“What do I do now?”
It’s the one question that’s been repeating itself over an over in my head like that ridiculous DVD menu screen that stays on all day at the big electronics stores. It flashes on 26 different television screens as you try to figure out what the difference between HD and LCD really is, and how the slight variance in color and picture quality will effect your every day routine, love life, and overall human efficiency.
I’m pretty much standing in life’s overwhelming TV isle, a little confused and dazed by the fluorescent lighting, thinking I only came here to get batteries.
When I graduated from college four months ago, I had a plan. I was that girl who raced through the last semester unaffected by the economy or the dread-virus that crept across campus, infecting one student at a time as the threat of entering the real world loomed over us. Nope: I was all set with an okay boyfriend (6 out of 10 at the time), packing boxes, a new job waiting for me, and a new apartment free for the decorating. And I wasn’t moving back in with my parents, thank God.
So when the ceremony was over, I packed the rest of my boxes, and made the sprawling step of moving in with my boyfriend in a completely unfamiliar area. I had only two small fluttering moths in my belly, as opposed to my friends who were close to pulling the car over to wretch with anxiety-induced nausea.
Although I had received a Bachelor’s in writing, I had gladly accepted a job working with Alzheimer’s patients in an assisted living community. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was pretty sure I knew how to finger paint and play cards, so I wasn’t too worried. At least I had a job. I couldn’t afford to be picky.
Yet, the moment Tom and I (we’ll call him Tom for privacy’s sake, but I’m not sure he deserves the courtesy) stepped through the front door carrying all those U-Haul boxes, something in the air went rotten.
Tom lost his temper for the first time in February, while we were still in Vermont. He wasn’t going to school, but I was, and I regularly studied with the most charming group of sci-fi geeks I’ve ever encountered.
I was out for coffee with the guys, and stayed gone just a tad too long, vigorously typing away, entertaining the idea of writing my first novel. When I returned to my apartment, where Tom had made himself at home maybe a little too quickly, cigarette butts flew in my direction, spit landed on my arm when he screamed, doors slammed and his tires peeled out in a childish, temper-tantrum frenzy. I stood in the middle of it all, confused and numb for a few moments, before my hands began to shake and the tears came.
But in the light of morning I convinced myself, as he begged for forgiveness, that he would never do it again.
That afternoon, I called my best friend Kelly and emptied my bank account registering for a 12-day tour of Egypt taking place at the end of May, which I had no intention on sharing with Tom.
From that point forward, I chose not to go out with my friends simply to avoid conflict. Tom became a vigilant chaperone if I did decide to go anywhere, and I kept silent about it, thankful we weren’t fighting.
The morning Kelly and I left for Egypt, Tom threw yet another temper tantrum, this time looking particularly ridiculous, crying and swearing at me in his penguin-like catering uniform. As his face boiled up red, I wondered if his clip on bow tie was too tight.
When I climbed into the cab headed for the airport, smiling at the rotund Puerto Rican driver, my bracelets jangling, I knew things with Tom were over. Juan and I talked about the quality of fast food in the Dominican, but really I was trying to think of reasons to keep Temporary Tom around.
I cannot begin to rationalize now why I stayed with this man for as long as I did, and that’s not what this story is about anyway. It is about moving into the future.
My future started when we landed in Cairo. Nervous and self-conscious at first, I remained quiet and observant among the fifteen-person tour group, but soon realized that apart from my best friend, none of these people would ever see me again.
This little jewel of a thought has been, over and over again, one of the most powerful inspirations for me. It allows me to let go of my inhibitions and insecurities and just be myself. I’m going to say what I want to say, and do what I want to do, and that’s that. Whether they like me or not is their problem. Yet somehow, this little trick always manages to land me more friends than I could have hoped for.
Twelve days later, I was in love.
This time, with two other people. The first person being the new, more confident me, which could also be referred to as the Krysta before Tom. The second was a painfully handsome man from Manchester, New Hampshire wearing a red Egyptian soccer t-shirt with a big 22 on the back.
22 was like a magnet. Like having a compass needle installed behind my eyes, I inexplicably always new exactly where he was in relation to where I was standing, no matter if we were riding camels in the Sahara or drinking tea on a rooftop, mingling with a group of young Egyptian men performing card tricks.
As we got off the plane in Boston, I watched 22’s fingers as he lightly touched the wall of the concourse, like a child drags a stick along a fence just to make noise. I watched him as he walked ahead of me all the way through the airport, and then as we passed through customs. I didn’t want to say goodbye, to lose sight of him, but I had no right to reveal what I felt about him either. I watched him standing on the sidewalk, waiting for his ride, as Tom drove us away. I wanted to tuck and roll, grab 22 and duck into a passing taxi, headed anywhere but there.
But instead I went home with Tom. When Tom touched me, I thought of 22’s hands and the respectful barrier he drew, knowing I was committed to someone else.
When I was lonely, watching ESPN patiently with Tom, I thought of the time 22 had offered a gentlemanly arm as we walked through the crowded bazaar in Old Islamic Cairo. Men had called after us, “Lucky man! Honeymoon!” Neither of us denied the suggestion that we were together. We just smiled in the heat. As he talked about philosophy and world history, I would fantasize about getting him alone in Amenhotep’s tomb, or pulling him behind the corner of a pyramid where no one would see.
One night as we all celebrated life and youth, 22 and I stayed up until the call for morning prayer came from the top of the minarets across the city. He confessed his interest in me while we hung our heads out a window, overlooking the satellite dishes and blue lights of Cairo’s crowded streets. I was ecstatic but I played it cool, saying thank you and modestly casting my eyelashes towards the floor like a lady.
We tried not to show our feelings to the rest of the group. They all knew I had an overgrown-baby for a boyfriend patiently waiting at home. 22 and I were well behaved and painted an outward picture of perfect platonic friendship.
After my return to the states, the days went quickly. Something about me had changed and I liked it, so I began to fight back. I wasn’t playing Tom’s games anymore, nor was I cleaning up his messes, and he did not like it one bit.
He didn’t like that I lost ten pounds and fit into my skinny jeans, or that I was going out with the girls more often. He didn’t like that I was reading and talking about Egyptian history. He didn’t like it when, insisting we were just friends, 22 and I met up at a bookstore and talked for three hours. He didn’t like that I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. So for the first time in his pitiful little life, Tom did something about it.
He found me on a Saturday night, right where I said I would be. Melanie’s friend was having a bonfire and I had tagged along for a girl’s night. We heard his tires squealing before we saw him swerve around the corner. I’m sure if I had been paying close enough attention, I would have smelled the whiskey as I approached the car. I turned around and hugged Melanie and reassured her that I was a big girl and I could handle myself.
I was wrong. The moment I climbed into the passenger seat I knew I had made the wrong decision. He sped off, spitting as he screamed, threatening to kill me.
He slammed on the brakes suddenly in the middle of the road, and began demolishing the inside of the car. I ducked, my arms over my head, praying one of those fist-throws didn’t land on my face. Plastic bits littered the car and his hands bled as he sped off again.
When I tried to escape at a stoplight, he grabbed me by the neck and refused to let me go. I’m not sure why I didn’t call the police right away. Maybe I was scared to reach for my purse. Maybe my phone was dead. I don’t remember. I prayed that blue lights would flash behind us, pulling us over before he purposefully drove us into a tree or a telephone pole. He skipped every red light all the way back to our apartment, talking to himself the whole way. “Look what you make me do.”
Anger is a funny thing. In combination with the alcohol, it made his voice grow thick, when I closed my eyes this skinny white boy sounded like a “gangsta” black man, Ebonics, accent and all. Maybe Tom was possessed.
As he yelled at me, I huddled silently against the car door and thought about Father’s Day. Glancing at the glowing clock on the wrecked dash I saw that it was already technically Father’s Day: 1:20am. I wanted my Dad.
On the day that I defended myself in court, I told the truth. I could have lied and said that he kicked the tar out of me. I could have lied and said he raped me. But instead, I stuck to the truth because I knew Tom wouldn’t. Colorful stars danced before my eyes and I hoped to God he couldn’t see my hands shaking as he stood four feet away, lying to the judge with his pretty blue eyes and spidery lashes.
Apparently no one was fooled. The restraining order was granted and I was home free, and as I my father and I exited the courtroom, I watched my ex-boyfriend try to unsuccessfully pick a fight with the court officer.
I made all the wrong decisions in this situation. Even after I called the police. I didn’t file for a restraining order until after he violated a notice of trespass. Nothing would keep him away. He drove by the house, counting the cars in the driveway. He sent text messages to my friends, threatening suicide if I didn’t take him back.
His controlling, bipolar mother (who also happened to be my new boss) only made things worse. She begged me over and over not to press charges, and cast tiny thoughts into the air like confetti suggestions, making Tom believe he was above the law, and that that night in the car never actually happened.
In one of her frantic phone calls she actually tried to convince me that I was imagining everything. She told me I was crazy. When her talk fell on deaf ears, she resorted to harassing my mother via e-mail. I can just picture her sitting in her oversized, overpriced lazy chair thumb-typing fervently on her Blackberry, pinching her eyes and mouth into a sour-face in concentration.
The only reason I share so much is so that all the women who read this might learn from my mistakes. If you are colorblind to those relationship red flags, suck it up and learn what they look like. There’s no excuse for wasting your time with a controlling, manipulative man-child.
So, my after-college plan melted like Chapstick in your car’s cup holder on a 90-degree day. It was of no use, and left behind a big mess.
So now that I’m standing in this bright life-superstore isle, the orange and yellow signs screaming “Buy! Buy! Buy!” and the giant TV screens filling my vision, I’m not quite sure what to do next.
But, just as I am about to sit on the chilly linoleum floor in exhaustion and cluelessness, my two best friends, closely followed by 22, round the corner and hand me a universal remote, reminding me that I have had the power to change the channel the whole time. I just left it on a shelf in the next isle over, being the blissfully distracted person I am.
They remind me that sometimes we need a little push to get us moving and no matter how stuck you really think you are, there’s always wiggle room for a new, unplanned future.
