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it has a name

Once again, it is in the spotlight. Famous people, youtube videos, the month of October being Domestic Violence Awareness Month, all of this lending more insight into this issue. or not. Because, I'll just be honest, while I know what the words mean, while I spent years involved in an abusive relationship, I'm not sure that I have any more insight as to the whys - why I didn't leave, why I didn't tell, why I protected him, why I didn't fight back, why I did, why I stayed so long after that first time, why when I finally did leave, it wasn't even a factor in my decision. This is what I do know : it seemed to be all around me at that time. I'm not sure if I ever saw it played out in front of my eyes - more like a perception that it was there, lurking behind everyone's closed doors. It was in the way that they (the guys) acted, in the way that we (the girls) reacted. It was in the motions, the looks, the words that weren't being said. It was always present but never spoken of. The elephant in the room, in our lives. The first time it happened, I confided to one person in our circle of friends. I got the distinct impression that I had stepped over some line, that I had broken the code that we were all to keep, the code of silence that shrouds it. I never talked of it again. I knew that my neighbor was experiencing the same it. I heard it. Outside, we smiled, made small talk, and then walked through our separate doors, each into our own hell, our own it. I often wonder what became of her. Did she summon the strength necessary to save herself? I wish that I could have helped her, but I couldn't even help myself. Then again, I didn't really want any help. Even if help had come, I would have defended him, defended it. I was young, worldly and yet naive, looking for a love to make me feel complete, whole, worthy. If that came with it, who was I to question? And so I lied, made excuses, covered bruises, blamed myself, blamed him, forgave him, blamed myself some more.

keep quiet, try harder, love more.
repeat.
add more alcohol, more drugs, numb myself.
repeat.

It was a vicious cycle, one neither of us knew what to do with, a progression of sorts that once started, couldn't be stopped; once allowed, was always accepted; once embedded, impossible to dislodge. Even now, all of these years later, I'm not sure what to do with this, what to do with it. I do know that freedom is healing me, restoring me, and that I can no longer be silent. There has to be a generation, soon, where it is no longer an accepted part of life, no longer a secret to be kept until the internal damage outweighs the physical. 

It has a name. It is abuse.




 "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." Maya Angelou




*you can read more about my abusive past and my journey to healing here - the first time, fear 


























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