In the short amount of two years, so many things happened that it felt like ten years. It was draining, exhausting, frustrating, confusing; it seemed to be an up-and-down roller coaster ride.
There was always something going on, never a moment of peace or comfortable relaxation. I was always on edge, on-guard, always ready for the next battle. Whether it was just a shouting match, or full-on brawl, I was prepared for the confrontation and fight.
No matter what I said or did, there was always fresh material for an argument, even though all I wanted to do was be happy and keep the peace. I wasn’t the cause of the fight, but I was blamed every time. I had a big problem “shutting up” about what was happening. Even when I was depleted, I tried to stand my ground.
These fights were hardly ever private, sometimes it seemed as if the whole neighborhood heard, and it probably did. One such shouting match left me with a raspy voice, literally for three months. I didn’t even know that was possible. I had a tonsillectomy and my vocal cords were so damaged from yelling at the top of my lungs, that I couldn’t just ignore the discomfort, it became something I was painfully aware of.
But no matter the evidence, no matter the definitive proof, I am still being pressured and gaslighted to believe that I made it all up. And that is where I am drawing the line. What happened to me on a daily basis, was grotesque, and I know it all to be true.
I experienced it, over and over again.
I cried, I got nervous, I was full of anxiety, and I, and many other witnesses, know for a fact that it all happened. So much happened, that it would be impossible for me to recount every fight, every mean thing that was said, every act of sheer disrespect.
It DID happen.
I DID go to bed crying almost every single night. I would wake up, into an argument, if I got any sleep at all. It was a common, every day thing, for me to be kept awake until four or five in the morning, fighting, going from one room to the next, trying to escape the explosion.
Nothing I am writing is embellished or made-up. I have no need to tell a story, I have a need to tell a TRUE story. As unbelievable as some of the details are, they in fact did happen, and it is only by confronting these very uncomfortable, and often embarrassing and humiliating things, that I am able to release the negative emotions, and move on.
Once I write about it, I don’t think about it again.
It is through telling my true story, that I am finally starting to feel better. I don’t have to be quiet, I don’t need to “shut the f*** up”. I can talk about it, and I can stop letting it fester inside me. There is one thing that I feel is worse than the many types of abuse I endured, and that is, the silence and the secret.
I will tell my story, and I will no longer feel that any shame is mine to carry, because, I am not the one to blame. I wasn’t on drugs, and I didn’t do anything to stir the pot.
Bad things happen, and that does not mean they are made up or untrue, or provoked or deserved.
I am a direct witness, and I have every right to speak on what did, in fact, happen.