I was in an abusive relationship with my then boyfriend. Being beaten had become almost a daily occurrence, until the day I stood up for myself. That’s when it happened.
I don’t remember much of it, since he had his arm across my neck, restricting the air to my lungs and the blood flow to my brain. I remember the pain, as cliché as it sounds. I remember tearing and feeling the warmth of the blood. But I couldn’t tell you how long it lasted and I couldn’t tell you what happened immediately after. I do remember him leaving and going into the bathroom and turning on the shower. I remember grabbing my things and running like hell. I remember it was raining that day. I remember I left my jacket and that I was cold.
I remember the phone call I got from him later. I remember telling him that I’d use my dad’s gun on him if he came near me again. I remember him screaming at me that no one would ever love me, especially now that I was a “pathetic, broken thing.” He said that no guy really wanted a woman like me, that they would only ever feel pity for me. He said that I would always been seen as weak because I “let him” do this to me like the “pathetic, broken thing” that I am. I remember this, because I still have to look at myself in the mirror sometimes and remind myself that it isn’t true. That not everyone looks at me with pity. That I am, in fact, loved, and that I have, in fact, been loved, even if I am a “pathetic, broken thing.” And I’m not pathetic. And I’m not broken. I’m a bit chipped around the edges, perhaps, but I still work. I can still accept and give love and not spill a drop. Trust might not come as easy to me as it does for others, but it does come, and when it does, it comes with a ferocious desire to protect, and a loyalty that is hard to destroy. I don’t expect anyone to fix me, and I don’t expect anyone to protect me from the world. I do, however, expect those I’ve come to trust to treat me with kindness, just like anyone else would. I know that doesn’t seem like a very remarkable thing or an out of the ordinary expectation, but apparently it’s supposed to be a rare thing to find in a “pathetic, broken thing.”
Edit: I was cleaning up my LJ a little bit and saw this entry and decided to open it up (it had been private before). It's one of the last entries I'd made, actually. I'd never written any of this down before. It's poorly written (I was in a hurry), but I figured it was best to let it out than keep it in my brain. I opened it to everyone because it's really nothing to be ashamed of.