I used to feel breathless
Butterflies in my stomach
Helplessly and irrevocably in love
Until loving words one day turned in to hatred words
Words that were used to make me feel worthless
Words that were said that made me feel less than what I was
And I told myself that I would much rather be physically abused
I would much rather feel his fist in me than feel his words
Words that pierced my ears and I could not stop hearing them
I told myself that emotional and mental abuse hurt worse than physical abuse
His words used to choke me until I couldnβt breathe
Grasping for air as I felt the burning on my cheeks from the tears that I cried
Each tear stained my face
Each word shot through my heart
Until one day I found myself being chocked
Not by his words
Not by his cold shoulder and empty feelings
But by his palms
And that same pain I felt in my stomach as I held myself each night crying
After yet another bad argument
But this time it was his head driving into my stomach
And instead of my face buried into a pillow so that he couldnβt hear my cry
My face was being shoved in to the sheets
I was being used as a human rag doll
The thought of accepting the mental and emotional abuse
Was actually just as bad as the actual abuse that I was subjected to
I once before blamed it on the alcohol
The heat of the moment
It was my fault
It was my fault I felt his fist strike my face
It was my fault I was body slammed on a box spring
It was my fault
We drank too much
I was unhappy at how he was grabbing me
But it was not him
It was me
He loved me
So I stayed
And months passed before it happened again
And when it happened again
Sober mind
Mid-day
It was clear
That it was not me
It was not what I had done
It was that he needed to be in control of me
He needed to feel that control
And once he no longer had control
He was losing all grasps
So he took matters in to his own hands
And I was that matter
Me
Being tossed around
Thrown around
Thrown in to a kitchen cabinet as glass shattered behind my head
It was me
And at that very moment
I knew
I had to leave
I realized my worth
No words
No amount of love
No amount of tears
No amount of time
I had to leave
For me
Before he took anything else of mine that I had left
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Published by How To Love A Battered Woman
I am in no way a therapist, psychiatrist or counselor.
I am a woman who has experienced her share of trauma and abuse.
I am here to remind you that there is love after and a life during chronic illness.
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