Hard. It’s so fucking hard to hear other people’s stories. It’s hard to believe I belong in the same room as them. It’s hard to toss out the shame and embarrassment even though I don’t think they should feel it.
It’s so fucking hard to hear my own voice over his. Mine is a whisper compared to his roar which demands to remind me that I’m a worthless-unlovable-whore.
It isn’t easy by any means. They look at me, quickly and surprised, when I talk. Which, for those who knew me before, it wasn’t shocking when I talked…I loved talking. He writes down what I say, like it means something, or he hasn’t heard it before/in a while. I am angry for the other women. I want to take them all in, let them and their little ones stay with me. House them and protect them all from the bad, as I have done for myself for so many years.
I still can only admit to them what happened, in a much more delicate way than I would tell most of you. I feel as though they relate to me and yet I am having a hard time accepting the ONE thing I wanted for so long. I want to heal them, why can’t I find the want to do the same for myself?
The image that stuck in my mind last night was his red cheek and my hand. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Disbelief that I hit back. Knowing I had to get out before I became an abuser, instead of just the ****ee.
I cried until the water ran cold. I shut off my alarm. I want an endless supply of warm water and tears. A glass of wine and an embrace. I want to let go of today, tomorrow. And the day after. I want to wake up on Sunday.
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