Write Your Soul Down [ January 11, 2009, 1:44 am ]

The Incident happened exactly six months ago. Well...technically six months ago yesterday. It's really weird to think about. And write about. I almost feel like it's something that shouldn't be commemorated or remembered. But how could it not be? Six months ago everything I knew about love and the man I wanted to devote my life to--it was all shattered in one instant.

It happened so quickly. One moment I was standing there, putting on my shoes and saying "I'm sorry, I really need to leave." Less than ten seconds later I saw his eyes darken and his face turn to stone as he rushed at me. I have never seen him look that dark, that menacing, that evil. The look on his face scared me more than the actual hit to the face did. I just couldn't comprehend how the man I loved could go from weeping and begging me to take him back to a villain who had no reservation about pinning me down and attempting to poke my eye out.

Six months later and I'm still struggling to understand. But I've come to terms with the fact that I might never fully comprehend it. This might just be one of those things that I have to accept as a part of my history. And as a defining moment in my life, whether I want it be or not.

I can't fight the fact that the attack changed me. I wanted to believe in love. I wanted to think that love conquers all and that we would be together forever, despite the fighting and the on-going negativity from him. I worked so hard to keep us together. I did so much for him and for the relationship. I was willing to sacrifice because that's what love is about. Yet, when he hurt me all those beliefs were shattered. All that work that I had done for us evaporated. And everything that I thought about life and love was torn into a million pieces and scattered everywhere. I was willing to spend my life with him and work hard to make our love work. Instead he chose to scar me in ways he will never ever know.

There's a bump on the side of my wrist from where he sank his teeth into me. While I still find it humorous that he resorted to something so child-like, a part of me also feels ill thinking about it because it's also such an inhuman, vicious action to take. I'm left with this sick sort of souvenir of what he did to me. I look at my wrist so often and I'm reminded of the attack, of the hurt he inflicted on me, of the pain I went through trying to make sense of my life post-attack, post-him. There's no way I could be the same person I was before he hit me. No way. A person doesn't go through something so shattering, so traumatic and emerge unchanged. It's just not possible.

It still hurts. It still hurts so much. I might have come to terms with the fact that this happened to me and I can't do anything to change that fact. But I don't understand why he did it or how anyone could do that. And I feel cheated out of two years of my life: the year and a half I spent with him and the six months I've spent picking up the pieces. And I'm so scared that this could happen again. That I'll get hurt like this again. But more so, I fear that I'll never find love again. The only man that ever loved me viciously hurt me. What does that say about me? While I realize that it sounds irrational, it's a very real fear--both about love and about people's perceptions of me.

I refuse to be a victim of this. It hurts so much, yes. But I fucking hate that word because it gives him power he doesn't deserve and puts me in a role that I didn't ask to be put in. I am not a victim of abuse. I am a survivor and that is one fact that I am so proud of. My world is still torn, but it is mending. My beliefs are shaken but they're settling and finding their way back into my heart and soul. My fears are there and very real but I'm trying to find ways to make peace with them and face them. The wounds are healing. They're deep and sometimes they're exposed and emotions are raw, but I know that time is a salve that will soothe them. There are nights when I'm gulping for air as I sob and try to come to terms with everything, but at the same time, I'm grateful for the chance to experience this deep range of emotion. It means I'm still alive. It means that on some level I'm still me.

I will never be the same as I was before the attack, or even before I met him. He changed me, but I refuse to let it be for the worse. The past six months have made me stronger and given me an armor and a confidence in myself that I didn't realize I could possess. The process of rediscovering myself is scary, raw and exhilerating. It's a necessary gift that has been given to me in a harsh, unflinching way. Some days I don't want it and I would give anything to erase it from my mind. But more often than not these days, I'm seeing this inner strength as a big part of who I am. The attack and its aftermath have been anything but easy, but I know that I can rise above this. I am a survivor.

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