Syrup, Sand, and Suffering
Are you ok?
A little body appeared in front of you as you sat on your couch one Saturday morning. You had just busied yourself with making breakfast: eggs, bacon, toast, and waffles. A perfect “homemaker/caretaker” type of feast for your partner and his two young boys. You always bought their favorite snacks when they visited, eager to make sure they felt at home, cared for, and welcome in your space. Everything, down to a desired hot sauce for their eggs, would be in the assortment of condiments on the table that morning. But what was imperceivable to the naked eye, what was disregarded and taken advantage of, was the Herculean effort you were making to keep the peace. Beneath the sticky syrup and the pile of waffles was a desperate plea for psychological safety.
I’m just tired. You forced a fake smile and a sigh. You were lying. You were lying to a child. It caught you off guard initially that this little boy was picking up on something. Despite your efforts to hide your hurt and your sadness, despite wearing a fake smile and forcing child-like small talk with them, he was attuned to a shift in you. This wasn’t the first time you were forced to bury your feelings in front of him. You had grown accustomed to masking your pain in the eyes of innocent children. It’s not my place, you thought. You could barely make sense of this abusive dynamic yourself, let alone shine a light for his children to see. And had you made your broken heart public for them, your partner would have punished you more, for there was nothing more dangerous than a threat to his children. Especially if that threat was him.
You were still smiling at him when he came to sit next to you on the couch, pressing his small body against yours. He was always affectionate with you from day one. It warmed your heart the way he welcomed you in. You hoped that piece of him would stay as long as possible. You wanted him to stay this innocent forever.
The moment was fleeting. He turned his attention to the video game in his hand, content to be sitting there with you. Your gaze was fixed on him briefly, your arm around him, gently stroking his hair.
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more; where ignorance is bliss,
’Tis folly to be wise.
(~Thomas Gray, Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College)
Everything that morning was a bit of a flurry. You, busying yourself between eggs and bacon on the skillet, slices of bread and waffles in the toaster, and slivers of vibrant green avocado on a side dish. You ignorantly thought that if you made these moments perfect enough, it would smooth over his rough edges, dull the blows that would eventually come. No amount of kid-size snacks and the boys’ favorite ice cream bars could cover the brokenness of the relationship. But you tried anyway. Desperate for something, anything to fix things.
Somewhere in your cooking frenzy, you used the wrong tone. Not intentionally, not maliciously. You were stressed to make things right, and he was in your way in the narrow aisle of your galley kitchen. You thought you were being playful, but the volume of your voice was just high enough that it crossed a line for him. You had no idea what you had done until it was too late.
Don’t talk to me like that in front of my kids, he said in your ear, low enough they would not hear him, anger seething from his lips.
The tone and mood changed immediately. Your heart began to race. You went still and felt anxiety rise within your chest. The rest of that morning had shifted for good. The perfect bounty you worked so hard to create for him and his boys no longer mattered.
I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. Your efforts to smooth this over were futile. You were met with coldness and silence. He would punish you the rest of the better half of the day. The four of you sat around the table eating your breakfast, the boys in a laughter-filled and giddy mood, and the two of you in cold and awkward silence.
You were forcing a smile, pretending to pay attention to the boys’ stories and giggles, masking the anxiety and pain that was overwhelming your body. While the four of you sat there munching on your breakfast, you slipped your phone next to you and typed out an apology, a longer plea to have this moment pass. He ignored it, never lifting his gaze at you. Hopelessness and despair washed over you.
It was moments later, after plates were cleared and counters were cleaned, that his oldest son was standing there in front of you, perceiving what you thought was imperceivable, noticing the pain you thought you were masking so well. You look at his small, thin frame, his shoulders too narrow to hold the weight of the truth you were carrying. He was on the edge of innocence, teetering into a reality and world that would swallow him up, just as it had you at some point in your childhood. Even though he wasn’t your son, and even though you only knew him for a matter of months, you would protect him from this pain at all costs. So you lied to him. You smothered your aches and pains that his father created, and you nurtured his young, innocent, and ignorant soul.
He accepted your answer, but you’re unsure if he believed you. He pressed himself against you and busied himself with the clicks and sounds of the video game at hand.
The rest of that morning was passed in excruciating silence between you and your partner. In the midst of tension and his cold quietness towards you, the four of you were preparing to spend the day at the beach. Earlier that week, you ordered boogie boards for the boys and bought the quintessential beach-day snacks. With the sounds of kids playing and the dog chasing them around your living room, you stood in your kitchen alone, sweating and shaking, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, slicing up apples, and setting out bags of chips and string cheese. Before that morning, before the weight of silence clouded the otherwise warm sunny day, you had thought this would be a joy and sand-filled day at the beach.
The two of you sat in silence on the drive, with the boys and dog packed up in the backseat, fold-up chairs and the cooler you prepared neatly placed in the trunk of your SUV. Even once the setup was complete and sunscreen applied, the warmth of the sun couldn’t melt the icy tension that remained from breakfast. You tried to ease the pain and break the quiet between the two of you. But you were met with more coldness and snarky remarks. No amount of your begging or making yourself small was easing his grip of control. He had you right where he wanted you, beneath him, guilty, in the wrong. He pleasured in it.
Helpless, heartbroken, you stood up from your chair and walked away. What are you doing? He snarled as your back turned. He often accused these breaks you took of being “acting childish” or “dramatic.” In your world, you learned that taking a pause and stepping away was a sign of self-control: you regain composure so you don’t overreact, and you can come back calmly and rationally. It never mattered. You learned far too late that you were showing up to a gunfight with the wrong weapon. Empathy and emotional intelligence are no comparison to shame, manipulation, and control.
You didn’t make it far on the walk before a tiny body appeared at your side. Where are you going? He said with enthusiasm. I’m just going for a walk, you responded, making your voice bright and cheery, like the perfect beach day you planned in your mind. Do you want to come? He did. His brother soon joined. The three of you wandered the stretch of beach as you again buried your pain as your toes buried in the sand. You painted another fake smile on your face to make this walk light and fun for them, pretending to be interested in the jokes they told or the tricks they played. In some ways, it helped distract you from the hurt you walked away from, the hurt their father caused.
When you returned to the setup and space you claimed on the sand, something finally shifted in him. You have no idea what or why, maybe it was to see the backs of his boys and you walking away from him. Either way, he met you with an embrace, finally thawing this coldness toward you. He acted like nothing was wrong. He ignored the tear stains that were left on your cheeks. He did little to address the whole interaction. This disregard only hurts you more.
You knelt down, opened the cooler you packed. In the midst of the shuffle, the neatly packed sandwiches and chips had shifted. The treats were smashed, chips were crunched, and food was growing soggy. The sight of it broke your heart further, tiny shards splintering in your chest. Go figure, you said out loud. Fuck this day.
