A new counselor, with grey at his temples asks me in his formal office, “When did the problems start?”
I remember the room. I remember the tile floors, large white square tiles. I remember lots of light in the room, a simple room, a nice bed. There was no real air conditioning in the room. I remember packing for the trip, purposely bringing all of my cutest outfits for my honeymoon. I packed skirts and tank tops and a few dresses and shirts. I packed cute pj’s and all the nighties I was given at my bachelorette party. With all the stress of the wedding, I was really looking forward to the trip, the time at the beach with no agenda, time to enjoy my new husband.
On our first evening at the hotel, I go to change into a cute outfit. He appraises me and says, “Don’t you think that skirt’s a little short?” I am confused; I haven’t ever thought of it that way. I say, “Well, you’re the only person I’m dressing for. I don’t understand.” “What kind of woman would dress like that?” he counters. My face starts to squinch up, my heart beats quickly, I stop breathing. Walking over to my suitcase, I try to think if I’ve brought anything modest. All of these clothes are slutty. I give up and walk out to the beach, alone.