Abuse. Escape. One year later.
Dec 22, 2013.
The skyscrapers were passing by the taxi window slightly blurry in the smoggy morning light. My phone was constantly vibrating in my hand. Trying to slow down my breath, my heart beating far too fast, my stomach bloated by fear. I had decided to leave and terrified by the possible reaction I had my security line all set up. A strong friend with a car, a secret language, a time limit.
It took me far too long to get to that day. And still, even at the very day itself, I thought that there was still a chance that if I just got out for a little while, the scars would heal and we’d be able to live together again. It wasn’t only a thought, I was convinced. With my strong belief in recovery and reconciliation I just couldn’t help but think otherwise. Even though the fear was pulsating in every cell of my body.
Somehow, it worked. I still don’t know how I did it, but somehow I fell asleep that day, the next day I had a new flat, and a few days later I moved. Exactly one year ago, I was lying on the floor of my new apartment completely smashed out by carrying everything up the steep stairs. The ceiling was so white, everything was spinning, but I was safe. Finally safe.
For the next few days, I didn’t meet anyone. Christmas Eve came and I woke up in the middle of the night, puking my whole inside straight up on the floor. Me, who haven’t got anything up since I was seven, famous for being the one who simply never pukes. Some days later, passing by his working place caused extreme nausea. And then I tried to meet him, but I found myself feeling so sick that I had to leave, I just couldn’t be in his presence. And somewhere there I finally got it. I couldn’t go back.
A year has passed and I have relearned life, love and freedom. I have run into women with similar experiences as mine, I have called my mother, crying hysterically saying: “It’s not my fault right?”. I have walked through the worst traumas of my life, learned how to unblock the moments of blackouts and how to clean the dirt of abuse out of my body.
One year has passed, and with all the supportive people around me, I have gotten further in my recovery than I ever could imagine. I am entering a new chapter of my life with the belief that also the most broken soul can learn how to be responsible for its own recovery.
I am still living under threat, I am still cautious when I am in public spaces, and often I wake up in the middle of the night by some sound in the stairs, hurrying to the door just to see it’s looked. And tonight, I don’t dare to be home alone. My heart has been beating almost as fast as it did that smoggy morning in the taxi a year ago, and I am spending my night out, choosing public spaces, with my phone constantly vibrating by that security line still exciting.