Sara's Story
My problem is bigger than one single heartbreak. My FIRST heartbreak occurred when I was ten, and since that awful night every man I've ever cared about has managed to add a new break - well, all but one, but that situation hasn't really developed yet. But you're wanting to know details, aren't you? I mean, it isn't every day you meet a woman who has more breaks than undamaged heart.
From my very first memories I can recall fearing my father's anger, his disapproval. Mom was warm, nurturing, approachable, but even she would cower before the onslaught of Daddy's rage. He was never physical with me, but he beat the crap out of my mother on a regular basis. She was a tall, strong woman, assertive with everyone else, but he never failed to bring her to tears. Afterward he would morph into a different man. His guilt somehow gentled him, made him more loving than he ever was when he was "normal." He'd hold her then, tell her he was sorry, whisper how much he loved her, beg her plaintively not to leave him. The next morning he'd be as cold and silent as ever. Sometimes I think she saw the beatings as the price she had to pay for a little love - but as is usually the case the price went up over the years, and finally she saw that she couldn't keep buying.
The year I turned nine was when she started having to go to the hospital after the fights. The first time he broke a rib, but as time passed it escalated - broken arm, facial fractures, long, deep cuts from a broken wine bottle - and by the time I turned ten it became clear he was going to eventually kill her. That was when she started carrying the knife around with her.
It all happened really fast. I heard a crashing noise, and I ran into the dining room to see my Daddy with his hands around Mom's neck, saw her try to pull away, saw her hand lower to pull the knife from her pocket. A flurry of motion turned red and she was breathing again, gasping and rubbing her throat as she scrambled away from him. She didn't have to, really; his attention was on the hole in his belly, the one that had turned him into a screaming blood fountain spilling all over the floor, turning the cheery yellow linoleum a dead serious scarlet.
He was dead by the time EMS arrived, and Mom was carted off to the nuthouse, where she remained for many years after that. My brother and I were swept into foster care. His new family at least cared about him - kept him until he graduated - but I went from foster to foster. I was shattered, having lost every single person who loved me, though no one seemed to care or really even notice. Every now and then they'd take me to visit Mom, but she wasn't Mom any more. Heavily sedated and unresponsive, I really don't think she knew I was there at that point. I KNOW she wasn't.
Time passed. I became an A student, as much for the teacher's approval and affection as for the rewards excelling bought me, and I graduated a year early with a full scholarship to Harvard. I dropped into academia just another bright, mousy science nerd in a sea of shining minds. The competition was intense, something I'd never before experienced, and I had to work harder than I ever had just to keep my scholarship. Things were verydifferent from high school, and I loved it.
I loved the unfamiliar male attention I seemed to be attracting, too. The first three months of my freshman year I had more dates than I'd had in my whole life up to that point. Nothing serious, but I was having FUN for the first time in years. Then I met John, and everything changed.
John was a doctoral graduate student. He was handsome and articulate and charming - and he was thirty-three years old. I met him in the campus library late one night, and we talked until dawn on the steps of my dorm after he walked me home.
We saw each other every day after that. He swept me off my feet with attention. He took me to dinner at nice restaurants, bought me clothes, had my hair done by an expensive local stylist. Like a modern-day Eliza Doolittle I was molded and transformed, my youthful heart eagerly following his guidance. I gave him my heart, my time, my will, and eventually my virginity. In return he moved me into his apartment, and I remained there until the end of my junior year, when he matter-of-factly replaced me with his new "project."
Back in the dorm I realized just how totally I had changed to meet John's requirements. After two years of living as the woman he wanted me to be I wasn't even sure who the real me was any more. I started drinking, smoking pot, and hanging out with a wild crowd. That I managed to keep my grades up was amazing. That I avoided getting myself killed was a miracle.
After graduation I got my first job at the Seattle Crime Lab. A few years later I got a better offer in San Francisco, where I met Gil Grissom. At his request I relocated to Vegas, which is where can you find me today.
I know who I am again now. Time has strengthened me, made me cautious and hesitant. I'm not so vulnerable and trusting as I once was, nor am I as willing to change to make others happy. My heart has been broken several times since I gave myself over to John, but I've never again lost myself, my control, or my basic identity. I only wish my mother had held on to hers.