According to the Journal of Food Engineering, “Peach fruit quality is adversely affected by bruise damage. In order to reverse this damage, it is necessary to know the influence of fruit properties on bruise susceptibility.” Bruise susceptibility was a concept I was just beginning to understand.
How do I look? I asked him. I spent an hour getting ready for our night out. It wasn’t often that we got the chance to get out and so I took my time. I prepped my hair and carefully applied the right shade of gloss to my lips. My long, brown hair hung down in waves brushing the tips of my shoulders. I was standing on the stairs, working my way down. He stood at the bottom, I can’t remember for certain, but I got the impression that he was tapping his foot impatiently. I looked at him expectantly, but the slow eye roll, and the quick imprint of disgust that crossed his face were the only answer I would receive. He ignored me, walking ahead of me. I was left, confused, trailing behind, staring at the back of him.
A blog I read about peaches claims that, “Squeezing peaches tells you nothing. It ruins the fruit and demeans a full year of hard work by the men and women who bust their keesters to grow and harvest some of nature’s finest fruit. Simply put, don’t do it.” Perhaps this moment, when he showed his lack of respect for me, should have been my first clue.
After dinner that night, we decided to stop in at a small local bar. Bars always seemed to cheer him up. He often played on a dart league. The leagues were always held at various local bars, so going out to the bar was not unusual for us. Tonight, however, we were not going out because of a dart tournament. Tonight, was supposed to be about us. When we arrived at the bar, the waitress who was twice my age, took our order, and he immediately began flirting with her to my embarrassment, what was worse the two of them soon seemed to become as if conspirators against me. He would make a degrading comment about me; the waitress would laugh along with him at my expense. The shame crept up my face, until the redness on my face became a warning of the anger underneath. Defending myself I spoke up, remarked that it was time to go. I’ll be right out, he said, just wait in the car. He made me wait another hour in the car. I have difficulty remembering the rest of that evening. When we returned home, there was a chase, a locked door, and the hazy memory of me hiding in a closet.
On Slate.com, I read that a bruise is an indicator of cellular damage. “Bruising will make a piece of fruit more susceptible to infection. Damaged fruit can grow salmonella or E. coli, but yeasts and molds are more common. Molds can be dangerous.” He never placed a hand on me, ever. Perhaps this is why I didn’t know what I had gotten involved in.
We were fighting again. Carrying the weight of both of us financially as well as cleaning and maintaining my home on my own was slowly pulling me deep into a black hole that I couldn’t find my way through. His excuse for not working was wearing thin. I’m trying, really. He would tell me, but then I would discover he was only applying for those jobs he wasn’t qualified for, knowing he wouldn’t get called for them. He slept all day and stayed up all night. He drank, I slept. I worked, he slept. The black hole sucked me in, whirling me deeper and deeper. I slept, I worked, I cried. We fought.
The time that his fist flew at my face a door broke between us. Split in half, the door shattered. I remember feeling triumphant, because I had both been protected by the wooden screen door, and proud by my ability to act swiftly and duck when someone swung their fist towards me. Of course, immediate sobbing and Get the $#$@ out of my house were the next words for me to speak. He refused to leave, and I had lost all energy to continue to fight. My exhaustion was overwhelming in those days. I went to bed. He didn’t move out like I told him to. I couldn’t even make myself start that fight again. I just wanted to get through the day.
An internet article titled Is beat-up fruit OK to eat? says, “If your bruised fruit has visible microbial growth, is it still safe to eat the nondamaged portion? It depends on the fruit.” Evidence of violent past relationships had been scattered around our home. A sliced-up leather jacket, blamed on his ex-wife, pillows that had been ripped to shreds, an expensive oil painting with a knife slice straight through it. I remember walking around and looking at all of these things in wonder. How could someone do such things? It took a visit from my mother to point out that these “things” were done by a very angry woman. Perhaps, the question I need to be asking is who makes someone that angry? The other question in my mind, why would he keep them? I remember how proud he was to tell me that he key-logged his ex-wife’s computer in order to catch her cheating on him. I remember that instead of laughing with him, I felt fear at the idea of being key-logged by anyone.
My friends and family all lived far away, and I was essentially isolated. Anyone I tried to question about the normalcy of our relationship seemed to be uncomfortable with the conversation. I turned to the internet and began researching. Crazy-making, is a real thing as it turns out. I sought out any answers for my lack of energy, my sudden states of depression, the black hole that I was sinking in. Every time I searched, I cleared my search history, hoping that it would prevent him from uncovering what I was doing in case he had key-logged my computer as he did his exes.
Identifying a bruise is fairly simple according to the International Produce Training article I read. “Look for a soft, depressed area, which may or may not be discolored. On riper fruit, the bruised area is usually discolored.” In my internet searching, I found a quiz on abusive relationships. It was extremely detailed, extremely long, and extremely difficult. I struggled from question to question as I sought to be completely fair and honest in my answers. The test was there to uncover if you needed help and to determine your next actions if you did. I printed the results and stashed them in a filing cabinet where he wouldn’t find it, but if something serious happened to me someone in my family would be sure to find it.
If something happens to me, you need to look for him first. The results of the test had terrified me. Words like narcissist, gaslighting, walking on eggshells, were now coming to light and connections I had never made were suddenly very real to me. The results said my relationship was dangerous. The word, “dangerous” was actually used, and that I needed to have an appropriate plan in place to get out as soon as possible. I began to plan my escape; however, it wasn’t me who needed to leave. It was my house, always had been. It was him, who needed to leave. I was going to have to fight. I was only half joking when I told my friend to tell my parents if something happened to me, that they should consider him.
“There are many healthy ways of eating bruised peaches. Cooking them in a cast iron skillet with a little fat, adding a little orange juice, salt, vanilla, sprinkle of cinnamon, and nutmeg is sure to make them taste alright.” Get out of my house. I wish I could say that I got him out of my house immediately after that. That our first fight, and the first time I told him to leave, he left, obligingly, however, that isn’t how it happened. Instead we had several fights. Every day I worked at distancing myself from him so I could gain the strength I would need to push harder each time at getting him out. Then one day, I woke up, and I just knew. This was the day. I went to work, and I left him a note. I told him he needed to be gone before I got home. I was calm all day, even though I knew a fight was coming. For once, I felt ready. I had built up in myself that I was going to do what I had to do until he left. I planned each move I would make based on his normal response. He never left when I asked, and I couldn’t physically force him out, so he took advantage and just stayed each time I told him to leave. This time, it was going to be different.
When I arrived at home, the house was silent. His car was still there, but I had noticed that he had partially packed it up. A good sign. He also knew that, this time, things were going to go differently. He was still in the house, but he had closed the door to a bedroom, and was hiding in there. I opened it, and the fight ensued. He yelled. He sat, crossed his arms, and said he wasn’t leaving. I knew this was coming, so I behaved in the only ways I had never acted before. I lost my mind. I was shaking like a leaf the entire time. I channeled the girl I believed his ex-wife to have been. The one who had been crazy mad. The one who had gotten away from him. I am not proud of the shouting that followed, the fight that ensued, but it was almost working. Then he refused, and I did the one thing I promised myself I would do if he refused. I picked up the phone, and I threatened to call the police. When he suddenly reached out for me, I dialed without thought. As the operator spoke to me, I watched as he backed out my driveway for the last time.
In the Journal of Food Engineering, “It was concluded that lowering the temperature and increasing the radius of curvature and acoustic stiffness will reduce the bruise damage of the peach fruit.” My hands covered my ears. The ringing would not stop. He was gone from my home, yet the phone did not stop ringing. Two AM, Three AM. My answering machine picked up and I could hear his voice carry all the way up the stairs. One such message that was left for me was even a marriage proposal. Even thousands of miles away he could reach me. I never picked up, but the voice still carried. I could still hear it. I covered my ears.
“What to do with a bruised peach? Smoothies, slushes, lemonades, jams, purees, peach sauce, peach ice cream, and peach popsicles.” You won’t get better without these. Bouncing back didn’t happen like I thought it would. I thought, he’s gone, I’ll be back to myself now. That didn’t happen. I didn’t bounce. The depression and black hole lived on deep within me. I sought help. The counselor suggested antidepressants. I swallowed the pills like they were poisoning my body. They weren’t magic pills. They didn’t work. I stopped taking them within a month. It was many counselors later before I finally returned to the antidepressants. This time I stayed on them. This time, they worked.
The urban dictionary defines a bruised peach as a “broken down, busted up girl.” It’s been several years since that relationship ended, and there are still days where I struggle with what was going on in my life that I allowed myself to end up in such a relationship, and worse, what made me justify it for as long as I did. These are things that my counselor and I work through together now, as I am no longer alone in this fight. One thing is certain, I did not come out unscathed. My fear of being taken advantage of in a relationship has prevented me from moving forward for many years, but while a transformed bruised peach will often get eaten up by a human in various forms, I will not.
