Let's Call it What it Is: Domestic Abuse - A Survivors Soft Journal

It’s been about 16 days since my life started over. I watched with awe and torment as everything I had hoped for, invested in, and desperately clung to fell over and over; ash in its wake.

Things fell apart at a speed that feels incomprehensible. It felt as though everything happened in a span of days, but as old diaries, conversations and prayers showed me, things had been on a steady decline for years.

It was me. Stubborn, desperate, love-torn me who stayed and stood firmly in place of my blessings. Who blocked them out with my back towards them and plugged my ears and hummed my tune of battered belief. And though I do not blame myself for everything that has happened, I still know my part in this.

Once more I believed the sweet words of an elusive savior. An insidious demon who looked, walked and talked just like the angels did. Once again I dimmed my light, and cut my tongue because this had to finally be it, right? This grand love that I’ve always wanted. It sounded like it. I could squint and then it would look like it. For moments it even felt like it.

But love does not raise its hand to strike. And love does not cover up its wrongdoings for fear that others will know what it has done.

Although this is how I’ve understood it since I was a little girl, I finally begin to understand the simple truth of whose surface I skimmed and skated upon: love is not violent.

I don’t think I want to talk about the ins and outs of it yet. The moments already screen behind my eyes; an independent film of gaslighting, emotional and physical abuse, and denial. I try to thank these moments every time they pop up in my thoughts. I say this is just where I am now. And that is okay. I try to think of every trigger, every random memory, every intrusive thought as ones that are rising to the surface for greater healing and awareness.

Already the Universe has tested me. Set baited traps for my loneliness that I walked straight into with a flashlight. But I have escaped them. I can feel my awareness growing, and on days like today when the sadness feels overwhelming, I try to channel it as best as I can into my practice. Writing, Reiki, meditation, exercise. I can’t tell you what it’s like to live right now. To be me.

It’s the greatest gift and testimony, and also yet another loop in the same pattern. I suppose it stings the most because a part of me truly believed I had broken the cycle this time. Bamboozled time and time again into being thanked for how much I “taught” these monsters. That’s their favorite line, by the way. How grateful they are for what they’ve “learned”.

Fuck you and your education. I never consented to being your teacher. Your therapist, your diary, your punching bag. Your sometime sweet thing. Fuck you.

My arms are cramped and yet I still must fill my well on my own. Leave behind the stagnant waters I poured into others, and source a fresh water spring from the crack in my Earth.

I cannot tell you how.

Hour by hour, it gets better by degrees. Better when I can tune in to gratitude; better when I can step outside of myself.

I watch my best friend fall in love for the first time, and it fills me in new and speechless ways. I feel the sunlight before I wake up, and each morning is filled with white light I know can only come from God. And that makes me feel seen.

I cry into tissues in the work bathroom, and feel my sadness pool at my feet. I ask for it to be drained through my heels and transmuted into Good by the Universe.

I am a living, open wound. Both fresh, and blackened blood seep through a new scab that gets ripped open on the daily by memories or an Instagram picture.

By people in too close proximity. By those who choose to remain neutral in a situation that holds me by my teeth and shakes me around.

I am not dried up.

My well is empty but the floor of it is damp. In time, I will drown in happiness. In time I will learn to never forget again what true love is.

 

True love does not raise its hand to strike.