A decade. That’s how long it’s been.
Let’s get real for just today. 10 years ago would have been the day I died. Would have. From the time I was a senior in high school until I was a junior in college, I was in a very abusive relationship. I should have known from the start but I was in a bad place emotionally when it started. I won’t go into gory details. I am always open to talk about it but I find that people tend to not want to hear about it. It makes them uncomfortable. Which is a bit funny since they didn’t live it. Plus it’s ironic. We thrive on the exploits of the sick and demented. We want all the details on Elizabeth Smart’s time while kidnapped or Ariel Castro’s captives. Every second of a 9/11 flight. But when it comes to domestic violence, no one wants the details. They get fidgety.
But a few months before that day, I started to get out. When that day happened, we’d been broken up but because he was still on the lease legally, we lived together but in separate rooms. I’d been casually seeing someone. Which may have triggered what happened. Probably a combination of seeing me breaking free of the hold he had. He was losing control. I learned after that this time is the most scary. When the worst happens. I was young and naive so I thought the worst was behind me.
Rebuilding after was really hard. Sometimes, it still is. Some days I’m resigned to the fact that it’s part of my past, my history. I grieve the lost of that girl. The girl I was before him. I adapt. I learn ways to cope with random nightmares that yes, do still happen. Hyper vigilance. PTSD quirks.
But considering all that, I’m sitting here looking at a blog I wrote a day after and just reading it makes me feel like I’ve come so far.
So really that’s all I wanted to say. I didn’t want today to go by without saying something. Recognizing the significance of it. And how far I’ve come. I blurbed it on Facebook. I posted here. Moving on now.