It's no secret among my friends that I am an abuse survivor. I'm not one for the whole "pity me" scenario, I worked too hard to overcome the horrors visited upon me. I learned and grew stronger. I do hope that I can help other survivors see that they are not alone.
Something that always helped me cope was writing about the emotions I felt during my experiences. Several of my essays and musings here deal with that subject. I wrote the following when I was just 11, and only recently unearthed it.
Looking at it now, I wonder how much I had already aged back then.
The house seems off-center today. I can't decide if it's more of a leaning over kind of off or a moved off the foundations kind of off. Either way, it's still off. He must be home today.
The windows look sinister today, like cold, watching eyes. They mock me, silently laughing and taunting me. They know. Not that they can help me. Not that they would help if they could.
I can't breathe. My hands shake, my mouth has gone dry, my mind races. Did I forget to do anything? Was everything finished before I left today? Is he high today? Will he only hit me once or twice, then stagger to the bar? Or will our car be pressed into service again, to take me to tell the same sorry lies again? I fell. I was fighting with my brother. My bike jumped the curb.
I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. I can't control the shaking. I open the door and enter the darkness, with dread.