The Stories of Our Lives

Sitting in my colleagues spare room:

• Who would’ve thought turning a door handle could be so arduous and terrifying?
  • Or maybe it wasn’t rotating the knob, but what it represented – That I need help.
  • Or maybe what was required of me (no not the biomechanics of my supinator muscles), exposing my most vulnerable self.

I had to get somewhere safe.

• What was making you feel unsafe?
  • My fiance and mother implying that I am the perpetrator of abuse.
  • That my mother, whom is supposed to always choose me, is supposed to love me unconditionally, believes that I possess the capacity to cause another person harm (intentionally or unintentionally).
  • Conflict with my identity, my core values are being a kind, empathetic, selfless, generous, people-pleasing, good person.
  • Hurt that my mother didn’t confirm or deny her statement that I am inflicting abuse onto another human, my boyfriend of 10 years.
  • It shattered me.
• What did you do?
  • doubted myself. a lot.
  • cried. also a lot.
  • reflected really really REALLY hard on my words, my actions, my soul.
  • felt a disquieting calmness at accepting suicide as my salvation.
  • asked my best friend some onerous questions, including: Do you believe me?
    • for some incomprehensible reasons she responded “yes, I believe you”
    • I think those four words-ones we learn in grade school-gave me hope to live.

To be continued…