Have you ever wanted a break? To just wake up one day and not have any idea
what reality is? I did. Not on purpose, of course. Not because of some horrifying
accident that caused a brain injury and not because I became hooked on drugs.
It was because of a guy.
I was 22 and happy. I had a great house, wonderful daughter and a loving husband
and we were thinking about having more children; what more could I want? Then
my world fell apart. He was not a loving husband, he was cheating and I tried
hard to believe it wasn’t true. I listened to his lies and deception,
told myself there was no way there was something going on. Then once I started
to understand the truth he played another trick: that I could still have him,
my family would stay together if we two became we three. The silvery tongue
worked it’s lies, played all the right cards and convinced my breaking
heart that it could work.
That is when I stopped. I stopped hearing my own voice and heard his lies instead.
I remember waking up one day and on my arm were two deep, wide scratches. I
had no idea where they came from and no clue as to why I didn’t care.
I flipped over the pillow to hide the bloodstains and went on with my day. I
talked, I laughed, I smiled and never noticed what was happening. Ever day I
had a new mark, most on my arms, but a few on my legs. I would sit on the couch
with my husband and his girlfriend on the loveseat across from me and watch
them snuggling holding hands right in front of me and the next minute he was
kneeling in front of me removing my fingernails from my thigh and kissing me
to make it all better.
I don’t remember much of those months. I know it was August and hot. I
know I figured out every way possible to finance weekend trips to stay with
him, them. For some reason, I kept a journal. I have no idea why, I never have
before and rarely since, but for two months I wrote nearly everyday and sometimes
more in a journal. That is where I find most of my memories. Hastily written,
a lot of poetry which is angrily scribbled across the page and a few pages that
are so barely legible it actually hurts me to try and read them.
I lost my job because of those months. I lost a lot of money, gas and tolls
to Syracuse are not cheap. But beyond that, I hurt my daughter. All those weekends,
all that time - she was with me. She saw how I was, whether she understood or
not I will never know. And it is because of her I got my life back. We were
in a car accident, the details of which I will not bore you with here, but her
father, my soon to be ex was sitting in the front seat with me while she sat
it the back. We were in a fight and were rear ended and he did not turn around
to check on our daughter. He got out of the car after yelling at me and never
looked back. I got her out of the car as quickly as I could and held her. I
remember that moment, the moment I woke. I remember crying so hard and probably
sqeezing her a bit harder than I should have. I remember wondering how I got
there.
It has been almost three years since I opened my eyes. Three long years that
brought me to the place I am now. I have a definite plan for the future. I started
back at college full time. I am home every afternoon for my daughter. We eat
dinner, read stories and do our homework together. There is more to me now than
there was three years ago, I can think about those months and not cry. I have
family and friends who want me to be here and don’t want anything in return.
I have found a light and a strength in me I never thought I had, I know what
I can go through and be ok.
I lived through the death of someone I didn’t like. She is gone and what
was left standing in her place is happier and healthier. A phoenix out of the
ashes? No just a girl, nothing more, nothing less.
We have to experience our personal demons...otherwise we will never understand
our triumphs.