Everything was the same...(Fabolous)

Get into it

    The line was silent for what seemed to be about five minutes.  I didn’t want to talk.  I definitely didn’t want to talk to him.  So I just listened, considered the NYPD’s response time, which seemed to average over two hours, and ultimately decided that I wasn’t trying to provoke the violent visit that hanging up would bring, so I just sat and listened.

“Ryndra , are you there?  Hello?”

“I am here, Gerald.”

“Oh, ok," he responded, taking a deep breath.  “I thought you hung up…I’m glad you didn’t hang up," he finished softly.  “Listen, you got those recordings I sent you; the ones of Chimeze talking shit," he asked, referring to the recordings, he made and sent to me – right before his arrest, of his conversations with Chimeze.

“Umm hmm,” I responded, I still didn’t want to talk to his ass.  However, I was trying to play it cool, and let him get his “piece” out.

 “Good, I'm glad.  Can you believe his bitch-ass had the nerve to refer to you as a ‘bitch?'“  Before I could answer in the affirmative or negative, he continued full steam ahead.  “I almost stopped him, but I figured you needed to get the full effect of who you were dealing with, so I hit record.  I wanted you to know who he really was.  I always knew he was the shady type.  Do yourself a favor, don’t talk to him anymore; I know you feel a certain sense of loyalty towards him, but let it go.  It’s ironic that he had so much to say about you  keeping secrets from him, all the while he was keeping secrets from you.  Some people are only for a season.”

“Ummhmmm,“ I replied.

“See…you are coming along.  I am older and wiser; I knew that negro was playing games, but you didn’t want to listen…remember ?”

“I am sure you know what you are talking about, but I still have a lot of cleaning to do,“ I said, blending  sarcasm tempered with truth in an attempt to ease him off the phone.  “So, I have to get off the phone, ok?” 

“Alright, well are you home?  I am over by your place, you know…to pick my stuff up from the pricient.  Maybe you can let me know if you need anything…you know Chinese food, lemonade, or I could come take out the garbage for you or help you clean up the mess I made – even?”

“What does your restraining order say about that, Gerald,“ I replied firmly.

“Listen, Ryndra,“ he said in a measured tone, “we don’t need to go there…I asked you a question; you either want me to help you out or you don’t – that’s it!”  

“Well, Gerald, like I said, I think it’s best if you just adhere to the terms of your restraining order.  I am going to get off the phone now.” 

“Ok, Ryndra, but this isn’t the end of this conversation.  I’ll talk to you later.”  Gerald ended the call, to avoid the embarrassment of me not only rejecting his presence, but also the possibility of me hanging up the phone on him. 

    It took a lot of nerve for him to call me, considering, even that was a violation of the restraining order.  I walked over to my windows to check if he also had the nerve to use the payphone conveniently situated on the corner as well.  Not seeing anyone in his height and weight class, I grabbed the broom and started to work on sweeping up the broken glass.  It felt impossible, as the slivers seemed to be getting everywhere; it would take months before I could enjoy the hardwood floors barefoot, as they were intended to be enjoyed.  That thought sent me on a downward spiral into the the ways I would no longer be able to just “enjoy my space;”  I looked at the holes he had made by throwing the phone into the wall, then I looked at the television's cracked screen and the dent in the fire guard on the window, before I threw the broom to the side and walked away from the broken glass – now swept in a pile under the window.  Annoyance, frustration, anger and ultimately depression flooded my body.  I needed to have a seat. 

    So, I did.  When I woke up the next day at 1pm, I groggily realized I had a therapy appointment scheduled for three pm; my first one with this new domestic violence counselor.  I had previously started DV therapy with two other counselors; one social worker that I saw for three sessions and another Mental Health Worker that I only made one session with, but I was determined to show up and really try hard this third time.  I reluctantly got off the couch, and stretched my back into a normal shape, after lying in an unnatural position all night long.  Then I showered, lotion-ed, dressed and grabbed my keys and umbrella, before hustling out the door into weather that was expressing everything I felt.  Rain. 

    I got to my appointment at 3:15; I was late.  What a way to start, I thought.  Of course this new counsellor took her time coming out of her office to get me because she came out to shake my hand at 3:30 and said, “I am glad you could make it, Ms. Wright.  What do they say,” she asked rhetorically,  “Better late than never?”  I had no right to be annoyed, but I was; I couldn’t help but think about how this session would probably represent the first and last time I would talk to this woman.  “You can have a seat right there,” she indicated the obvious seating in front of her desk, in her office, and then took her own designated seat, behind the desk.  She clicks on the computer.  “Is it ok if we record this first session?  I am going to ask a lot of critical identifying information, and I don’t want to risk annoying you by being repetitive with it.” 

    “I’d prefer if you didn’t record me, I just wouldn’t feel comfortable,” I replied looking down.  I felt like just cancelling the rest of the appointment.  This shit was so uncomfortable.  No wonder I didn’t return for the other appointments; now I am seeing that it might not be the individuals providing the therapy, but the process of being turned into a number can be so exhausting, and that’s before you even get into the nitty gritty of your personal situation.  A bunch of rifling through paperwork, checking and rechecking my restraining order, asking me to read a packet on domestic violence and to check off stereotypical traits of abusers; my session was over before I could even start talking about the things that I needed help with. 

    It felt like a waste of time, as did the sessions with the other domestic violence counsellors, I thought as I turned to the door to make my way out.  “So, would you like to schedule  for next week; same time and same place,” Ms. Brown inquired to my back.  “I have to check my schedule,” I stated, untruthfully.  When I reached into the umbrella bucket, to grab my umbrella, I felt a tap on my left shoulder.  “Ms. Wright, I don’t think we got off to a good start.  I am sorry about that; in any event, we have an intern who I think may be a little more compatible with you.  If you can confirm your appointment for today’s time, for next week, I can have her meet with you for that session.”  

I was speechless, as I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to come back, not for her or anyone else.  I didn’t know what to say.  I wanted help, but I was quite sure, it wasn’t going to happen here.  However, I hate to disappoint, especially when it comes to older people; it feels disrespectful.  “Sure, I can confirm for this time, next week,” I said, in a kind of lie, as I fully intended to cancel the appointment via email the following day.  

    “You know, maybe you should date or hang out with some friends.  I am not recommending this, but most of our clients escape their abusers/the depression that follows, by emersion themselves in something else…usually someone else”, stated Mrs. Brown too matter of factly.  How do such dumb people get advanced degrees, I wondered.  This time, my eye roll was not subdued.  She caught it, said a quick “bye “ before stomping her way back to her office.  I guess that bit of advice wasn’t received in the manner she thought it would be.  It only served to reinforce my reluctance to meet anyone else, this scenario of therapy continued to serve as a reminder of the wreckage that represented my life.  I didn’t want anymore reminders; not from the A.D.A, not from the DV counsellors, and certainly not from Gerald. 

“Well then, that’s settled.  See you next week then,” I said loudly enough for her to hear, in her office.  I plastered on a fake grin, that quickly turned into a strained grimace as I exited the waiting room and walked to the elevator and eventually made my way to the lobby and out of the building.

***

    Throwing the packet, provided to me at the domestic violence office, onto my papas and chair; I pulled off my coat, rain bots, and hung up my umbrella before falling onto the couch.  Usually, I don’t take issue with the MTA, but when it rains it’s a huge issue for me; people push, pull and stuff themselves, anyway they can, onto the buses.  I get it, it’s the nature of public transit, but I often wait until the load lightens, just a tad.  I can’t deal with the bad breath, at times random funky odors and not knowing whether someone is purposefully grinding on you in a sexual manner or because they simply have no room to move.  I avoid that, even if it means waiting ten minutes for the next bus, in the now pouring rain.

    Even with my layers, raincoat, rain boots, hat and overpriced umbrella, I could feel the rain working its magic to make me sick.  Trying not to think about it; I thought instead about the first thing that came to my mind, Chimeze.  I wondered how he was doing; if he was eating well, exercising, avoiding sesame seeds.  I missed reminding him, to remind the waiters of his allergy.  Us escaping stress, by trying new things; bagels with scallion cream cheese, new restaurants and when I would take him on dates to the movies, ask him if he wanted popcorn and put my arm around him like he was ‘the girl.”  I missed passing gas in his car, and waiting for him to angrily roll the window down, while I looked off into space like I didn’t know where the demon smell came from.  We had good times and we were, once upon a time, really good friends; thinking about how I had lost that element of my life made me tear up a little.  Sometimes we mistreat people because we don’t know a better way.  Suddenly I thought of a ton of things I wanted to say to him.  How strange that when he was around and available, I had nothing to say, but now I was brimming with revelations and thoughts of making it right somehow.  But, based on our last conversation, I knew better, he wasn’t interested in making things right, and I didn’t blame him.  

    That was when I became grateful for the rain, as it masked my tears and the world from thinking that I was just another crazy New Yorker getting overly emotional in public and shit.  I really wanted to just get home, get inside my bed and let it all out; sometimes you just need a good private cry.  That was the only way to get it out.  

    Just as I contemplated walking a few avenues over and down toward my apartment, the bus I needed arrived. Luckily it wasn’t as full as the last one.  Stepping off a block away from my house, my eyelids were preforming double duty; fighting to hold in my tears on one side, and shielding my eyes from the rain on the other.  I made it up the six flights, and through my door and was a shriveling, naked ball of flesh within moments.  I didn’t even know if I had locked my door, but the layers of sheets on my bed felt like armor as I cried myself to sleep from exhaustion.

    I woke up in a cold sweat to a hazy shadowy figure, “Man, I thought you would never wake up.  It’s been like three days of me watching you feverishly sleep.  I didn’t want to call 911, because of, you know…the restraining order."  What sounded like Gerald said casually, while leaning on the dresser in front of my bed. I rolled my eyes at him and attempted to hop out of the bed.  Luckily, Gerald rushed to my side, catching me before I fell.  When I felt myself fall against him, I knew for sure it was him.  I hadn’t been eating all that well since the assault, and the last three days of feverish sleep, where I consumed nothing: no water/food, had me extremely weak.  I felt drunk, I could barely walk.  Confused, I didn’t know whether to feel grateful or disgusted by his presence; tracing the blame for my current situation the long way would lead directly to him and tracing the blame in a short cut would lead directly to him as well.  “How did you get in here,” I croaked.  “Through the front door, Ryndra,” he sighed.

 

    My stare forced him to continue.“  I came up to check on you.  I had some flowers, but when I knocked on the door it pushed in.  When I saw the door was open, I came in to check things out and there you were sprawled out naked and tangled in wet sheets.”

I continued to stare at him blankly, as it hurt to speak and I really didn’t have the words at the moment.  I wasn’t clear on what I was feeling and thought maybe the best thing to do was to keep quiet.  So that’s what I did.

“So, I’ve been here for the past few two days, watching you, wiping you down, and changing your pajamas hourly.  Why don’t you say thank you?”

I felt my arms, and sure enough I was clothed.  The last thing I remembered, was stripping down to complete nakedness and only being covered by the sheets and a comforter, so what he was asserting must be true. 

    How could I be angry at him about something that felt like it happened ages ago, when his dismissal of the restraining order may have saved my life?  To shiver unconsciously in wet clothing, for days, is dangerous; I certainly would have developed pneumonia if it were not for his intervention.  In this state, I didn’t have to worry about his anger; he was too busy taking care of me –

despite me calling the police on him.  It was a frivolous call, but still…I certainly had a lot to think about.  I didn’t have a Chimeze to call this time, so what was the harm in letting him stay?  Someone should be here and I didn’t have the wherewithal to ask him to leave.  And suppose I did ask him to leave, and he said no.  Better not to risk it. 

    I was not in the form to argue or physically fight, I thought, as Gerald carried my limp form from the bathroom, to the couch.  Grabbing my phone, from underneath a mini pillow, “There it is,” exclaimed Gerald, as he plugged the lifeless device into the wall to charge.  “You wouldn’t have even been able to call 911, Ryndra…how many times do I have to tell you to keep your phone charged,” Gerald preached while effortlessly changing the sheets, and then my pajamas (for the fifth time in three days) and assisted me into the bed, where I took a Nyquil and fell right back into my coma.

MOOD