Select Page

The Monster I Knew, The Darkness I Embraced

by | Nov 16, 2010 | Abuse, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Child Abuse, Child Sexual Abuse, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse | 5 comments

It started with words. Yelling, angry words he slung at her for being lazy, or slow, or a bad cook. She’d just apologize and go on with life. Then he yelled at me, and she wouldn’t stand for it; she’d step in, and up, like she never did for herself. That’s when he started hitting her. I didn’t even know it was odd until I was older, and observed the parents of friends who never hit.  By that time, it was ingrained; my stepfather hit, and that was just… life. I don’t know if my mother knew he started hitting me. I played sports, had bruises, a few fractures. Even my pediatrician never suspected abuse.

If it had stopped at hitting, I probably wouldn’t be so messed up. But when I was 8, everything changed. I was beginning to develop; their marriage was cooling off – they rarely even spoke. And he started looking at me differently. High on pain pills for some imaginary back spasm he used to get sympathy from his family – and drugs from his doctor – he came to my room one night, held a hand over my mouth, and touched me. I was lucky; he was flying so high that when he went to take his clothes off, I ran for the bathroom and locked myself in.

He couldn’t exactly break the door down without waking my mother, so he stood by the door and told me all the terrible things he’d do to me, to my mother, if I ever breathed a word. I believe he meant it, even to this day. So I never said anything, and by grace of some higher power, he never tried again. From that day on, I slept with a knife under my mattress, and told my mother I wanted to make my own bed. I learned to climb out my window in 30 seconds, found a neighbor who would take me in at any hour, for any reason, and kept a bag of clothes and a pair of old shoes stashed in a hidey-hole by the side of the house.

I learned what no child should have to. I lived for two years past that awful night in the same house with him, terrified that I would have to use my escape route and leave my mother behind to face him alone. My only solace was that neighbor, whose daughters loved me like a sister, and who slept next to a 12 gauge shotgun. I’m thankful every day that I never had to ask him to go rescue my mother from a maniac.

That’s the beginning of my story, but it isn’t the end. I’ve posted other pieces of my life elsewhere on this site, and on others… in comments, in my own posts. But what I’ve always failed to include, even when I’ve posted my “epilogue” is the Darkness. And yes, it deserves that capital D. It’s frighteningly close to the surface at times. That beginning shaped my life; the good, I’m a survivor and always will be, the bad, I am quick to draw blood, to use violence instead of words or distance.

I have three children. I love them with everything that I am, and more if it’s possible. I am so, so careful to keep them away from that part of me, but I’m still scared. The part of me that’s cautious of people, of situations, quick to react and deadly when I do, has literally kept me alive. But that same part of me could destroy the people I love. I’ve often heard new mothers being told, “If you can’t handle it, if it just gets too overwhelming, put the baby in a safe place and walk away to cool down.” I’ve had to do this more times than I want to admit, and not just during the infant stage.

My older two are only a year apart — god the stress of that! — and at nearly 5 and nearly 4, they are a handful. Any children of those ages would be, of course. But my oldest is intelligent; so intelligent that at times I’m frightened by how quickly she picks things up. I wonder if she’ll out-pace her ability to comprehend what she’s taking in. My middle child is different. Exactly how we don’t yet know, but I’ve seen these neon signs before. I know what they mean. Autism Spectrum Disorder. High-functioning, certainly, and thank god for that, but still… a challenge. I double-stack baby gates in their doorway to keep them in their room when I feel the Darkness crawling to the surface and I just can’t handle any more. I know this isn’t a terrible thing. They are fed, hydrated, clean, overflowing with toys and even a TV with a DVD player because they, like their Nana, love Disney movies. They are never ignored, but sometimes… sometimes Mommy needs a break from the go-go-go of two toddlers-turned-preschoolers. And I feel horrible. But I would feel worse if I let my Darkness get the better of me, I know that. Better to be safe in their room, cared for and dealt with at a distance than to become easy targets for my frustration. But still I feel like the worst mother in the world.

And now there’s the baby. Not so little anymore — 9 months now, goodness — but still so dependent on Mommy. I wanted her so, so very badly, and I don’t regret having her, not even the timing of it, so close to the others. I just get overwhelmed. So she goes in her nice, safe crib with a brightly-colored baby book to distract her while Mommy has a breather. It’s certainly not the worst thing in the world, and yet? Bad Mommy. I know it isn’t true, but that’s how I feel, because my own little babies should never make me so angry they bring out the Darkness. But after the thirty-millionth time of hearing, “Mommy, I’m hungry.” and “I wanna watch a movie!” and “Sissy’s hitting meeeeee…” and “Wahhhh! Wahhh! WAHHHHHH!” in the last hour, I just want to put my hand through a wall. I never, ever want them to see me lose it that way. It would scare them, scar them perhaps, and I love them too much to do that.

I rarely take people at their word. I always look for hidden meanings, reasons to get up in arms. Why? Because if I spot the attack before it happens, I have an edge. It’s like the abused wife who looks and listens and knows the instant before her husband is going to throw that first punch that she better duck. It’s a life-saving reflex that has no place in common conversation. But it’s there. I can’t make it go away. Ironically, I feel safer around men. Women scheme and connive; they are masters at smiling to your face and stabbing you in the back, and that scares me. If I can see the attack coming, I can prepare. I don’t like being blindsided. I can read men, I’m used to doing so, so they’re safer. But even with men, I’m careful.

I still sleep with a knife beside the bed. I take my cell phone with me to bed, too, just in case. I listen for noises in the night. I hate sleeping when it’s bright out because the sunlight makes it hard to fall asleep or stay that way, but I prefer it because the Monsters generally prefer the dark for their sport. Sleeping, I’m easy prey, but awake, I’m much harder to fell. I have nightmares about people invading my home, waking nightmares sometimes, when I try to fall asleep at night. I am still afraid to let my children sleep in their own room for fear of not being able to protect them should I need to. It’s that scared little 8-year-old coming out, waiting for “Daddy” to creep into her room. Every sound in the night that I don’t immediately recognize is a shiver of terror down my spine.

I’ve spoken to counselors, taken meds, but it never helps. Precisely because people can’t be trusted, and the drugs make me not me anymore. I can’t even recognize the person in the mirror and that might just scare me worse than the nightmares. This is a Darkness bred into me from childhood, reinforced through a lifetime of hardness, that cannot simply be erased. I must learn to live with it, to cope. And I hope (god I hope) that acknowledging it here helps.

Sleepovers

by | Nov 7, 2010 | Abuse, Child Abuse, Child Sexual Abuse, Incest, Trauma | 3 comments

My daughter will be 6 this winter. She’s dying to have a sleepover at our house, she wants to go to one even more. She asks me weekly when she will be old enough. And I want to say never.

When I was 8 a new family moved in next door. I was thrilled because the family had a daughter who was 9. We quickly became friends. She had a brother who was 11. He creeped me out.

We all used to play together a lot, many imaginary games involving us all owning stores. One time, another little girl and I went to the brother’s (let’s call him T-Bone) store. It was in his room, but we couldn’t see him. We opened the closet and found him on the floor with his sister. He was kissing her and had his hand up her shirt. The girl and I ran away and never spoke of it.

Sometimes I feel bad, like maybe we should have told somebody. But we hadn’t heard of bad touching, or incest or anything like that. T-Bone made me uncomfortable whenever we played, his “character” always said suggestive things to my characters. He was always trying to get me to be alone with him.

When I was a bit older and made a point of avoiding him, T-Bone started calling me “Jezebel.” Adults heard him and thought it was cute but it made me scared. I remained friends with his sister and when I was 10 I agreed to sleep over at her house. T-Bone wasn’t supposed to be home for most of the evening, I think, and the sister and I were to sleep on a pull-out couch in the TV room, which was next to the parents’ room.

Looking back, I don’t know why no one thought it strange that they’d moved the sister’s room from next to her brother’s to the floor below, across from the parents. Or that the grandmother’s room was moved up to the 3rd floor. I don’t know why I didn’t blink when we were told to sleep in the T.V. room. I don’t know why I didn’t fake an illness when I found out her parents were going out but T and is friend were staying in. I was 10. I just wanted to stay up late and watch movies with my friend.

We did that. And then we went to sleep. At some point T-Bone and his friend came into the room and jumped on top of us. T-bone pushed my nightgown up and started clutching at my non-existent breasts. I thought, at first, that they were trying to wrestle with us. But then T-Bone starting calling me “whore”.

When he went for my underwear I started scratching and kicking. He slapped me across the face, then suggested to his friend that they “trade.”His friend was like, “But that’s your sister!” The friend went up the stairs. T-Bone followed, snarling all the while.

The sister tried to make it sound like they were wrestling and we had beaten them. I didn’t feel like a winner. I felt dirty.

It didn’t help that T-Bone called me those names whenever he saw me from then on. Jezebel. Whore. Slut. I never went to that house again, but it didn’t really matter. We lived next door in an era where kids played outside unsupervised all the time. He called me those names in front of the other kids. He called me those names after I kicked him in the balls. He called me those names after he tried to lock me in a play house.

He called me those names when he chased me. He called me those names until I was 16 and he had me backed into a corner at the neighborhood 4th of July barbecue. By then he’d been away at college and I hadn’t had to run or kick in a long while. I was so stunned that he was there and that he would still call me those names that I just stared at him. I like to think I would have let him have it, especially since no one was near us, but another neighbor came up then. He was my age but he was a lot bigger than T-Bone. He told T-Bone to leave me alone or else.

I will be grateful to that guy until the day I die. Of course, even though T-Bone stopped calling me those names, it took me a lot longer to stop hearing them. I still can’t stand to be touched when I’m sleeping.

Do I think it’s likely that the same thing will happen to my daughter at a sleepover?

No, I don’t…

…but that doesn’t mean I don’t have nightmares about it.

My Nemesis, Forgiveness

by | Oct 26, 2010 | Abuse, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Anger, Anxiety, Child Abuse, Child Sexual Abuse, Feelings, Forgiveness, Stress, Trauma | 5 comments

One MAJOR roadblock I had when I reclaimed my life from the childhood traumas that haunted me was forgiveness. One small word, one LARGE hurdle.

You see, I didn’t want to forgive my stepfather who sexually and physically abused me.

I. DID. NOT. WANT. TO. FORGIVE.

But that damn rat bastard word, forgiveness, kept rearing its ugly head. In books I was reading for my healing, conversations with my counselor, in the news, on TV shows, in song lyrics. EVERYWHERE. Forgiveness was haunting me, stalking me. I had to deal with it.

I didn’t want to forgive because I felt that forgiveness was saying that what he did to me was okay. I thought that if I forgave him, I was giving him a free pass. A get out of jail free card.

“Yes, you were beyond horrific to me. You scarred my soul and took away my childhood. You abused me in every way you could think of. Ah, never mind.”

I didn’t understand what forgiveness was about.

So, I turned the tables and I began stalking forgiveness. I read books and articles about forgiveness. I listened to sermons and personal testimonies about forgiveness. I talked at length about my dreaded enemy, forgiveness, with my counselor and others I trusted. I devoured any information I could find on the subject.

I learned a lot. I learned that anger and bitterness really only hurt the person carrying it. My stepfather didn’t feel any effects of my anger. He was living far away and had no clue how I felt. Nor would he care if he did. I was the one suffering. Stress. Pain. Anxiety. Anger. Hatred. Not a lovely mix to carry around inside of me.

I learned that almost everyone struggles with forgiveness in their life. Most importantly, I learned that I needed to forgive – not for him, but for me. The pain, anger and bitterness was going to eat me from the inside out if I did not find a way to release it and let it go for good.

By forgiving him, it does not mean what he did was okay. It will never be okay. It will never be right. It will always be horrible. It will always be  pure, unadulterated evil.

Forgiveness means I will no longer carry the hatred and burden for what he did.

Since I did not want any contact or relationship with my stepfather, I did not have to forgive him face-to-face. No letter, no phone call. Nothing. It was only important that I knew I had forgiven him. So I did. I have to admit, spitting out the words “I forgive my stepfather” was vile the first time I did it. Part of my body rebelled and I wanted to vomit after I said it. But I knew it was important. I had to say it several times before it didn’t make me feel physically ill.

Then, one day I said it and finally, I felt the shift. I had forgiven him.

Do I thank him? HELL NO. Do I want him in my life? HELL NO. Do I hold anger and bitterness toward him or wish him dead? Also, NO. Forgiveness set me free to feel absolutely nothing toward him. I have no investment at all in what his day-to-day life is, what he is doing, where he lives. Just like I don’t have any investment or feelings toward someone I pass at the DMV.

I simply don’t care. His hold over me; over my life, is over.

Forgiveness is a gift I gave myself.

I’m thankful that I did.

Working Through The Anger

by | Oct 24, 2010 | Abuse, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Anger, Child Sexual Abuse, Fear, Guilt, Incest, Shame, Therapy | 7 comments

When I began counseling for childhood physical and sexual abuse, I was broken. A broken heart, a broken spirit. I had carried the guilt and shame of my childhood abuse for so long that it was like an old winter coat. So heavy to carry around each day. So hot that some days it was stifling. And yet it had the comfort of the known. It was scary to throw off that old heavy coat of guilt and shame and face what else was under there.

I thought we would begin slowly. I thought I would share just a bit at a time. My counselor agreed to go at the pace I set. But once I began talking, I kept right on talking. I told her EVERYTHING I could think of. If I thought of something in between sessions, I wrote them down so I could tell her next time. It seems that once I felt a crack in the dam that I’d built to protect myself, the floodwaters couldn’t run fast enough.

I let it ALL out.

It was scary. I shook like a leaf in a hurricane the first session and sometimes after that. But the overwhelming feeling was relief. My need to let it all out was greater than my fear of what my counselor would think of me (of course, that was my insecurities and had nothing to do with my counselor). It was such a RELIEF to release all the secrets I had been carrying.

Once the rush of information was over, we started working on issue after issue.

At some point in counseling, my shame and guilt turned into anger.

ANGER that the abuse occurred. ANGER at those adults who knew and did nothing to protect the little freckled girl with long braids that I had been. ANGER that I carried the guilt and shame of the abuse for so long. ANGER that my stepfather never was held accountable for his actions. ANGER at the days and nights of fear and pain and abuse I endured as a child unable to protect herself. ANGER at the bruises, welts and blisters I had to hide outside of our house. ANGER. ANGER. ANGER.

My counselor encouraged me to feel the anger, but I was terrified of the anger. I remember one conversation where my counselor asked my what about the anger made me so afraid. My reply was “I am afraid that the anger is so huge and so overwhelming that if I tap into it I won’t be able to control it.”

She asked me what I thought losing control of the anger would look like.

I told her I was afraid that the anger would take over and I would just scream and scream and scream until my throat was so raw I wouldn’t be able to scream anymore or that the anger would take over and I would break every single thing in my house. I truly was afraid to let myself feel the level of anger that I knew was raging inside of me.

Then she told me she had a plan, if I was willing. She took me out to her car in the parking lot. She opened the trunk. There in her trunk and in her back seat were huge plastic garbage bags of glass bottles. She had been saving glass bottles for a month or so. Not just hers, she had also asked friends, relatives, and neighbors to save their glass bottles for her.

Her idea was for me to find a place and time where I could be alone (or have a trusted person with me if I chose) and break the bottles. I could scream, cry, or “talk to” the people who I was angry at with each bottle I threw.

Her only “warning” – wear safety glasses.

I won’t lie. It sounded kind of corny to me. But I really trusted her by this point and I was aware that I really needed to deal with this anger before it exploded in some uncontrolled way.

My husband took the kids for a Saturday to go to a park, out to lunch, etc. I went into our basement and set the stage for a safe anger experiment.

I wanted to be able to contain the flying glass so I could avoid anyone being cut later on an overlooked shard.  I hung up some plastic sheets so the glass would stay in one area of the basement. I lugged bag after bag of glass bottles to the basement, knowing there was no way I could break all of these bottles at once. I put on long sleeves to reduce the chance of me being hurt by flying glass and donned the ever-so-lovely safety glasses.

I felt stupid. I felt ridiculous setting all of this up. Do “normal” people have to go through all of this just to deal with some anger? But I soldiered on. I wanted to at least be able to say that I tried.

I threw the first bottle. It shattered, but I felt nothing. I threw the second bottle. Again, nothing. I threw the third bottle with some real gusto. Oooh, that felt GOOD! I started throwing the bottles as hard as I could. I eventually started yelling things like “THIS IS FOR NOT PROTECTING ME” or “YOU BASTARD, ROT IN HELL” or “YOU SHOULD CARRY THE GUILT AND SHAME” as I threw the bottles. IT. FELT. AWESOME.

Oh, I was ANGRY. REALLY, REALLY ANGRY.

But I can’t even describe how it felt to have an outlet for that anger.

Bottles were flying fast and furious! There were clear bottles, green bottles, amber bottles and blue bottles (the blue ones had the most spectacular shatter for some reason).

When I had thrown EVERY.   SINGLE.   BOTTLE. I was breathing hard and exhausted. But I realized I had felt my rage, really felt my RAGE, and the world had not stopped turning. My house was still standing. My family was fine. All was well. Better than well. Not only had I started my anger work in a very satisfying way (I can not describe the satisfaction of yelling out “YOU ARE A SICK FUCK WHO TOOK ADVANTAGE OF A LITTLE GIRL ” and then hearing the shattering of the bottle) but I had also proved to myself that I could handle the anger without losing control.

I know it sounds a little “nuts.” I know it sounds kind of corny. But I am here to tell you – this exercise opened the door for me. It helped me get past my fear of the anger and bring it out in the open so I could work on it.

So thank you SR for being such an awesome therapist that you collected bottles from far and wide for me. Thank you for showing me a way to tap into that anger safely.

I saved a little glass jar of the multi-colored shards of glass. Blue, green, amber, clear. I smile when I walk past it now. Beautiful reminders of my righteous anger and SR’s lesson that helped me release it.

Dear Diary

by | Oct 21, 2010 | Abuse, Child Abuse, Child Sexual Abuse | 4 comments

[Ed. note: I’m leaving the grammatical, spelling, and punctuation errors in place since this was written by a young person. Correcting everything would take away some of the authenticity of this piece. -Adrienne]

I’ve been wanting to write a post about what I went through as a kid for a while, but I have not been able to sit down and do it the way I want. Instead I pulled out my diary I kept back then. I am going to write down the raw emotions I felt that day and maybe it will help me to get through some things.

June 17, 1995

Dear Diary,

I haven’t wrote in a long time but I have been really busy.

Well, let me start on June 10th….

Mom let me go to Dan’s sisters wedding and he gave me a gold bracelet (no it wasn’t stolen) and he also went out with Missy! NO JOKE!

I have confusing news too, K here’s what happened…

I was laying on the couch at Denises yesterday getting ready for bed because we were going to go to the lake today since I was babysitting the little brat Becca I needed a break.

Anyway, Ron came in to tell Brittany the dog good night since she was sleeping with me. He moved the sheet and I thought it was so he could pet Brittany, then he just started rubbing my vaginal area..My heart was beating 50mph then he started rubbing my chest and I was so scared to do anything because he had had a few bears and I wasn’t sure what he was capable of, but then I ran and told Denise and he left.

I didn’t know where he went but after about 30minuts Denise found him and he admitted he had done so then, I knew I wasn’t dreaming! Denise kept saying he was sorry from the bottom of his heart and he was gonna turn himself into the police tomorrow night and get counseling.

Why did he? I though I could trust him but now I can’t trust no one!

I’ll probably be real touch for a long long while! I never want to see him again! Not in court, at Sue’s, at Denise’s anywhere! I don’t want to go to court either!

Why did this happen to me again? I don’t understand why am I so confused? I need to spill my guts to someone who knows what I am going through.

I’m thinking about telling Krystal.

I better go now.

Confused and Sad,
Me

That is the same night it happened. I am also going to include the next few days…

June 20, 1995

Dear Diary,
I’m now in the car headed back to Moline. I just had to get away from that hellhole Peru! David beat Krystal for asking questions about what happened and told her if she told her mom he beat her, he’d beat her worse! Well she didn’t tell..D.L did, so now David is blaming Krystal’s nightmares on me and so was Sue.

I confide things I don’t even tell my best friend in you and I trust no one with read you, at least I hope
Well I better go.

Still Confused,
Me

June 2, 1995

Dear Diary,

Last night I wrote a letter to my mom about what happned and then I guess all my feelings caught up with me cause I have been holding them in for so long I guess. I just started crying for no reason at all, just because.

When Grandma came in I couldn’t tell her anything! I confessed all my feelings to mom though. Grandma would ask me a question and I could only move my head in circles. I couldn’t decide anything! I am scared of my own shadow and even the dark! I am 14 years old and acting like I am 2! I even feel uncomfortable around Uncle Scott! I feel so horrible and I miss my mom! The only time I am not or I don’t is when I am around Dan and Alisa.

Yes I know Dan is a guy too. But he’s so casual and calm he makes my whole body loosen up and feel really good, same thing with Alisa.
I miss my mom so much! I hear her voice and her car and car keys being laid on the table. I am so scared and confused I don’t know what to do!

Me

June 14, 1995
12:10 am

Dear Diary,

I talked to my mom tonight and I started crying. I felt so bad.

I feel funny when I’m around Uncle Scott. I know it’s sad But I can’t help it, it makes me feel uncomfortable when he even tickles me.
I am going to Peru next week. I can’t wait to see my mom again. I miss her so much!

Gotta Go!
Me

That is where I will end it. I don’t want to bore you too much with all the 14-year old babble.

Let me finish by saying that my mom had to stay behind to finish things up with her job. I understood that at the time, but it didn’t make it any easier. I can’t say I would make the same decision with my children. I hope I will never be in a position to have to choose something like that.

My uncle Scott has always been like a dad to me. He was there when my father wasn’t. I knew why I was feeling what I did around him and felt incredibly guilty about it. Denise and Ron were my mom’s boyfriend’s (David) sister and brother-in-law and I was spending the summer with them to babysit their two girls.

I was supposed to be home that weekend but they begged me to stay and go to the lake. I have regretted that decision a lot! Krystal is David’s daughter. She was my sister and I wanted to tell her because she had been through something similar. And when I say he beat her, he really didn’t he spanked her but you know…that was acceptable then.

I still struggle with what happened to me. I am terrified of it happening to my kids. I think sometimes I am too worried about it. And I try to talk myself through a lot of things. I can see where my problems came from and what happened and I just can’t seem to work through them.

So they get pushed to the back. I do the best I can without dwelling on the past.

Pressure To The Damaged Parts

by | Oct 15, 2010 | Child Sexual Abuse, Healing From A Rape or Sexual Asault, Rape/Sexual Assault | 2 comments

I joke about it. I try to keep it light. I can tell when I mention it that it makes people uncomfortable, and they offer their remorse, their sorrow. It’s not that I don’t mind, I just don’t want it. It’s easier to joke about it, to laugh it off as something that just happened, not something that changed me into who I am. Sometimes, it’s harder to laugh. There are too many broken and damaged parts.

When I was fifteen, something was stolen from me. Something that was mine to keep and give out to whomever I chose. That right was taken away from me in a flurry of rage and hatred by someone I knew long ago. He stole it from me viciously and without remorse.

He raped me.

This shouldn’t have happened to me. I lived on a Marine Corps base. I was a good girl. Things like that don’t happen to girls who go home before their curfew, to girls who are saving themselves, to girls like me. It just doesn’t happen…or so I thought.

He followed me on my walk back home one Saturday night, and I, thinking I was safe, took a short cut through the woods near the train track by my house. He attacked me when we were surrounded by trees, knocking me down into a nearby sandpit, nearly breaking my already weak back in the fall. Held me down. Hit me. Hurt me. He used pressure on the damaged parts to keep me there.

A train passed, and I prayed there were passengers.

I started waving, frantically, trying to scream as he covered my mouth, I could taste the blood he was forcing back in. “Please, God, let someone see me, let someone notice.” We were so close, I could feel the wind rushing past covering my body with cool air on that stale, summer’s night. And then. Black.

Not long after, I woke up. Damaged and broken. My head hurt and was bleeding, my clothes were torn and strewn about. Next to where I laid was a brick splashed with blood. I limped the short distance home as quickly as possible. I was terrified, I had no idea if he was still around, watching me. I didn’t want to take long enough to find out.

My house stood, the only house in the area, the porch light shining a welcoming yellow glow. I tried to run, but was in too much pain. Inside, the lights were off, my parents had gone to bed. I quickly limped to their bedroom, and hidden by the cover of darkness reported I was home and going to take a shower and then bed.

In the shower, I tried to scrub away the pain, scrub away the smell and the shame. I cried. I tried to cry it down the drain. I discovered that pressure on the damage parts relieved stress. I pressed. I contorted my back to make it hurt. I sighed and was reminded I’m still alive, no matter how much of me felt dead.

In between then and now doesn’t matter. He went to jail, but not for my pain. My story was discounted by the charm of the man. I grew up. I learned that the best way to hurt him was to let him know I was stronger than him. I quickly learned to joke and laugh at it, about it. It’s the easiest way to talk about it.

Sometimes, when we’re in bed, my husband will ask me questions, partly out of his own curiosity and to try and help. I laugh, I joke. I speak softly protected by the darkness of our bedroom as he puts pressure on the damage parts to help relieve the pain that stays.

He puts pressure on the damaged parts to remind me I’m still alive.