Expired the Book

Chapter 6: Shadows in the Woods

I can’t believe I have written 6 chapters of my memoir.

I can’t believe I have written any chapters! Much less of my own memoir.

Me, memoir, writer in one sentence sounds sooooo far fetched to me. Yet, this story keeps pouring out of me now that I have finally surrendered and stopped trying to control and go back to the previous chapters to “make it better”.

Here is Chapter 6 with all of its flaws.

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The drive to Lohja had been a blur of green forests and winding roads, a journey that felt both endless and all too brief. As Junior's car finally came to a stop, I found myself staring at what would be our new home - a small apartment attached to the car dealership where he worked with his father. The building stood solitary amidst a sea of trees, the distant hum of the nearby freeway the only reminder that we weren't completely cut off from civilization.

The place isn’t there anymore. It is now a parking lot for a nearby golf course.

"Welcome home," Junior said, a proud smile on his face as he gestured towards the apartment. I forced a smile in return, ignoring the knot of anxiety that tightened in my stomach. This was supposed to be a fresh start, a new chapter in our lives together. A chance for Junior to make good on his promises to change, to never hurt me again.

As I stepped into our new home, memories of past violence flashed through my mind - the bruises, the tears, the fear. But with each beating had come remorse, passionate promises of change. "I'll never do it again," he'd swear, eyes brimming with tears. "Just give me another chance. I'll be better, I promise." And I, young and hopeful, desperate to believe in the power of love, had chosen to believe him each time.

The apartment was small but functional, a compact space that seemed to mirror the narrowing of my world. As we unpacked our meager possessions, I tried to inject some enthusiasm into the task, arranging and rearranging our things in an attempt to make this unfamiliar space feel like home. Perhaps here, away from old triggers and surrounded by the calming presence of nature, Junior would finally become the man he promised to be.

Living with Junior in our isolated Lohja apartment was like inhabiting two worlds simultaneously. There was the external world - the one where I attended film school, where we socialized with friends on weekends, where I tried to maintain a facade of normalcy. And then there was our private world, a realm of constant tension where I walked on eggshells, never knowing what might trigger Junior's anger.

The threat of violence hung in the air like a thick fog, obscuring my vision of the future and muffling my own voice. I found myself constantly monitoring Junior's moods, reading the subtle shifts in his expression, the tension in his shoulders, the tone of his voice. My body was perpetually primed for fight or flight, adrenaline always simmering just beneath the surface.

Despite the oppressive atmosphere at home, my time at film school became a beacon of hope and self-discovery. The commute to Helsinki, though long and often draining, was a small price to pay for the hours of freedom and intellectual stimulation that awaited me. As I sat in lecture halls or huddled with classmates over editing equipment, I felt alive in a way that I rarely did in Lohja.

Film school opened up a world of creativity and expression that I hadn't known I was capable of. I thrived in classes on film history, drinking in the evolution of cinema from its earliest days to the cutting-edge productions of the present. Technical classes on cinematography and editing fascinated me, teaching me to see the world through a new lens – quite literally.

But it was in the realm of character building that I truly found my passion. The art of transforming actors into characters through costuming and makeup became my absolute favorite aspect of filmmaking. There was something magical about the process of creating a character from the outside in, of using fabric and face paint to bring a vision to life.

In costume design classes, I lost myself in the intricacies of period dress and the subtleties of how clothing could convey personality and status. I reveled in the challenge of sourcing just the right piece to complete a character's look, often spending hours in thrift stores or craft shops in search of the perfect accessory.

Makeup classes were a revelation. Learning to use cosmetics and prosthetics to age an actor, create a wound, or transform someone into a fantastical creature was endlessly fascinating. I marveled at how a few well-placed shadows could hollow out cheeks, how the right shade of lipstick could speak volumes about a character's personality.

This focus on external transformation resonated deeply with me, perhaps because of my own need to present a carefully constructed facade to the world. In my daily life, I had become adept at using my own appearance to hide the bruises and fear that lurked beneath the surface. In film school, I could channel this skill into art, using it to tell stories and bring characters to life rather than to conceal my own pain.

Group projects became a lifeline, offering not just educational value but also much-needed social interaction outside of Junior's influence. Working with my classmates to create short films, I found joy in collaborating on character concepts, in seeing how my costume and makeup choices could enhance an actor's performance and bring a director's vision to life.

I found particular satisfaction in the transformative power of my work. Watching an actor step into a costume and emerge from my makeup chair looking like a completely different person gave me a sense of accomplishment and control that was sorely lacking in my personal life. In these moments of creation, I wasn't Junior's girlfriend or a victim of abuse. I was an artist, a storyteller, using my skills to contribute to something larger than myself.

However, the reality of my situation in Lohja cast a long shadow even over these bright moments. Junior's resentment of my studies was a constant undercurrent in our interactions. "What's the point of all this dress-up?" he'd sneer when he caught me sketching prosthetic designs or practicing makeup techniques. "It's not like you'll ever actually do anything with it." His words were barbs, designed to deflate my enthusiasm and remind me of my place in his world.

Yet, even as his derision stung, I clung to my passion. Each character I helped create, each transformation I facilitated, was a small act of defiance. It was a reminder that I still had the power to create, to change things, to make something beautiful - even if only within the safe confines of my film school projects.

Outside of film school, my life became a patchwork of diverse jobs, each offering its own challenges and brief glimpses into different worlds. These positions, while providing some financial independence, stood in stark contrast to my passion for film.

My time at the kindergarten was a whirlwind of energy and noise, so different from the focused concentration of my film studies. Surrounded by the constant chatter and laughter of children, I found moments of joy in their unfiltered enthusiasm and creativity. Helping little ones learn and grow offered a kind of fulfillment, a reminder of the innocence and potential that exists in the world. Yet, it also served as a painful contrast to my own situation, highlighting the loss of my own innocence and the constraints I faced in my personal life.

The office job at the chemical company was a study in contradictions. The sterile, quiet environment was a far cry from both the vibrancy of the kindergarten and the creative energy of film school. Seated at a desk, surrounded by reports and data sheets, I felt like an actress playing a role I hadn't auditioned for. The technical jargon and corporate structure were alien to me, yet I adapted, learning to navigate this unfamiliar terrain. In some ways, the detachment I felt in this role mirrored the emotional distancing I had learned to employ at home with Junior.

My stint at the cafe brought its own set of challenges and small pleasures. The rhythm of taking orders, preparing drinks, and interacting with customers provided a semblance of normalcy that I craved. There was a simplicity in the task of crafting the perfect cup of coffee, a brief escape into the art of the everyday. However, this job also came with the added stress of Junior's jealousy. He'd show up unannounced, watching me interact with customers, his eyes narrowing at any perceived flirtation. The tension it created at home cast a shadow over the small joys I found in this work.

These jobs, while providing some financial relief, felt disconnected from any larger purpose or passion. They were survival mechanisms, ways to keep my head above water both financially and emotionally. Each paycheck was a small victory, a tiny step towards some undefined future independence. But none of them filled the void or provided the sense of fulfillment that I found in my film studies.

The contrast between my passion for film school and the reality of these jobs was stark. In one world, I was engaged, challenged, and growing. In the other, I was merely existing, going through the motions to make ends meet and maintain some semblance of autonomy.

This dichotomy in my life – between the intellectual stimulation of film school and the varied yet unfulfilling nature of my jobs, between the person I was becoming in Helsinki and the fearful, controlled version of myself in Lohja – created a growing sense of dissonance. It was as if I was living multiple lives, none of which felt fully real or sustainable.

As the days blurred into weeks and months, a new routine emerged, one that revolved around an axis of work, school, and increasingly frequent nights out. Our weekends, once a respite from the daily grind, became a double-edged sword of social interaction and mounting tension.

These nights always began with a sense of anticipation, a flicker of hope that perhaps this time would be different. Friends would gather at our small apartment or we'd meet at someone's house, the air buzzing with laughter and the promise of escape. In these moments, surrounded by familiar faces and the warm glow of camaraderie, I could almost convince myself that everything was normal, that we were just like any other young couple enjoying life.

"Another round?" someone would inevitably suggest, and we'd all cheer in agreement. I'd nurse my drink slowly, savoring the mild buzz that helped me relax into the social atmosphere. The alcohol softened the edges of my anxiety, making it easier to laugh and engage with our friends. But even as I enjoyed these moments of normalcy, a part of me remained vigilant, aware that I needed to stay clear-headed enough to navigate Junior's unpredictable moods.

As the night wore on and we migrated from homes to bars, I'd carefully monitor my intake. Each sip was a balancing act – enough to fit in and dull the constant undercurrent of stress, but not so much that I'd lose my ability to read Junior's shifting temperament. It was an exhausting tightrope walk, one that left me feeling both part of the group and oddly isolated.

But more importantly, I watched Junior. I had learned to recognize the subtle signs that indicated he had crossed a dangerous threshold, the point where "having fun" drunk morphed into something far more sinister. His demeanor would shift, almost imperceptibly at first, but unmistakable to my hypervigilant senses.

The moment I dreaded most was when he would reach for my hand.