Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Class

Last night, in the Family Violence course that I'm taking, we spent the last 30 minutes talking about protective orders and the atrocities the women in the study had experienced before they filed for a protective order. That was the longest 30 minutes of my life.

I came home from class and cried. I cried when I went to bed. I've cried 3 times today. I'm a mess. I'm not surprised, but I had hoped I would be stronger than this. I had hoped that my YEARS of counseling would protect me from the flashbacks and the fear. It hasn't worked.

I'm the little girl in the corner, naked and afraid, while my Mom's boyfriend prepares the plywood paddle to beat me with, all over again. I'm the teenage girl being pulled out of my shower by my hair, because I snuck a boy into the house (even though nothing happened with the boy) all over again. I'm the wife watching as my husband throws a lamp at the wall above the crib, where my infant sleeps, all over again. I'm the victim. All. Over. Again.

I have isolated myself from each of the above people. I do not see them. I do not talk to them. I don't not think of them, much. But in a 30 minute lecture, all of the hard work I've done to be strong and move on was undone.

No amount of counseling, self-help literature, prayer or meditation can undo the damage those people did to me. I'm broken. I will likely always be broken. I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. I am an example of why family violence intervention is important. I am an example of what happens when the system doesn't intervene. But mostly, I'm an example of what happens when families keep secrets.

Three more weeks of class... I can do this.



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