Sitting next to Henry senior year, sometimes it felt like my heart racing and my stomach churning were an overreaction to being in the same room with him. But then, a memory would hit me. Sitting with him at the piano bench. The time with the bathroom scale. Today, while I was supposed to be learning about supply and demand curves, I was instead transported to a Friday afternoon in March of my freshman year.
In March 2011, Henry and I boarded a bus with our fellow freshman classmates to cheer on our high school’s varsity basketball team as they competed at the Boys State Semifinals in Madison. We streamed onto the bus, all of us decked out in matching black State T-shirts and bandanas. Mine and Henry’s seats were closer to the front end of the bus, near the teachers and chaperones, setting us apart from the majority of our peers whose animated conversations filled the back of the bus.
Henry and I shared in the buzz of anticipation. The bus ride was set to span around two hours, giving us ample time to enjoy the game and make our way back home later that night. I snuggled into his shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent, settling in for the ride.
Henry was telling me a story about a Youth-in-Government trip he went on (he was in all sorts of extracurricular groups and clubs like this). His story revolved around an overnight trip with the group, and amidst his storytelling, he grinned and playfully remarked, “Well, you know bad things happen at Youth-in-Government.”
I responded without much thought, “What do you mean?”
His smile vanished. He squinted at me. “You don’t remember?” he asked.
Damnit. I fucked up. Right at the start of the trip.
And so the silent treatment began.
This wasn’t new. Henry always had impeccable timing with his anger. He loved to start a fight when it was too inconvenient for the issue to be addressed immediately, or when something significant was happening in my life. His anger took precedence when my family was visiting from across the country, on my birthday, the night before the PSAT. When I had dental surgery, I ended up forgoing pain medication so I wouldn’t be too dazed to talk to him. Invariably, his needs towered above mine.
Try as I might to stay focused and clear headed for whatever he might throw at me, I still had broken his number one rule—I forgot something he told me. And so I wracked my brain for what could have possibly happened that I forgot. I asked,
“Did you… sneak out?”
“Did you break the law?”
“Did you vandalize something?”
I thought to myself, did you cheat on me? Though I refrained from asking him out of fear that he’d get angrier at me for even questioning. I knew that Carly was in Youth-in-Government with him—I think that’s actually how they’d met. I knew he had an interest in her, and a part of me wondered if this was about that: if something had happened between them on the overnight trip. But I was too afraid to guess it out loud. If I said her name and I was wrong, I knew it would only make him angrier. And he was already fuming without even mentioning Carly.
Tears welled up in my eyes. I was upset that something so minor was going to ruin the whole excursion and frustrated that we’d be trapped in public for hours with no way to resolve it. For the rest of the bus ride, I desperately tried to figure out what event I forgot, and with each wrong guess his anger only escalated.
I was fully crying by the time we arrived at State. He was livid. I still hadn’t guessed correctly, and he remained unforgiving and refused to talk to me. I tried to compose myself, but something about being in a situation where you’re not supposed to be crying makes it so much harder to stop. It was utterly humiliating.
I always wondered if the teachers and chaperones that were seated close to us noticed that I was crying for hours. If they did, they didn’t acknowledge it. Adults in my life were always quick to show their approval of my relationship with Henry, but where were they when he reduced me to tears?
By now, I was sure that my mascara had streaked my eyes into darkened pools. Unsure of how obvious it was that I had been crying, I kept my gaze cast down as we stepped off the bus. I silently hoped that by a miracle nobody would notice how disheveled I was, that I was an emotional wreck.
As we walked up to the building, Henry exchanged nods and greetings with classmates, flashing them a smile. He played his facade like he normally did, seemingly unaffected by the chasm between us. However, when I did the same, he shot me a look. I was not allowed to be happy while he was mad at me. I was not allowed to play ‘normal’ like he did.
He was not bound by the same set of rules that I was. For instance, it didn’t matter how long he took to text me back, if he had female friends, if he forgot something I said.
Shortly after taking our place in the stands, I excused myself to the bathroom. I struggled to read signs while keeping my head down, trying not to be seen. When I got to the bathroom, I looked into the mirror and confirmed my fear: it was painfully obvious that I had been crying.
Surprisingly, my mascara didn’t run much. It struck me that I hadn’t applied much makeup to begin with, as Henry didn’t like it when I did. Pausing, I took a slow exhale, grateful that I hadn’t broken that rule that day. I could only imagine the scolding I’d receive for wearing makeup if it had run and made a spectacle of me. I dampened some paper towels and gently wiped away the lingering traces of blackness on my already moist cheeks, but still it did little to hide the evidence of my distraught state. My eyes remained red and puffy, my cheeks blotchy. My top lip was puckered the way it does after sobbing. I blew my nose, but it continued to run. I’d have to periodically sniff during the game to keep it from dripping.
I would have gladly stayed in the bathroom for the whole game. I didn’t even like basketball. I didn’t give a shit about how our team did at State. But I took some deep breaths and returned to the stands to be by Henry’s side. He still refused to look at me. I tried to hold his hand but he refused that, too. People around us cheered, yet his stare was fixed forward, stoic. My gaze oscillated between the game and the floor. Whenever someone in front of us turned around, I quickly looked away, pretending to look at something on the floor or behind me. I must have “tied my shoe” at least five times during that game.
The basketball game did absolutely nothing to distract me. I stood alone with my thoughts, done guessing and thoroughly defeated. I just needed him to tell me what I’d forgotten so I could try to be forgiven.
I excused myself to the bathroom a few more times over the course of the game to repeatedly and desperately attempt to pull myself together, but I could not stop the tears. Henry hadn’t talked to me since we were on the bus, and I hadn’t spoken to anyone else since then.
I was still standing by him, keeping my head down and trying to control my breathing, when miraculously he grabbed my hand. I turned to look at him, my mouth agape, and he gave me a small smile, as if to tell me that it was okay now.
This was certainly out of character for him, forgiving me so quickly, but I was too relieved to question it. I could finally exhale. For the rest of the game he talked to me, draped his arm around me, and encouraged me to cheer with the rest of the crowd. I still didn’t engage much with anyone else—I felt self-conscious that I had been such a mess, and I didn’t want anyone probing with questions for the fear that I’d start tearing up again.
The game ended, and we made our way back to the coach bus amongst the swarm of our peers. We walked hand in hand, portraying that we were a happy little couple. We got back onto the bus and reclaimed our seats near the front, with me sitting in the window seat.
It was late at night, and in our dark, secluded row I nestled back into his side. For a moment, it almost felt like the beginning of the trip again. But still, I didn’t dare bring up the Youth-in-Government situation. I didn’t want to remind him of his anger. But after some time sitting together, he cast a sidelong glance at me and said,
“So, you really don’t remember?” I shook my head, and the silent treatment came right back. I knew it was too good to be true.
His arm had been around me, and he withdrew it from my shoulders. He shifted closer to the aisle so that our arms were no longer touching. The tears came creeping back. I hated that I cried so much. I was usually able to wait for a more private moment to let the tears out, but it was becoming harder and harder to stave them off in public. He had eroded all the resolve and grit that I once had. I took slow, deep breaths, holding them momentarily before I allowed them to escape to avoid becoming hysterical. At least it’s dark now, I thought. At least no one can see me cry.
Defeated, I laid my face against the cold window, watching the passing cars and streetlights in the darkness. Only then did it dawn on me that he probably “forgave” me earlier because people were starting to notice something was up—because it was starting to make him look bad.
Sitting there in the dark, weeping with my face against the window, the beginnings of a song were born:
Hold your breath, don’t let it go,
Don’t let the tears fall.
I feel so alone,
And you move farther dear with every tear.
I mouthed the words to myself in the dark, using the rhythm of it to help pace my breathing. This is something I did from time to time to cope—wrote songs about how I was crumbling that I kept secret from Henry. Then he finally decided to tell me what I’d forgotten.
“Youth-in-Government was where I met Carly. The overnight trip was where I started liking her,” he said. I paused.
“I knew that,” I replied slowly, careful not to let my anger slip into my voice. “I guess I just didn’t say it out loud,” I added.
The “fight” was done. The silent treatment was officially over, but inside I was furious—at him, and at myself. Are you fucking kidding me, I kept thinking. I’d suspected it was Carly the whole time. Why hadn’t I just said her name?
The rest of the ride we didn’t talk much—I don’t think either of us had anything we particularly wanted to say aloud to one another. I didn’t want to express my anger about the situation because even though I was upset, I was simultaneously relieved that he was no longer mad at me. Also, I recognized that being mad at him never bode well for me—I learned it was safer to not show my anger. Henry never apologized. I’m not sure if he even considered apologizing.
I sat in the dark and reflected on the night, still concentrating on my breathing. When I finally arrived home, I took off the stupid State T-shirt and the stupid bandana. I swore to myself that I would never wear that shirt again. I balled it up and shoved it to the back of the bottom drawer in my dresser.
Oddly, I wasn’t upset that Henry’s crush on Carly—while we were actively dating—was still alive and well. Rather, I was frustrated about how he let me sob for hours in public when if we had just communicated this whole thing could have been prevented. But I couldn’t just talk to him; communication with Henry had become an obstacle course. There were things I could and couldn’t say, subjects that only he could bring up, hoops to jump through. I could no longer talk to him directly like a normal person and receive a normal, regulated reaction. I had to think through everything I said, choosing my words wisely. Then on the rare occasion I did bring up an issue, he’d usually end up upset with me for being upset with him, and I’d find myself apologizing in the end anyway. It was pointless.
Our basketball team won, so the next day they’d be going back to play in the championship game. The coach bus with all the fans would be going again, too. Henry asked me if I wanted to go again with him.
Nope. Absolutely not. I declined the offer politely, but again I thought to myself, are you fucking kidding me? There were no positive parts of that experience for me. I hoped that he proposed this for the sake of being polite and wasn’t delusional in thinking that I somehow had a good time. He didn’t argue with me or ask for my reasoning, and he went on the trip without me.
I spent the next day at home sitting in my pajamas all day, trying to recover from the emotional toll of the previous day’s excursion. I stared blankly, aimlessly walking around the house, patting my dog and cats every so often. I went through the motions of a normal Saturday alone at home. I wrote out the lyrics to my song and added music on the piano. I played it over and over for hours, making edits and feeling through the lyrics.
I thought about how stupid the whole fight was at its root and how such a small thing had ruined the entire experience. I couldn’t believe that my boyfriend openly had a crush on another girl, and I was the bad guy for letting a detail about it slip my mind. Sadly, that was par for the course in our relationship. He was the one who got angry; I was the one who apologized. I was the one who cried in public. I was constantly striving for perfection and constantly fighting to be forgiven whenever I inevitably fell short of his expectations… and this constant cycle of control and submission was only just getting started.