Damage

My family and I moved from Oak Park to Villa Park in the summer of 1995. I got a job waiting tables at Chi-Chi's, and Javier got himself a job at the pizza place next door -- same restaurant as the one where we'd met, just a different location. I barely remember my time at that job, save for a few vague memories. The one night he had me followed, though, is still pretty clear in my head.

I got off work early one evening, and one of my co-workers asked for a ride. He was going to a friend's house that was right up the road and on my way home, so I dropped him off and headed home. When Javier got off work later that night, he came home and asked me how my night was. I told him it was fine, and he said, "so, you didn't give anyone a ride home?". 

I'm pretty sure my blood froze. I know my mind stopped working for a solid sixty seconds while I tried to process the information -- he'd been at work all night, so how could he know I gave anyone a ride home? Simple answer: he'd been spying on me.

And it wasn't the first time. I later found out that he knew about other things that had happened at work -- things he couldn't have known about unless he'd been watching me through the goddamn windows, or had people watching me and reporting back. 

He literally had eyes everywhere.

There was absolutely nothing I could hide from him. He'd already gone through my diary, my storage boxes, and now he was having me followed. I remember feeling angry that he didn't trust me, but deep down, there was fear. Was I afraid of what he'd find out? Was I afraid he'd leave? Was I afraid of something worse?

I still don't know the answer. I just know I was afraid. 

I left my job at Chi-Chi's after a few months and took a job as a bank teller. That job kept me afloat, emotionally, in ways I obviously couldn't have known at the time. But I was good at that job -- really good -- and it was the one thing he couldn't take away from me. In that building, I was strong, competent, confident, and relaxed. I had friends. I was me -- or, as much of me as I had left at that point.

It didn't take him long to become threatened, though. He started questioning my need to wear makeup to work, to wear perfume. He accused me of going out to meet other guys, when I was actually going in to the bank for an after-shift meeting. He looked for as many ways as he could to take away what little power I had. 

One of the easiest ways was for him to take control of my car. Again, it wasn't something we talked about or agreed upon. It just happened. One day that car was mine, and the next day I was borrowing my mom's minivan because he was off doing god-knows-what with my car. 

(Don't even get me started on the aching regret I carry, knowing my mother gave up a lot of her freedoms so I could still get around...I can't even think about that) 

I guess there were periods when I felt happy...I don't remember them anymore. I just have anecdotes, flashes of moments during which he chipped away at me, at all the things I thought I knew about myself. 

I'd always had issues with self-confidence, body image issues and stuff like that, but the one thing I got from Javier was a confirmation that I was attractive. Despite all the other crap he put me through, he managed to make me feel beautiful. I guess it was because he wanted me. Our mutual physical attraction was one thing that never came into question...until one night, as I was lying with him in bed in the most vulnerable way possible, feeling that wonderful afterglow, smiling as he traced a finger over my skin, and he said, "Why are you so fat?"

Well...twenty-plus years later, I still don't have sufficient words to describe what that felt like. 

But I do know the damage that was done in that single moment. And I'm still trying to recover from it.