I’ll watch out for you, my little guy / Because my buddies of girls / want to break your legs
Lisa LeBlanc
The story is not original. It’s the all-too-common story of a romantic relationship ending at the police station. There would be the feeling of fear to be described and the dotted lines of bite marks. The ones he asked me to hide under long sweaters. We should also, certainly, tell about his outbursts of anger and the tactics to make me stay: the promises not to start again, well-felt, credible requests for forgiveness, launched at the right time.
But no, I’m wrong. I should start at the beginning of the case. I should tell you about the giggles, our vacation in the sun and his intelligent eyes. Tell you about those afternoons spent in bed, hand in hand, looking out the bedroom window at the clouds crossing the blue sky. I actually believed that blue was the color of love. As if the marks of violence were there to bloom. Petals were going to grow on my stomach. Oval and plump. Like devouring mouths. But you will understand, no garden has come to replace the pain. I could have dug each of my wounds until death, and found nothing there. Not one I like you crouches at the bottom of an open wound; only the entrails.
It is therefore no surprise that you learn that neither flowers nor tomatoes protected me from the man I loved. And its violence. It was rather an army of women who made me understand, after the second breakup, that I shouldn’t go back there: my sister and friends, my roommate, my family doctor, trusted colleagues, a social worker social worker never met, but overflowing with compassion on the phone, my psychologist, a long-respected writer, and many other friends. Yes, that’s it, we finally arrive at the right moment in history.
It is of this army of women that we must absolutely speak. Because they have all, each in their own way, erected a barrier around me. Their solidarity constituted a formidable firewall. And their anger, a weapon of protection.
Yet I knew from childhood the immense power of sisterhood. And the men in my family too, for that matter. We tried in various ways to separate us, my sister and I. Children, the double bed in which we slept was replaced, despite our protests, by two single beds. Which were then installed against opposite walls of the chamber. As soon as night fell, we pushed them against each other. We could then continue to whisper our laughter in peace. Quickly, a two-storey bed came to replace our installation. Our “good night!” and our many other words of love have not dried up. They continued to be thrown into the gloom. This time with more force in the voice. Already, at that time, our bond was unbreakable. It was a powerful crush resistance strategy. A shield against fear and domination. That is to say that the power of sisterhood relations seems obvious to me. Since a long time.
The man I fell in love with as an adult also understood the force field produced by sisterhood and friendship. He constantly tried to prevent me from going for coffee with friends, or he called me many times during dinner with this other person, important to me. And he was right to worry.
These are women who, like my sister, threatened our relationship. Their protective instinct was fierce and their tolerance for bullshit… almost zero!
It is for this reason that after an event of unprecedented brutality, I contacted them all. One after the other. And I unpacked the full story of his violence. In one breath, without shame. I described in detail every gesture and every word he asked me to forgive or keep quiet. And until I was able to take up the torch of their revolt, they watched over me. And on my safety.
So, I may not quite know yet what the right color would be to choose to talk about romantic love – and maybe you either, for that matter – but I know intimately the protective force of friendship. I know the absolute need to surround yourself with confident, empathetic and supportive women, who will be ready to affirm you, repeatedly if necessary, but always in a clear and strong voice: to love is a verb that exists without blue.
And in my turn, I am here, very much alive, to remind him.