I remember sitting next to you, holding your hand, during a moment of calm after the storm.

I quietly asked you why? 

Why do you hit me? Why are you so cruel?

I remember you cried and said you were sorry.

You gave me a list of excuses for your rage.

Some of them were even about me.

But it was never really about me.

What you didn’t say was you were sad and sacred. 

That I was an easy target for all the hurt inside you because I was trapped. And I loved you.

I loved you, in good times and in bad.

There was more to our story than the times you left me crying in the corner, bruised and battered.

We did laugh We had fun. Sometimes.

But mostly, I lived in a state of terror, just waiting for the next time you lost control.

You took everything and left me with nothing.

You harmed me in ways I am still discovering. 

Time has passed since I left.

I am no longer in a constant state of hypervigilance. I no longer dread you walking through the door, and I no longer worry that anything I say could release an onslaught of anger from you and send me reeling, bloodied by your words or your fists.

Because you are no longer there.

But fifteen years was a long time to live with your abuse.

I still find myself in that place from time to time.

And I will forever be trying to heal the brokenness.