the exception of one minor alteration-- in each of the memories, I was a child. I watched as all of J's painful words-- You weren't what I expected. You can't say no. You're such a tease. You always enjoy it.-- fell on the ears of a frightened, loving and wide-eyed little girl.
And I knew.
Miggy's post had been about protecting the innocence of children, and that is exactly what I'd been-- innocent. It was a rare gift to enter marriage as trusting and virtuous as I had been, and J, rather than cherishing me for it, had taken advantage.
I folded in on myself and sobbed.
******
It took a long time to get home.
When I walked through the door, mom could tell at a glance that I was wreaked. She ushered me upstairs and closed the door, her face a map of concern.
"What happened?" she asked, already enveloping me in an embrace.
I felt wrung out and defeated, but forced myself to utter the words for the fist time. "I think," I said, my voice breaking, "that my marriage was sexually abusive." Then I leaned on her and cried, surprised that I had any tears left.
"Oh, honey," she murmured, stroking my hair. "I know."
*****
The movie took place in the aftermath of World War II; the protagonist-- having barely survived being shot and left for dead in a concentration camp-- is told that her husband was the one who turned her in to the gestapo.
She can't accept it.
She seeks him out, desperate to reconstruct their life together and forget the horrors of the war, but he-- he doesn't recognize her. He doesn't see her or the pain of what she's been through. Instead, he makes a proposition: pretend to be my dead wife and we can split her inheritance.
Wounded and confused, she agrees, and for two torturously long hours I watched her prostrate herself, submitting to insult and humiliation believing that he'll remember-- that he'll love her. She's blind to his callousness until the very end, when finally her eyes are opened and she gains the strength to rise from the ashes.
It was the most vivid, heartbreaking and accurate depiction of betrayal I'd ever seen-- and it sent me into an absolute tailspin.
"I did that for years," I keened into the phone. "Why couldn't I see who he was? What's wrong with me?"
Mom sighed. "You're avoiding the real question," she said sagely. "You keep blaming yourself instead of examining the thing that truly tortures you."
*****
Why'd you sing hallelujah
If it means nothing to you?
Why'd you sing with me at all?
And my throat closed, overcome with emotion.
Oh, I realized. The question wasn't, "Why didn't I?" but, "How could he?"
There was no answer.
*****
I breathe easier these days.
The shaking has mostly stopped.
Recently, I was sitting with Mom when a thought occurred to me. "You said you knew," I exclaimed, turning to her. "I told you that I thought my marriage had been sexually abusive, and you said you knew. How? I'd denied it for so long-- I didn't even know it myself."
She squeezed my hand, her eyes shining. "It was like Transit Timing Variation," she said. "The cause was unseen, but your whole orbit was off."
And I smiled.
{all images by Emma McNally}
Post Script: This has been an unusually graphic entry and the decision to write it as such was not made lightly. I spent a decade trying to figure out on my own whether what I was experiencing was 'normal' or if I was just 'overreacting'-- a difficult task when so much of our sex lives are spoken of in euphemisms or not at all. I tended to fill in the blanks, concluding that every woman was treated as I was and that that was why marriage was 'hard work'. Then, one day I read a post Shay wrote where she described a scenario with which I was all too familiar-- and she called it rape. It changed my world. I longed for bluntness; I hungered for specifics. This post is for women like me.
