Dye Job 3: Wine, Blood-Red, Teal
Don't drink the Koolaid.
I don’t give specific trigger warnings very often. Except for times when I’ve been gaslit, violated, assaulted, mind-fucked, and convinced that I’m so awful that I became suicidal, yet had no recollection of why—because I’d been repressing violent memory after memory for months. 1
You’ve been warned.
Continued From:
—THE LURE OF BELLY DANCE
—DYE JOB: Part 1 - PINK, GOLD, BERRY BLUSH
—DYE JOB: Part 2 - PAINT IT BLACK
The remnants of that Twelfth Night dye-job still stain my hair. It isn’t quite black anymore. Now it’s just an icky dark brown. It makes my face appear sallow.
If I don’t want to do an impression of jaundice, I have to wear makeup every day. People ask me if I’m sick otherwise. I’m not. But even with the makeup, my eyes look hollowed out in that mirror. They match the shadows beneath them. And under my cheekbones. Here in the closet, with the sun on the other side of the building, I look almost skeletal.
Haunted.
I feel haunted. I don’t understand why.
I have no idea who that is in the mirror. I only know she is hideous. Not merely ugly. She is disgusting. This…thing staring back at me through the ever-deepening shadows…
What is that?
Because I’ve never seen that face in the mirror before. 2
June 1992
19 years old
I’ve just come back to my parents’ house for the summer. I won’t call this place “home.” It’s not. It’s where I lived as a kid. Period.
Mom and I go the fabric store as a mother-daughter treat. She’s been getting into quilting lately. As I trail her past all those bolts of bright, patterned cotton, an image strikes me. Star from Lost Boys, my favorite vampire movie. I’ve been watching that movie on repeat for months now. I don’t know why. But I have an inexplicable craving for something I’ve never wanted to wear in my life: a big, flowy skirt.
“Oooh, that would be so fun to make,” Mom gushes, so we hunt through the pattern books to see if they have one.
They do.
Mom is super excited to show me how to pick out coordinating fabrics. Some have tiny patterns and some have big; some have multiple colors, some have only one. By the time we’re done, I have a collection of blood-red, wine, and teal bolts. She lines them up on the cutting counter until we both agree. Yes. That’s the right order for the tiers.
I already have a skin-tight burgundy top that will match. It’s got long sleeves and cutout shoulders with a mock turtleneck that’s connected by sexy straps. But it’s summer and all I long for is to feel the sun on my skin, so I’ll have to find some little crop-tops to go with the skirt.
I keep wishing the sun would lighten my hideous hair. Keep wishing it would lighten anything.
After mom shows me how to gather the long tubes of fabric to create the ever-bigger tiers of the skirt, she leaves me to it.
Vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom…
Pause.
Take the pin out. Stab it into the cushion. Realign the fabric.
Vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom…
As the needle punches up and down, over and over and over, my mind phases out. It’s shadowy here in my old bedroom beneath the window, even with the overhead light on.
I miss Martin like air underwater. He’s back up at his old home on the Iron Range. Not at his parents’ place in Embarrass. (A fact that he doesn’t admit to very many people—he finds the name of his hometown terribly embarrassing, and if there is one thing that will set Martin off, it’s being embarrassed.)
This summer, he’s working at a campground on Whitewater Lake. I have a summer job all week, too, so we’ll only get to see each other every other weekend.
It’s agony not seeing him every day, not sleeping beside him every night. I stopped sleeping in my own dorm room bed…oh, geez…pretty much the second we got together. He never wanted to be away from me after that first night. I didn’t either, so now, not even being able to hear his voice on the phone because long-distance is too expensive…?
We’ve decided to alternate visiting each other, so I’ll finally get to see him next weekend. It’ll be my first time driving up to the Range by myself. Only five more days before I’ll be in his arms once more. Before I can gaze into those entrancing, ice-blue eyes, and hear him say those three words that are like oxygen.
Vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom-vwoom3
Five days later…
When I climb out of my car wearing my Star skirt with the slinky burgundy dance-top, every hour I spent gathering and pinning and stitching and gathering and pinning and stitching and gathering and pinning and stitching the five tiers of this skirt turns out to be totally worth it. So was the two-hour drive up here to visit my love.
Martin’s jaw pretty much unhinges and falls in the dirt when he spies his jock-walking, swearing, firebrand tomboy in something so feminine.
My heart does backflips to see how much he likes it!
He hops down from the backhoe and races across the packed dirt lot, sweeping me up and swinging me around. Our laughter twines and mingles, followed quickly by our bodies and lips. It still takes me a second to get used to the spiky remnants of that mohawk he buzzed through all his glorious, sandy curls at the end of the school year. The ends are still frosted where he bleached it nearly white. I’m still trying to get used to the stubbly goatee, too. It’s like sandpaper on my mouth and cheek, but he’s still my gorgeous Burnsey.
And yes. Within seconds of us hitting the door of his cabin, he does set my everything to burning. It’s fast. It’s furious. We don’t even undress because he’s still technically got an hour left of work. His belt clanks on the floor with the whumph of his jeans, and then he’s got me over the country quilted bed with my easy-access skirt up over my hips.
“Jesus!” He almost stumbles back to get a better look, but his pants are binding up his ankles. “You ain’t got nothing on underneath?”
I flash him my most devious cat-eyes over one shoulder. “Oopsie. How on earth did that happen?”
He might not have an answer to that question, but he certainly knows what to do about it.
That very evening, he starts talking about how badly he wants to have a log-cabin house of his own, way out in the woods. He’s always talked about that, but this time, his dreams include me in flowy skirts like the one I’m wearing, and my big, pregnant belly.
I’ve never wanted kids. I knew in my guts when I was twelve after having to babysit an actual baby for the first time that I never wanted to have any of my own. Adopt older kids? Maybe. But babies? NO WAY.
And yet…
It’s so quiet out here at the campground. It’s so comfortable in this little log cabin where Martin lives for the summer. He’s so relaxed here. So happy. We’re so happy here together.
The last of the sun slants in through the window over our heads; the shadows grow longer as they creep across the floor and up onto the bed with us. Down at the far end, Hitch, our kitten, is curled up beside us, asleep after a nice round of wiggle-toes-and-maul. My bare feet poke out beyond the hem of the skirt where my legs are tangled between Martin’s and all that jewel-toned cotton. My big toe traces his sock-covered foot as I consider that maybe I was wrong about the baby-thing.
About the whole trajectory of my life.
Maybe I wasn’t meant for the stage. Maybe this quiet peace, this rural hush, this warmth with Martin’s heartbeat under my ear and his strong arms around me was what I was meant for. Maybe I just needed the right man to have babies with. 4
Yes, I’m definitely going to have to get some little crop-tops and a bunch more of these skirts. 5
August 1992
Three months later…
I’ve been working for the past three months at Dad’s office. Every summer, they hire the kids of employees for various projects. This year, the job consists of copying all the company’s paper documents onto microfilm. The four of us—two girls and two boys—sweat it out in the trailer, emptying stacks and stacks of pull-out drawers stuffed with manilla folders.
It’s a mindless task. Endless repetition with the sounds of that copier humming, opening, and closing, over and over and over.
Vweeeeeeee…vwoom. Cr-click. Rustle-rustle. Clunk.
Vweeeeeeee…vwoom. Cr-click. Rustle-rustle. Clunk.
Vweeeeeeee…vwoom. Cr-click. Rustle-rustle. Clunk.
I wish it was a work day. But it’s Saturday. Only one Saturday left before I have to go back to college, to three roommates, to all the buzz and bustle of the Theater Department. It’ll be the fall musical first. I used to get so excited for auditions, but this year I’m actually dreading it. I don’t understand why.
All I want is to keep doing my mindless job, even if it is out there in the furnace of that trailer.
I wasn’t sure how it was going to be, riding with Dad every day, back and forth for the forty-five minute trip to the office. But it’s actually been great. We haven’t enjoyed time together in a vehicle like this since that one winter when he brought me to the hunting shack for a father-daughter getaway. What was I then? Eight?
He taught me the mockingbird song that day.
Listen to the mockingbird… *whistle-whistle*
Peckin’ at a frozen turd… *crick-THHPT!*
Mom was NOT impressed.
Dad and I still chuckle about that one. It ranks right up there with “fish calls.” (What happens when one has to fart while out on the water. In a proper fish call, one lets the reverberation of said flatulence rumble the metal seat of the boat, thus calling out to all fish, far and yonder. One can also accomplish something similar with a resonant belch across the glittering waves.)
(What? It works.)
(Or maybe my dad is just a really great fisherman.)
Of course, fishing reminds me of Martin.
That’s a good thing—the best thing in the world. It’s also the most excruciating thing. I’m losing him. I can tell. It’s been happening for months and I don’t know how to stop it. 6
At the start of summer, I’d thought that things had turned back around. That first trip up to the Range had seemed so idyllic. Nothing like all the stress that had been growing between us, month after month throughout the last semester of school. But now, with every passing visit, it’s crept back in again.
It’s my fault. I know that. I just don’t know how to fix it. 7
I feel like I’m on the verge of tears all the time over nothing. And over everything. Yet I can’t actually cry.
I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve always been a big bawl-baby over books, movies, flippin’ Hallmark commercials or a mushy comment. “The Sentimental Slob.” That’s always been my nickname. When I was little, my inability to keep from crying was a huge problem any time those kids picked on me. Crying has always been as easy as laughing, but now… 8
Mom keeps asking if I’m okay and what’s wrong. Dad sneaks glances at me on the way to work when I’m staring out the window with nothing to say. He doesn’t say anything either, but I can feel him.
Watching.
I don’t have anything to tell them. There’s no reason I feel this way. 9
There’s just…this black hole in the center of me that I don’t have any explanation for. Plus, all that shit from elementary and high school keeps vomiting up from my guts and puking out my mouth. For awhile there last spring, I couldn’t stop talking about it. That’s when I’d started to be able to cry again.
I’d barely shed any tears over anything since eighth grade after the final straw—the Future Problem Solvers Incident where I was pushed down staircases and slammed from one end of the hallways to the other, branded with the title of “school slut” two years before I’d ever had sex. 10
Once I finally graduated and escaped Hell, it all started to crack open where I could pull it out and look at it, finally from a distance. It felt like squeezing smelly pus from a wound every time I was able to cry about it but—
I’d had to stop.
It always upset Martin. That’s what had started it. Losing him. 11
Ever since that night he shoved me off his lap when I was crying, he looks at me with more and more disgust. I don’t blame him. People have always looked at me with disgust.
Ugly…homely…revolting…gross…
Four-eyes…metal-mouth…barf-bag…The Dog…
Lesbo.
Dyke.
Slut.
Whore.
Now I can’t figure out how to get him back. I feel like I’m sliding down a mountainside in the middle of a slow avalanche. I keep clawing at the biggest boulders but my nails break off. Everything else slips along with me. It’s all about about to crumble off the cliff and drag me into the black hole.
Why couldn’t I have just kept quiet? Smiled for him? Kept my stupid mouth shut except to kiss him? Or other things. Why couldn’t I have just told him how much I love him instead of needing to bawl and growl about…
All that.
I’m such an idiot. I really must be psycho, like they’ve always said. Disgusting. Slutty. There are times when Martin loves the slutty, but other times… I’m definitely not “ladylike” enough for him, and I can never figure out which one he wants me to be—his slut or his lady. He used to love that I can be both. But now, no matter what I do, I always seem to guess wrong. 12
I know one thing. I certainly could never do a fish call in his boat, or join in a belching contest in front of him. I beat the guys in our contests at work all the time, but Martin would be horrified. Probably pissed off. I constantly piss him off these days. He’s been trying to get me to stop swearing, but it slips out sometimes. My inability to stop doing these things is losing me the best thing I’ve ever had in my life.
When we first got together, it was like I finally understood the term “soul mates.” Like when people say, “God made someone just for me.” He used to talk about wanting to marry me. About the life we’d make together.
Now he doesn’t say much of anything to me. 13
Finally, the other weekend, for the first in months, we made love. I mean, we have sex whenever we see each other, sure. But there was a thunderstorm outside and the windows were open and he hasn’t gazed at me or touched me like that since I showed up in the Star skirt. Before that it was—
I don’t know how long.
Once again, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Bathroom this time. Now I understand why my mom used to stand here over this very sink, glaring at herself and hating her hair.
I hate my hair, too. Again. Like I did for year upon year as I was growing up. It’s still that horrid shade of not-quite-black. I still look jaundiced unless my face is made up. I don’t have the energy for that. I don’t understand why I’m so exhausted all the time. I don’t want to do anything, go anywhere, see anyone, talk to anybody. 14
But now that it’s the weekend, all I want is for Monday to come so I’ll have something to focus on. Something that can shut up my mind.
Vweeeeeeee…vwoom. Cr-click. Rustle-rustle. Clunk.
Otherwise, I start thinking about shit I don’t wanna be thinking about, and if I’m thinking about it, I might start talking about it and—
I’m restless, but I’m worn out. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. I toss and turn and gnash my teeth and finally crash out, only to wake up groggy and practically in tears. I want to pull the covers over my head but when I do, I can’t cry.
All I want to do is scream and scream and scream and my fingers clench around the handle of my brush.
The eyes in the mirror flash at me.
Hatred.
I snarl back. Her snarl is just as vicious. You don’t deserve to be loved when you’re like this.
Fuck you! I hate you! It’s because of YOU I’m losing him. Vile slut. Couldn’t wait for marriage, could you? Nope, just had to open your nasty whore legs. No self-respect, no dignity. Not remotely ladylike. You suck dick and you like it on your knees. Or doggy-style like the panting dog you are—whuff-whuff!
No, I’m losing him because of YOU. Such a prude. Too fucking scared of your own shadow. Won’t let him try anal. Won’t role-play. Some actress you are!
He wants me to pretend I’m a prostitute and that the woman he loves is at home, barefoot and too pregnant for sex!
Yeah? So? Why would YOU ever be the one he loves? The one he wants for life? You’re no fun. Won’t let him shave you bald again because wahhhh, the prickles hurt after the first day. So fucking sensitive. So fucking hyper and scaredy-cat about everything. Do you have any idea how disgusting it must be for him down there with a snatch that isn’t baby-butt smooth? And being all whiny about his stubble when he goes down. Awwww…poor baby. You’re lucky to even have a guy who does that at all.
I swear he only started growing out that stubble after I flinched that first time.
What?!
Same with that mohawk. Remember how he curled up with his head in my lap after telling me all that stuff about his childhood? I’d been stroking his hair. Telling him all the reasons I love him. I’d told him how beautiful he is and how much I adore running my hands through his curls. He buzzed them off two days later, and I swear to God…the look in his eyes the first time I saw it...the way he laughed. Like he was flipping me off.
Are you shitting me? Wow. Paranoid much?
I don’t know what I’ve done to make him look at me like that.
How about…breathe?
Go to Hell.
Already there, babe. I always have you in my way. No wonder he’s about to dump you on your spazzy, psycho ass. REE! REE! REE!
No, it’s because of YOU and your swearing and drinking and tromping around and being too loud. It’s your insufferable, raging mouth. Why can’t you just shut up for once! Try to act like a lady!
I promise, sweet-cheeks. It’s YOU and your whiny-bitch tears, puking out your worthless hole about stupid shit that’s over now. Wahhhhhhhh…cry-baby! Gonna cry now? You need to just suck it up! Put on that stiff upper lip and paint on that pretty smile. That’s the only time you’re worth anything. That’s why he’s starting to hate you, and I don’t blame him. Everybody hates you.
Fuck you!
Why don’t you just crawl off in a hole and die? Everybody would be happier. Isn’t that what they all said? Well, with that many people saying it, it must be true!
Shut up! Just shut up and leave me the fuck alone! I HATE YOU! 15
With a shriek of rage, I hurl the brush straight at that squinty-eyed bitch’s hideous, sneering mouth.
Her face fractures.
Pieces of her slip.
And then the whole thing crashes down onto the sink and the counter and the bathroom floor, leaving nothing but a big, black vortex and a couple stuck-on silver shards. Her eye still glares out at me from one of them. I want to pry off that reflective dagger and slice her out of me.
The black hole starts to swallow me. It's ripping me apart and I need it to. I start screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming and I swear it will never stop until crushing arms come around mine, pinning them to my sides.
I keep screaming until I finally stop. 16
Over the next few moons, I attempt to drown myself in beer (which I hate), wine (which I love), and music that makes my heart hemorrhage. Until one day, a jaw-dropping woman walks into my apartment, strips off all her clothes, and puts on something I’ve only seen in James Bond movies.
The costume of a belly dancer.
Belly dancer…
Belly dancer…
UP NEXT
DYE JOB 4: PURPLE, BLACK & BLUE - How A Coin & Fringe Bra Literally Saved My Life
Obviously I’m not a mental health practitioner. I only live with the crap, and try my best to deal with it and heal. As such, especially if it’s the super-bad place, I’m not the person to ask about this stuff.
These people are:
988 SUICIDE & CRISIS HOTLINE
That first Star skirt that I sewed myself - yes. I absolutely belly danced in it for many years.
A love-letter to my 19-year-old self: No, darling, you were absolutely made for the stage, and you were correct when you were 12 that you would never want children. You’re just being groomed for Isolation Tactics and the Abandonment of Yourself.
“Ohhhh…you only fall prey to these types of abusers because you’re co-dependent, you don’t know how to love yourself, you have no self-esteem…” Not necessarily true. Why doing years of this type of inner work and growth didn’t change my propensity for attracting these types of abusers. Because I healed from being a co-dependent kid even further into this:
Supertraits - Beyond Empathy and Codependence in Survivors of Pathological Abuse
The profile of the conscienceless predator’s preferred prey - why it’s often not someone who starts out as the codependent, cowering doormat. Sandra L. Brown M.A and the Institute for Relational Harm Reduction.
“I’m losing him. I don’t know how to stop it.” That’s because you can’t, darling. Because you never actually had him. This person you thought you fell in love with—he doesn’t exist. He was concocted special-order for you in a fantasy called Love-Bombing, and you are caught, spinning and battered, in the prop-wash of the Devaluation Stage.
Verbal & Emotional Abuse - the kinds of things abusers say that gradually erode…everything. (And no. It doesn’t only happen to females.)
Darling, you’ve become Emotionally Numb. You’re losing interest in everything and everybody that once brought you joy. You’re starting to lose interest in life. Don’t worry. Everything is about to change. Again.
Your Reality - an award-winning short film on gaslighting. Yup. That’s what it’s like.
Slut-Shaming - another form of abuse.
Information Mining - how your hopes, dreams, fears, past traumas, and insecurities are gathered during Love-Bombing and remembered for later use as ammunition during the Devaluation and Discard Phases. Pretty soon, you may find yourself weaponizing them against yourself, using the very language your abuser hurled on you, but with far greater damage. You wind up doing their work for them while they kick back and leer. Oh. And while they hunt for new “better” sources of supply because you have become a malfunctioning piece of machinery that needs to be replaced. You may also need to be destroyed on the way to the Dumpster if you are a great enough threat.
“Crazy-Making” - tactics of predatory abuse and coercive control that distract you, get you focused on trying to fix “what you did wrong,” and make you feel like you’re going insane, so you will not hold them accountable—or maybe not even realize that you’re being abused.
Darling, this is called The Silent Treatment and Withholding Affection. And it’s abusive. All that “soul mates” feeling you had in the beginning and that you keep trying to get back? It’s gone. That was just the Love-Bombing fantasy. This is the real relationship.
Unacknowledged Rape: the sexual assault survivors who hide trauma - even from themselves.
Persistent Suffering: The Serious Consequences of Sexual Violence - this study was done specifically about women and girls. Obviously there are many cross-overs with all the other demographics who experience this crime, as well as the demographic-specific issues the others do not face. But I was a girl the first times it happened to me, and a woman during the last times so…yeah.
Internal Family Systems - a therapy that addresses the various parts of our psychological makeup
When Parts are at war - at this stage in my life, I was Star, trapped and held captive, protecting my inner Laddie. I was equally Michael, being seduced and sabotaged by things I couldn’t possibly comprehend. Thankfully, I was also both of the Brothers Frog, always sniffing around for things that smelled rank, arming and educating my dear, loving Sammy. Oh, yeah. And I was about to become Nanook. RAWR and shit.
(Whoa. You don’t know these names?! Where the hell are you from, Crypton? Here. Educate yourself with this comic, my friend. Could save your life.)
WHEN, HOW & WHY I BECAME NANOOK—I MEAN, A MARTIAL ARTIST:
Damsel To Dangerous
The main trauma therapy I did: EMDR. Really research this before giving it a try. It’s a very intense therapy and there is a big difference between someone with basic training versus the full certification when you’re dealing with this caliber of dissociation.
One of the best books I have ever read in my life: The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind & Body in the Healing of Trauma
Don't want to read the book? Here's the basic premise of what trauma does to the body and why talking about it, even in therapy, so often doesn't solve the problems: Short Version. Or Long Version by the author himself
**Let it be known that I have never dated or been abused by somebody named Martin Burns, whose buddies all called him Burnsey. I named him that because he is my Martin Burney and yes, he did burn down my everything, complete with a hair-raising, terror-invoking song that is my Berlioz. Also. The good town of Embarrass, MN does not need to be embarrassed about having given rise to this ice-eyed son. They didn’t. I’m just…well, let’s face it. I’m *that asshole* and it was too convenient to pass up. That makes this a work of fiction.
Based on episodes of my life that are not.
© 2020 Hartebeast