I am Damn Good at Most Things I Do (Including Being Abused)
When you come from abuse…
There is this thing.
When you come from abuse. It lurks. Long term for me. Insidious. Clever in its single-mindedness. To control. Weaken. Make me submit. Make me pay. For simply being me. Loving him. And not being perfect all of the time. How dare I do that?
It took over a decade. For me to crumble. I am damn good at most things I do. Including being abused.
Saturday night. Leaving an event. With a dear friend who was a perfect date. We got turned around in the dark. I was driving. Both of our phones out of juice. I just about died inside. Tears stinging my eyes. That internal clenching. Waiting for the hit. People say this. It has become cliche. The words are worse than the fists. It is truth.
Sixteen years. Day after day. Maligning. Whittling away.
A few incidents of a beer bottle thrown at my head and the odd punch does not compare.
Walk up behind me. Whisper a threat. Children playing at my feet. Soup simmering on the stove. Sun shining through the window. That shit eats your soul. One tiny bite at a time.
We got turned around in the dark. I quietly said, “I don’t know where we are.” I was waiting for the deadly silence. Then the barrage about how stupid I am. The hour drive back yet. In terrified silence. Anticipating what would occur once we got home.
My friend laughed. We had a full tank of gas. It was a beautiful night. Turn left. See where we end up. My lashes tucked tears away. I squeezed his knee. Smiled and turned left.
And turned right. Another left. Towards the lights of the city.
We got there. We reminisced about the day. Shared life stories. Drove in the dark on unknown roads.
We arrived. Happy. Safe. A layer of healing unexpectedly achieved.
