Beige

Chapter One

TW: Brief mention of child abuse.

Alexis Monpettit

It's Tuesday.

Specifically Tuesday at 3:07pm. Meaning 7 minutes ago I was supposed to be sitting across from my therapist, Christy, on an overly expensive couch. Unfortunately for me, I'm in bed.

It's one of those days.

I couldn't specifically tell when these days started, but gradually over time, they've gotten worse. It started off with just having a panic attack in the middle of the day. But now, I can't get out of bed without the dreaded thoughts that somehow I won't survive until the end of the day.

It's just a load of bullshit.

I wish I didn't think this way. These thoughts consume every inch of my brain and body, and I have to check my pulse every 20 minutes to make sure my heart is still beating; it always is.

I was diagnosed with anxiety, depression, and PTSD when I was 18. I wouldn't have ever known if I hadn't gone against my parent's wishes and checked myself into Christy's office. They don't believe in "mental illness." They believe that the world has convinced me that I'm "mentally ill." Whatever that's supposed to mean. I guess they're the main reason I'm in therapy; all of their expectations and guilt-tripping that I had to endure, let alone the being thrown into walls and slapped across the face a few times by my father. What he called "making me a strong woman" turned me into the weakest one I know.

It wasn't always like that. My childhood is like a blank space in my brain. But I remember some of the good parts, such as going to Disney every couple of years, opening presents on Christmas mornings, and the yearly birthday cake that I got to make a wish upon. My wish was always the same; I didn't want to be alone anymore.

The slapping came one night the week after I turned sixteen. I had gotten home late from a friend's house and my father was still up sitting in his chair in the living room. He wasn't always a bad person. We had a mutual respect for each other, which only grew as I became older. But, I guess I didn't do my chores like he had asked, even though I had, and when I went to speak up to him, I felt his hand collide with my cheek. That was the first time I had ever cried because of my father, and the last time I would ever refer to him as "dad."

My mom on the other hand was my best friend. We did everything together. Well, that was until my father corrupted her into sending me all the way to Los Angeles for college. 3,000 miles away from the place I called home, it was the furthest place they thought of that was still within the border of the United States. I didn't refuse when they announced that they had applied for me to attend the University of Southern California, obviously the further away from my father, the better. I also knew that my father would never do to my mom what he did to me. He was still head over heels for her and they were annoyingly in love with each other.

I always wondered why my mom never stood up to my father for me. But in all honesty, I don't think she ever knew the extent of the abuse. He would only hit me when she wasn't around and when asked what happened to me, he would say that I must've been hit in the face with a ball during gym class. I was too scared to ever admit what actually happened, unsure of what the consequences would be. He did yell when she was around but she would just busy herself with something until he was done. There were times when she would come to my room after and tell me the opposite of what was just imprinted into my brain. "You're not fat," "you are not a slut for wearing that shirt," and "you are beautiful." It felt like she was saying those things for her own good, not to make me feel better, but to make herself feel like she was doing her job as a mom. If that was true, maybe she should've stopped him after the first yelling, or maybe even noticed that I would flinch every time he would get too close to me. I don't hate her for anything. Because in the end, she was the only one in that house that showed me love.