Abuse

by Nikki Sex

  “Yes, that’s the plan,” he says with the ghost of a smile that quickly disappears. Discomfort rolls off of him in waves. The man is so powerful he changes the climate of the entire suite with his nervous energy.

  Mentioning ‘bed’ and ‘sex’ was a mistake. We made significant progress during our first night together at his house, only to slide back to square one after the police entered our lives. It’s so frustrating. What a mess.

  Most people seek comfort and safety from touch. Grant’s aversion to physical contact is the opposite of normal human instincts. In his mind, not touching is the safer option.

  What the hell did his father do to screw him up to this extent? When will Grant share details about it with me? More importantly, what can I do to encourage him and make this easier? It hurts to see him suffer.

  “You know,” I say. “I believe once you lighten up and let go, after the initial shock to your system, you’ll get past this.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Shall I run down to the store in the lobby and buy us a set of cards for another game of Truth or Dare?”

  “We don’t need to resort to that just yet,” he says, amused. Yet, a heartbeat later, his expression abruptly turns grim.

  “What was that thought?” I ask him.

  “What thought?”

  “You were smiling, thinking about us playing Truth or Dare, and then suddenly you looked so serious. I’m guessing that a horrible thought accompanied that bleak facial expression.”

  Grant stands and begins to pace. “You want to know what I was thinking?” His eyes flash with sudden fury. “What kind of man is afraid of being intimate with a beautiful woman he cares about? That’s what I’m thinking! I feel humiliated, ashamed and stupid. I’m scarred, I’m scared and I’m useless. God, I hate myself for being such a freak. It's as if I'm not even a man.”

  “Whoa! That’s what you think about yourself?” I say, surprised and horrified. “That’s not what I see it all! You're wonderful, Grant. I wish you could see yourself as I do. You’re uneasy with good reason, we both know that. But here you are, in a hotel room you arranged, in order to face your fears. When I look at you, I see an incredibly brave man. It’s one thing to know a problem exists, it’s another thing to have the courage to deal with it.”

  “That’s really what you think?”

  I shoot him a broad smile. “That’s what I know. You’re a hero.”

  He gives me a somewhat sheepish half-smile. “A hero?”

  “Absolutely.” I put my hand to my heart. “You’re my hero.”

  This elicits a genuine laugh. “I don’t feel very heroic.”

  “Real heroes don’t,” I tell him. “Self-doubt isn’t such a bad thing. Anyway, I’m not the only one who thinks you’re a hero.”

  He raises his eyebrows at that remark.

  “Sally Ann adores you.”

  “Sally Ann thinks she’s in love with me,” he says.

  “Sally Ann is in love with you—and I think she has good taste! Anyway, you did stick up for her brother when you were kids. She told me how poor Danny was always getting picked on by bullies.”

  Grant snorts. “That was pure selfishness. At the time, standing up for Danny was an excuse. Back then, I just really liked beating people up.”

  “No, really?” I ask, uncertain if he’s joking or not.

  He chuckles. “Absolutely. Those guys deserved it, so it was a win-win.” He gives me a wry grin. “I suspect I’d still enjoy beating people up, but I’ve learned some self-control.”

  “Glad to hear it.” I laugh. “Look, I love being with you, no matter what we do or don't do. Would you rather chat, hold hands and forget about anything else for the night?”

  “No.” Determination blazes in his eyes.

  “OK, then,” I say. “Do you want to stay here on the couch or go lie down on that wonderful big bed?”

  “Bed,” he says quickly, still resolute, but not exactly happy with the idea.

  “Excellent.” I stand up and hold out my hand to him.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he folds his palm into mine. It’s warm and dry, but I can feel the tension he’s generating run through me like an electric wire.

  We leave the living area and stroll into the bedroom. I search his face. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “Yes,” he replies, his jaw taut. “I want to quit screwing around and get past this shit. I’ve managed to put this off for weeks, but that’s enough. It's humiliating, but since you don’t view it that way… I’ll attempt to see it from your point of view. I’ll try to be a hero.” There’s an unmistakable edge of angry derision in his tone.

  I ignore it. “OK.” I pull back the bedcovers, crawl onto the bed and discuss which positions we might start with. “It’s your choice, Grant. Whatever you’re most comfortable with is the best place for us to begin. We can always move around. Let's start out just being close to each other, without touching. What position would you feel most comfortable with?”

  “Spooning—me behind you,” he says.

  “Excellent, come join me,” I say.

  I’m not surprised by his choice to cuddle me from behind. That position gives him the most control and it’s the least personal. We’re starting off slowly.

  The bed shifts as Grant climbs onto it and moves beside me. His chest rests near my back, no more than a few inches away from me. Heat radiates from his big body warming me. I picture him lying there behind me, his body rigid with tension.

  “Well done,” I say. “There’s no rush, but whenever you’re ready, just put your arm around me and try to relax. I promise this’ll get easier.”

  After a couple of minutes, Grant tentatively places his arm around me.

  Our bodies are very close but not exactly flush up against one another. When his arm reaches around me, I slowly wrap my own arm around his. We stay that way for about twenty minutes. I offer a few conversation starters, trying to distract him and lighten the mood, but he doesn’t have anything to say.

  I don’t push it.

  When I hear his breathing calm, I wait a bit and then snuggle back into him, barely touching his body with mine. His breathing rate spikes, so I freeze in place for a few moments.

  Talk about awkward. I feel as though I’m snuggled up against a warm two-by-four. Although I love Grant hard, this is not what I had in mind! Damn it and damn his asshole father!

  I wait until his breathing slows again and then I lift his hand to my lips. Gently, I kiss his palm. “I wish…” I say, but stop abruptly.

  I wish he could relax and let himself go. I wish he'd never been hurt. I wish I could kiss away his shame and his pain.

  I bite back a melancholy sigh and softly say, “I wish I knew how to make this easier for you, Grant.”

  He remains quiet.

  What else is new?

  We stay like this for at least a half-hour in utter silence. There’s no change in Grant, he’s still impersonating a boulder that’s somehow exuding negative energy and wired to explode. Surely, he must've been cuddled in some positive way, at some point when he was growing up.

  “Tell me about your mom,” I finally ask. “Did she ever hug you?”

  “No, that wasn’t her style,” he says.

  “Really? Why not?”

  “I don’t have a clue, but I’ve always wondered. She said kissing was 'dirty,' so that was also out.” He shrugs.

  Kissing is a sensitive subject. I’m the first woman Grant has ever kissed on the mouth. He’s kissed me a few times now, but they’ve been rather chaste affairs. For myself, I find deep and sensual kissing to be one of the hottest forms of foreplay. Of course, kissing after sex is pretty sweet too.

  Grant sighs deeply. “The mouth contains more germs than any other part of the human body, did you know that?”

  I chuckle. “No, that’s news to me.”

  “My mom always used to tell me that. Maybe she had a phobia, who knows?”

  “Oh,” I say
, as I process this.

  It sounds as though the only touch he remembers from his childhood was from his abuser. To imagine no woman ever hugged Grant shocks me. It explains so much. It’s so sad.

  As if it’s an unpleasant exercise, he’s merely enduring being on this bed with me. Stiff and unmoving, he simply cannot let go or engage.

  “OK, let's try something else,” I suggest. “Roll over onto your other side.”

  Grant silently complies with my request. I curl up behind him, my front to his back. He’s still tense and worked up. It frustrates me, so I decide to try yet another tactic.

  “Take a second, Grant,” I murmur, in as calm and soothing a voice as I can muster. “Just for a second, please close your eyes.” When he does as I’ve asked, I say confidently, “I care about you, Grant and I'm here for you. We’ll get through this, OK?”

  “OK.”

  “The subject of touch has you so jammed up. Concentrate for a moment. Can you tell me exactly what you feel right now?”

  Time passes while he considers my question. I hold him gently and wait for his response, projecting as much strength, love and tranquility as I can in his direction. Finally, he draws in a shaky breath.

  “To touch and to be touched… I find it disturbing, for obvious reasons.” He clears his throat. “Years ago, long before I became scarred—I realized something was really wrong with me. I lived with only two emotions back then—rage and a sense of numb unreality… of disconnection.”

  “Go on,” I prompt him.

  I understand the detached numbness he describes. I know exactly what he means. Psychologists call it 'dissociation,' an involuntarily defense mechanism that results from psychological or physical trauma.

  “Anyway, one day I looked at my reflection in the mirror and I really saw myself. I had a terrible revelation. My eyes were soulless and I felt nothing at all. It was as if my body was an empty shell. I wasn’t even there.”

  My breath catches. Grant expresses such unspeakable pain. Yet, his voice is calm—too calm. It’s appalling to hear something so disturbing spoken with such quiet certainty. It's almost as if he's telling a story about somebody else.

  “I understood then how detached I’d become from everyone and everything,” he says. “Emotionally, I was shut down and dead inside. I was gone—the lights were on, but no one was home. I’d checked out, switched off… whatever you want to call it.”

  My eyes burn, welling with unshed tears. I understand that dark, dark place created by profound despair. I know the feeling of emptiness he’s speaking about intimately. Honestly, I can feel every agonizing inch of his pain.

  My nerves are on edge—matching his, I guess. “So, is that what you feel when you think of touching?” I ask. “Shut down and disconnected?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  This makes so much sense. When he was very young, he would’ve enjoyed his father’s attention and many of the ‘games’ he and his father played. Yet as he got older and the awareness and reality of his situation shifted, he would’ve had to break away emotionally in order to keep his sanity. Extreme trauma, such as rape, torture and threat of death can create instant dissociation. The mind always finds a way to protect itself.

  “What did you do?” I ask in a low voice and swallow hard before continuing. “You know, back when you saw yourself in the mirror and recognized something was wrong?”

  The hint of an idea niggles in the back of my mind, but I can’t quite grasp it.

  People who self-harm use pain as a safety valve. When emotional pressure becomes unbearable, they will often hurt themselves in order to relieve building tension. It gives them some semblance of control and distracts them from unbearable emotional pain they can't control.

  The idea crystallizes and I bite back a gasp as a terrible thought strikes me. Grant has never told me anything about his scars. I’ve always assumed that he was wounded in the service of his country. I know he fought overseas—but maybe he wasn’t scarred in battle.

  Did Grant scar himself? Did he ruin his neck and face intentionally, so he looked like the monster he felt himself to be?

  I try not to react. On the outside, I hope to appear curious and interested, but on the inside, I’m scared.

  A deep sense of dread fills me as I wait to learn the answer to my question.

  Chapter 36.

  “I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel….”

  ― Nine Inch Nails

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  Grant's entire body suddenly stiffens as he rolls onto his back and turns his head to face me. A fiery spark appears in his eyes. He’s seriously pissed.

  Is he angry with me, or with himself?

  “When I realized I couldn’t feel, it freaked me out,” he says. “I experienced an overwhelming compulsion to punch my fists through a wall—to somehow hurt myself badly enough in order to feel… something… anything.”

  I struggle to remain calm. It’s difficult in the face of his rage, as well as with the thought of Grant hurting himself so terribly he'd be forever scarred.

  “Did you?” I ask. “Punch a wall, I mean?”

  “Sure, many times. I don’t know whether I wanted to punish myself because I hated the monster I felt I was, or if I just needed to feel. I also got into fights. I drove recklessly, getting into accidents and totaling two cars. Dying seemed… attractive—and pain?” His eyes are hard, his features intense. “Pain was good.”

  Propped up on one elbow, I stare back at Grant.

  I’m not afraid he’ll hurt me, I trust him. Yet, adrenaline spikes in response to his anger, elevating my heart rate and heating my skin. I consciously begin taking slow, deep breaths, aware that I could easily slide into my own brand of crazy.

  When people around me are upset, I blame myself. Why should I feel responsible for other people’s moods or unhappiness? I shouldn’t. Yet, I do. It’s as though I’ve screwed up somehow. I expect them to point the finger at me… and I’m terrified of confrontation.

  See how insane I am?

  At least I’ve gained enough insight over the years not to immediately jump on board the crazy train on a one-way trip to guilt city.

  Now, I force myself to remain calm and wait to find out what's going on first. It's a step in the right direction, considering how I used to panic instantly at the first sign anything was wrong.

  Luckily, Grant doesn’t seem to notice my reaction. Although he's looking at me, he isn’t really seeing me. In this moment, he's somewhere else. Is he back there again, lost in his past?

  Grant exhales loudly. “Then I discovered alcohol, which helped me—I swear to God, it really helped and I also joined the army. Somehow, despite my mad death wish, I survived.”

  “I’m glad you did, Grant. I'm so glad you’re here with me now,” I whisper.

  If I speak out loud, my voice will crack. I doubt I can hide the raw emotion that’s welling up within me. I feel as though I’ve been gutted.

  The mere thought of losing him breaks my heart. It kills me—absolutely kills me!

  I suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to cry.

  I'm abruptly aware of the tension leaving Grant’s body. He’s relaxing for the first time since we lay down together. After opening up and sharing his past, he seems to have snapped out of the chasm of darkness into which he’d descended.

  He shifts his position slightly so he can see me better. With a pillow under his head and me lying on my side, propped up on one elbow, Grant's intense gaze is overwhelming.

  A palpable energy passes between us. Grant searches my face. I blink but can barely hold back my tears.

  I ‘get’ him, I really do. I completely understand where he’s coming from because I’ve been there myself. My experience was different from his, but similar in many ways.

  With his penetrating gaze I feel as if he’s looking into my heart and soul. Is he aware of my anguish? Does he see the pain I feel for him, reflected in my eyes?

 
His smoky blue-grey eyes soften.

  I can’t be an objective therapist when he looks at me like that! I gasp, desperately trying to keep it together. Shock and dismay fill me as the tears have been brimming in my eyes begin to overflow.

  Gently, tenderly, he pulls my body onto his, so I’m resting against his warm chest. “Renata,” he murmurs.

  I can’t help it—I cry even harder.

  “It’s OK. It’s OK,” he murmurs almost rhythmically in a calm, comforting tone as his big hands glide over my back, gently stroking and calming me.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasp.

  “Shhh, shhh, you’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no reason to be sorry,” he soothes.

  I bury my face into the curve of his neck and hold onto him tightly, letting the even beat of his heart and the deep rumble of his voice calm me. In a minute, I’ll pull myself together, but just now, I just need him to hold me like this.

  I’m no longer premenstrual, trapped at the monthly circus, juggling my emotions or walking on the hormonal tightrope and trying not to fall off. I can’t use that as an excuse, but damn it to hell, I’m an emotional wreck at the thought of losing him.

  I want him.

  I need him!

  I never want to let him go.

  Grant is incredible. He’s so courageous! He's been to hell and back more than once. He's served our country, overcome his addiction to alcohol, confronted his demons and exposed his secrets, and his shame. Stubbornly and determinedly, he’s working through the pain and torment of his past. He’s been in so much pain and turmoil—so sad and so alone for such a long time.

  I can’t stop crying, but I allow myself to let go, as I absorb his strength and his caring energy. It's so healing, so beautiful.

  With all he’s been through, he’s still thinking of me. He hates touching, yet he’s cuddling and comforting me.

  I can’t help but have a high regard for this brave and damaged man. He gives me strength. In the midst of his own problems, he sets them aside, in order to help me.

  I admire him so much.