Help

October is National Domestic Violence Awareness month. I’m giving you two posts a week until November because, well, I want to blow open some pretty old, heavy doors right now.  Celebration comes in many forms. This one, for me, is celebrating my voice. The one that was taken away for so long. It’s back now. And I intend to use it as much as possible this month (expect darkness and inappropriate language).

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It’s understandable for the majority – 75% of women, to be exact – who will never come face to face with domestic violence to shy away from the severity of the issue. If it’s not tangible, if it isn’t draping sheets of sadness around us, then it’s likely others haven’t, and maybe won’t, become victims either. But society misses that avoiding what is uncomfortable, the scary possibility that your best friend could have her skull shattered by her partner, only creates a platform for the issue to be ignored and grow larger. And then the head pounding only gets worse. Next time she’ll need staples.

Ignorance is not only prominent in our society, but it’s one of the largest reasons domestic violence still lives behind broken window frames and underneath turtleneck sweaters. It’s why police officers aren’t educated on the dynamics of domestic violence and the cycle of abuse. Why, when they showed up at my house the three times I called, they looked at me like I was the problem and like I was too stupid to leave. Standing on my newly waxed hardwood floors, grabbing at their tight black belts, twiddling their fat thumbs at me.  And the only message they left me with was their silence, which made it really fucking easy to keep mine, too. Don’t get me wrong, the blame shouldn’t be placed on those who are sworn to protect us. But it should be placed on a system which doesn’t value the lives of individuals who are trying to escape a monster the system doesn’t understand. I don’t blame the individual; I blame the culture.

More knowledge. We need it. Echoing through traditional, conservative hallways and blared from progressive, liberal speakers. 

Will you help me, friends? Can you? Sparing one moment to further someone else’s education might mean they won’t end up on the cold concrete of a basement floor. With their head against the wall. Swallowing their own blood.

October is National Domestic Violence Awareness month. Get educated. Spread the word. Wear purple.

 

 

5 Things An Abused Woman (This Woman) Wants You To Know

Five –

I’m not weak.

I , legitimately, walk the planet on a daily basis knowing that there is someone out there that wants to physically harm me. I live knowing that, at any minute, Mike could return. And I’m only able to do this because on a hot July afternoon I picked up my broken body from the concrete floor and limped out of the door, without looking backward. Nobody else did that for me. Nobody was there to protect me from the madness, nor did they hold me by the arm while I walked on a strained ankle and battered knee. I was in so much pain that I wanted to crawl. But I didn’t, knowing that if I took even a second longer than necessary he might kill me. Weakness wasn’t an option. Strength is what allowed me to survive. And it kept me alive every day before and every day after.

It wasn’t easy to come home to a house that didn’t have electricity or running water. It was heartbreaking to have my car repossessed two days after I made the decision to leave. Trying to find a job, without a car, was embarrassing and difficult. But I did it. And I lived in a home for the next several months knowing that, at any moment, he could walk back into my life (and my house) because he knew where I was and he knew that my back window was broken out (because he shattered it with his left fist).

Survivors of domestic abuse are strong. We fought our own disease. Don’t ever doubt that. It’s offensive. It’s appalling. It’s also the easiest way to find yourself outside of my circle of friends. I’m not asking you to understand what I’ve been through, but I am asking you to understand that my strength is there.

Four –

Abuse rearranged my beliefs. Yours are only yours. Don’t try to pawn them off on me.

Abuse changes everything. Before my abuse I searched for answers about religion. I wasn’t sure who made decisions or why they were made, but I wanted to find out. I looked for answers in churches and conversations. But when things began to become abusive and I seriously questioned whether or not I’d be given the opportunity to wake up the following morning, I became an evangelical Christian. I PRAYED and pleaded and THANKED god that he was there, looking over me and keeping me alive. I knew that he had a message for me…that I was there for a reason. I stayed, longer than I should have stayed, because my faith in the lord was strong enough that I ‘knew’ I would live.

Yet something changed inside of me during that time and now I say this almost every day: when you are slammed against a concrete wall and thrown down a flight of stairs…when YOU are YOUR ONLY HOPE for survival and no higher being is there to lift you out of an awful situation, your hope lies within your own heart. I knew I had to get out. I knew I was the only one PERSON who could save myself. And I still know that. My savior? Myself. When you tell me that god helped me get out of the situation, and to thank him for that, it takes away from the strength and courage that I had to conjure. No higher power got me out of that house. It was my feet, my heart, and my strength. It was me.

Three –

Dating isn’t the answer.

If dating were the answer, I would’ve started already. Yes, at some point, I have to start seeing other people again, but I deserve to (and will) give myself enough time to feel ready before I allow someone to buy me dinner. I already understand that I won’t ever feel fully ready to date, but respect me enough to let me make the choice for myself. When the day comes that I say, “Okay. I want to try this again,” your help will be appreciated. Until then, questioning my readiness only pushes me further away from the idea. I’m not ready because I don’t trust anyone that I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t trust a lot of people who I do know. I have to retrain my brain. I have to accept myself. I have to feel strong enough that I won’t second guess every move I make. I still do that with friends. How could I ever create a successful relationship from that? I couldn’t. So please stop trying to tell me that I should.

Two –

I won’t get over it…soon.

I can’t get over it because my life has been forever changed. Downplaying the severity isn’t helpful; it’s denial. Acknowledgement and acceptance are necessary.

Some days are easier than others; I know it’s getting better. Yet there are days that I’m crying before I get out of bed. I don’t want to leave my apartment. I’m angry and sad and scared. The world isn’t one that seems to hold opportunity on those days. It’s a place that swallows me whole. On those days I have to remind myself that I was in such a devastatingly bad place a year prior. I have to allow myself to cry in the shower, so that I can keep it together during the work day. I have to be angry on the way to work, and I have to remind myself that I wasn’t allowed to feel anything for two years of my life. I wasn’t allowed to be human, so how can I expect myself to act like I am human?

Every week I feel stronger, even though I’m digging into the issues further and further in therapy. I do feel better…but just because my recovery doesn’t fit your needs doesn’t make my small steps any less significant for me. I am moving forward. If you can’t handle the pace, then just don’t say anything at all.  I will get there. Your doubt and criticism prolong the recovery process.

One –

Never ask me why I stayed.

If an abuser was abusive from day one, there isn’t a woman in the world that would stay. Mike was charming, he was romantic and understanding. He took care of me, complimented me, and made me feel as if I was the only girl who had ever made him feel loved. He listened. Mike helped me heal a wound in my heart from my previous relationship. He was everything that was missing from every relationship I’d ever been in. What 26-year-old girl, looking for love, wouldn’t stay in a relationship like that?

I’d talked up his dedication and love to my friends and family. I’d beamed with pride when I thought about my relationship. We were in love and we were great together, so it wasn’t exactly easy to admit to anyone that things had changed.

When things began to turn, when the verbal manipulation began, I saw this as the man who I loved changing…and I needed to do whatever it took to fix the problem and make things go back to the way they once were. So I devoted my free time to ‘fixing’ the issues because then I wouldn’t have to eat my words. I bent over backwards to make sure he was happy. For awhile, it worked.

But anyone that has ever been in an abusive relationship will tell you that right when you think you’ve ‘fixed’ something, your attempts aren’t good enough anymore. More is expected of you. And, by the time you realize this is the cycle, you’ve already given up so many things in your own life that you feel like you’re trapped. If you try to leave, he’s going to come after you. If you stay, you’ll eventually get to the point where he’s happy. He can’t really expect the world from you…so you just have to reach his expectation.

Why did I stay?

I stayed because I loved him. I stayed because I thought that I could help him. I stayed because I have a heart that works the way a normal heart should work. It’s one that tries to love unconditionally and doesn’t assume others will meet their expectations. It’s one that assumed that a man who treated me so well was only suffering from something else. Maybe if his mother was nicer to him. Maybe if his dad didn’t expect so much of his time at the office. Maybe if his son’s mother wasn’t such a bitch. Maybe if he could find a medication that would actually help with his ADD. Maybe if he hadn’t taken steroids in college. Maybe.

I stayed because I was trying to solve a problem. My heart kept me there for a long time…

…and then he put a gun to my head.

He picked it up off of the top of the refrigerator and cackled his manipulative laugh. He turned around, put his hand on my shoulder, and I could feel the cold metal of the barrel on my temple. He said he loved me so much that he could kill me. He laughed again. And then the gun was placed back on top of the refrigerator, where it hung just out of reach. But it was close enough that he could grab it if he wanted. And it was close enough that I could see it while I was cleaning the kitchen. It was a constant reminder that he could kill me.

And I was never left alone anymore, so I couldn’t escape. I wasn’t allowed to be out of his eyesight. He got me a job at his office so that I could be there with him all day too. I was trapped in his life.

So I stayed because I didn’t want to die. Because somewhere inside of me I knew that if I tried to escape he’d pull down the gun again. And he’d load my head with bullets. But staying meant I’d have a chance at another day.

A list of 1,000 reasons why I stayed wouldn’t ever appease someone who’s never been in my shoes. And that’s fine. But the bottom line is that when you ask me why I stayed, it puts the blame on me. It alleviates Mike of any of the blame. Why did I stay? I stayed for a million reasons. Why don’t you ask why I left? Or why he was abusive? Or if I’m still scared?

Don’t ask me why I stayed. The answer is far too large and confusing. And I’ll never give you the answer that you want me to give, because no answer I give you will make you understand. I know that. And I think deep down you do too. So just let it rest. And let me rest too.

It’s Been a lot Like Baseball.

October 27, 2006 might not be a significant date to many people, unless you’re a St. Louis Cardinals fan. The team beat Detroit to win the first World Series Championship during my lifetime (I was still in my mother’s incubator in ’82). I was out-of-town with David, on a trip I’d planned for him, seeing his favorite artist at a concert in Chicago. Because one of the WS games was rained out, my plan to exit the city on a day without a game backfired, and I ended up missing my chance to see the Birds’ victory.

I made Bella send text message updates throughout the night, to be certain that I’d know when and if we took game 5. So, inevitably, as the 9th inning came to a close, she called me for the last out. I heard all of the fans screaming as the boys of StL clinched the series, and I dropped to the floor while tears streamed down my face. There I was, surrounded by Cubs fans, crying because my hometown team had finally won a series that I could say, “I remember when…” about. David was excited because he knew it was important to me and, after we left the concert, I made him listen to ESPN radio, so I could hear TLR and others speak about the night. The sadness I felt for having been unable to view the last game of the series was pale in comparison to the happiness that I felt for having won.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again because it needs to be repeated: sometimes I don’t feel like I have very much in common with my family, but if there is one thing in the world that holds us together, it’s Cardinals baseball. My grandma is the biggest Cardinals fan in the world (no, that’s not sarcasm) and she instilled a love of the game and our team in me at a very young age. In fact, I was crawling around in the bleachers at Busch Stadium (#2) before I could speak. So, when the Cardinals won that night (at the newly opened Busch Stadium #3), I was immediately leaving her a message via answering machine, saying how excited I was that I could FINALLY share in the joy of having lived through a season as champions. It’s a bonding experience for our entire crew, and something that I so dearly love about our family. We’re great when we’re sharing baseball.

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My life started to spiral out of control very quickly after that. Just a few months later David and I were fighting, and our relationship was broken. Within a year, I knew that we needed to end things but couldn’t let go, so he ended up being unfaithful and I ended up giving him every reason in the book to walk away. Shortly thereafter, in late December of 2007, I met Mike (aka Ike) and the rest, well, is history.

I didn’t get to watch much baseball when I was together with Mike. He tried to take everything that I loved away from me. We went to a game together once, and he used to promise me that we’d go back, but we only went to two other games the entire time that we were together. Which, for a girl like me, was devastating. In an attempt to further disunite me from my family, he succeeded. Just as he succeeded in making me feel as if that didn’t matter. It was just a game, right?

Two years ago I left Mike. It was the end of July. Justice and Topher had season tickets to the games and started taking me as often as they had extras. In some way I think it was because they needed to keep an eye on me. What they didn’t realize was that they were giving me back a piece of joy that I had been missing for two years. Even though it didn’t feel monumental at the time, it truly was. I think it was the first piece of myself that I regained.

We all know the tale of the next two years. I fell hard for an unavailable man, I made stupid mistakes, and I fought demons inside of myself without having a clear idea of what I was fighting exactly.

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In May, the Cardinals had the best record in baseball. It was then that I got my new job and a new chance to rebuild my life. But about the time I moved, their season started to disintegrate. Simultaneously, I started going to therapy and was diagnosed with PTSD. And, as I started battling Vietnam in my head, the boys were getting slaughtered. My team and my brain had fallen apart.

Fast forward to August. After a week with my new students at the new school, a new team emerged from the dugout and, as we are all well aware, took us on a new adventure. Crazy how my life mimics this, isn’t it? About the same time I started knocking out walls and barricades around my heart. A new crush emerged and my heart was feeling things it hadn’t since…well, since 2006. The post season kept progressing. I kept pushing myself. And, that leads us to October 28th, 2011.

David text me early in the day:

“I made you miss the last one. I think it’s only fitting that we head downtown to see this tonight.”

So we did.

Every sports bar within a mile radius of the stadium was so crowded that you couldn’t see a television or hear the commentary (although that might actually be considered a good thing by some). So we ran through the streets of the city, looking for a place with a large television and decent sound system. We found a sushi restaurant with a HUGE screen and a quiet (but still excited) crowd. David called his girlfriend to meet us there. She brought a friend. The four of us shared Sake shots every time something fantastic happened. And we ran our asses off to make it back to the stadium after the final out. But this time I never crumbled to the ground. It wasn’t intentional, it wasn’t premeditated…but I kept jumping up and down, even with a few random tears of joy streaming down my face. Last time I was on the ground, this time I was on top of the world.

People were dancing on top of cars. Others were hugging strangers. 50,000 people flooded the streets of St. Louis City…and we were all thrilled for our death-defying Cardinals.

I cried again last night, while jumping and screaming. I FINALLY got to SEE a victory (and, holy shit, game 6). But, on top of that and probably more realistically, their win signifies  the end of a long stretch of my life that was toxic. Those five years between their wins were the worst years of my life. And I’m ready to wash my hands of them.

This results in a whole new chapter for me. I’m healing and regaining some sense of myself. In fact, today my therapist asked me about the three separate Fina personas that I’d mentioned early in our sessions. She said she could see some binding happening. I agreed. The pre-abuse and post-abuse Fina are starting to really bond again. And that poor, unfortunate girl who had to suffer through a two-year nightmare is finally resting a bit, and allowing herself to heal. She doesn’t think it’s her fault anymore. And she doesn’t think she needs to fight off her every feeling and thought. She doesn’t think she needs someone or something else to save her. That Fina, the one that needs the most love, is giving it to herself.

With another win under the belts of the boys of St. Louis, I’m going to allow this to signify a brand new chapter in my life. The off-season is going to be one of acceptance, forgiveness, and healing.

I’m excited to see where the Cardinals go next season. We’ll have Wainwright back on the mound, along with my boyfriend Chris Carpenter. Like the rest of the city, I’m hoping that Pujols is back too. But I’m even more excited to see how this new-found strength and peace carries over for me. Who knows where I’ll be on opening day…

Cry About It.

There’s something about recognizing pain that makes it more bearable. Trying to silence a loud hurt only makes it more prominent. Who wants pain to be the keeper of their heart?

This week I talked to the sadness, instead of only acknowledging its existence. I told it that I was listening, so it spoke softly in kind words and slowly took a backseat to everything else. Suddenly the pain and anguish, the resentment, the agony of living with heartbreak seems so much less important than breathing and loving.

Today, my heart is screaming praise and thanks.I can’t believe what I’ve done to myself, blackening the part of me that is my strength. Now, she’s free again. She’s free to love and trust herself, which makes it okay to feel safe in loving and trusting others.

Last time I talked about freedom, I spoke of forgiveness. Isn’t it funny how life teaches you, in an instant, that you will never be an expert?

Have you ever taken a step that seems so large that you can’t possibly begin to explain it? A moment that makes you realize you’ll never be the same only makes life seem so much more worthwhile. Pain doesn’t have to be constant. You just have to tell it that it’s okay if it backs off for a bit.

Driving isn’t hard. I’m not scared when people smile. I let a laugh out that was so big, my voice was broken the next day. After, I landed safely in an open room. Walls were nonexistent. And the light started growing without me asking it to come. There was a warmth without extra layers.

All it took was a little empathy for myself. All I did was accept that I’m hurting. Love really is simple.

I don’t need others to show me love today because I learned how to love myself.

Don’t ever resent sadness. Don’t ever make it impossible for yourself to live on your own. Don’t keep yourself down. Accept that things are ugly. Cry about them. Scream. Become overwhelmed with anxiety and hurt. Tell your heart that you’re listening and it won’t be so loud. In fact, it’ll thank you for trying.

I know mine did. And, tonight, I’m rejoicing in the work that I’ve been doing.

Holy shit, it’s really working.

 

It’s Mike.

It’s Mike.

I’m tired of lying for him and protecting his identity. Mike is my ex-boyfriend. Mike is an abuser.

My therapist told me that she feels I’m ready to start talking about Mike now. So, to signify this milestone, I’m going to stop referring to him as a character. He’s a real person with reckless tendencies, ones that haunt me in my sleep. Every Monday night I dream of him. In the furthest recesses of my mind, I dream that he apologizes. Other times I feel his fingers close around my throat. But the scariest moments are in the dreams where the man that I fell in love with returns to ask for forgiveness and tell me that he loves me. Sometimes I let him wrap his arms around me and gently lift me off the ground. I let him hold me until the world slows down around us. I smile, knowing that all of the pain I went through was worth it, because he learned something and reunited we’ll be stronger.

Those are the dreams that wake me in cold sweats. Those are the ones that stay with me weeks. The rest are easy to dismantle. It’s only in the times where I fall in love with him again that I start to question if I’m actually healing. And, in the morning on my way to work, I look in every car that passes me, to see if he’s found where I live. I look out of my front door peep-hole before taking my dog outside, to be certain he’s not waiting outside for me. And I only sleep for three hours every night that week, because I’m afraid to go back to that place.

I’m rehashing this tonight, not because I’m angry or sad, but because it’s time to unveil reality. Why should I protect the identity of the man that hated me enough to make me hate myself?

Right now, 150 miles away, he’s probably at home, working on a new project for the company. His kids are probably closed into their rooms so he has silence. They probably had chicken nuggets for dinner and watched a movie while he crunched numbers. Right now, he’s probably trolling a website, looking for another victim even though a pretty blond is cleaning up after his family. She’s probably wondering what she said wrong or why he can’t step away from the computer to spend time with her.She might blow dry and straighten her hair in the morning before he gets out of bed, to be sure that his first glimpse of her reveals beauty. And she’s beautiful because she put in effort to please him.

“Good morning, baby,” will be uttered.

He’ll probably brush past her toward the bathroom, and wonder why she hadn’t already made breakfast.

Mike’s girlfriend will be upset with herself for not planning ahead enough. It would have been really easy to make him happy, if only she made eggs for breakfast, but instead she’ll deal with causing irritation. All over a fucking egg. Tomorrow she’ll wake up another hour earlier.

Mike hates women, but mostly, he hates himself. He isn’t good enough. He won’t ever gain the accolades that he wants (or thinks he deserves). And, really, it’s because society and family want him to settle down with a woman, all of which are too stupid to understand his passion. It’s the fault of every woman in his life that he doesn’t have a small amount of fame. They all held him back.

But what he doesn’t know is that I’ve given him notoriety as a man named Ike. Ike lives in a little bubble on the Internet. He is known for convincing a woman to quit her job, leave her friends and family, and abandon her own life to be a part of his, only to get thrown around like a rag doll. Ike is known for calling Fina a cunt. And he’s known because I’ve allowed him to live here, safely, without ever really explaining that I couldn’t come up with an awful enough name to describe him, so I chose Ike because of Tina and pop-culture. I chose Ike because I wouldn’t have to explain. I chose Ike because I didn’t think I was a strong enough writer to use foreshadowing effectively without the help of the name.

But now I’m choosing to uncover more of this story, because he doesn’t deserve to be hidden away anymore. And now I’m brave enough to stand here and say that he’s too big of a coward to do anything about it. Mike is his name. Mike is the monster.

I know he isn’t here. I know he will never find me. And, now, I know that if he ever located this (and figured out it is about him) he would be too worried about his reputation to step foot near me.

It was only behind closed doors that he had any power, so I’ve decided to put him on display.

Haters Gon’ Hate

Well, you know, it was bound to happen at some point. Some idiot on the Internet stumbled here and decided to graffiti my comments with foulness. Here is the comment:

 

Why is it always about you Fina? Why are you so desperate for attention that you have to try to make every situation about you, try to shock people with your language and always try to make everyone who reads this junk feel sorry for you. Sorry girlfriend. You just need to get a life, and get busy living it instead of lamenting about “poor unfortunate you” every time you get on the net. Your life is no more important that the millions of others out there, but fortunately they dont feel the need to have to bring theirs to the spotlight. You do have a problem. Its called “Poor Me Syndrome”. The only cure for it is to reach out and help others who are much worse off than you. If you do this, you may actually see how vain your life is, and what the importance of living is about.

 

I’m assuming this person doesn’t know me personally because, if they did, they would never have written that I need to reach out and help others who are much worse off than myself. 

I’ll also assume that they haven’t taken any amount of time to read through the archives. 
And, if they have, I’ll say that anyone who thinks I should shrug off what I’ve been through is, clearly, ignorant.

Finally, I’ll say this:

Dear friend who used a fake email address to write an anonymous comment on my blog. Your first mistake was asking why my life is more important than anyone else’s. Obviously, it’s not. I’ve never said that. You’re more than welcome to walk away from my blog and never come back. Unfortunately you chose to comment. So now here is what I have to say to you:

You’re on my blog. It’s my release. My escape. A virtual hide-a-way. I didn’t personally invite you here. And, quite frankly, if I want to talk about loving cheese pizza I can do that. Unfortunately that’s not the biggest of my worries. Unfortunately, I’m dealing with things that I dare not wish upon anyone else. If you’re sick of hearing me talk about the issues that are most important to me, forget I exist and move along. Oh, and for the record, PTSD is a disorder. I’m living with it. That’s what’s wrong with me. 

Next time you want to judge someone else, take a few minutes to get to know them. I’ve laid it all out for you to do that. Did you take that opportunity? No, probably not.

My one true gift in life is giving to others. And if your goal was to offend me, your ignorance to my duty and work did just that. As an educator, I feel it’s absolutely vital that you know all of the facts before you judge someone else. Clearly, this lesson didn’t sink in during your schooling. I’m so sorry that happened to you. 

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Haters Gon’ Hate. 

 

 

It’s Getting Darker Here

The sun is fading earlier now and, with this change, comes others that I’ve known were inevitable. The memories of those two years of life come quicker, I’m having nightmares again, and he’s always on my mind. Of course, this is to be expected while healing. Facing it all takes more courage than it did to stay and even more than it did to leave, and I’m finding that I’m stronger than I’ve ever acknowledged. Still, the pain cuts deep, the light dims faster, and my happiness grows and fades at an accelerated pace.

Today I’m sad yet hopeful. School is starting again. I think it’ll bring back a bit of consistency that I’ve lacked over the last two months. I’m hoping it keeps me busy enough that my brain doesn’t wander back to the emptiness. Work allows me to give love freely. I really need that strength right now.

I’m angry at him again. In fact, this weekend, while with friends that I rarely get to see, it was hard for me to say “I’ve forgiven him.” A phrase I’ve uttered so many times over the past year is difficult to speak again. So I’m really struggling with being pleased with this process. It’s as if I have to move backward first. Back toward the things I’ve fought so long to walk away from. Love or hate them, you can’t deny that these words speak my truth.

Last Wednesday, at my fourth session, my therapist forced me to discuss my family. Our dynamic and my role in it. I walked out of the hour with her feeling as if I’ll always be the black sheep and, maybe, the best I can do is learn to accept that and deal with it. But, again, that’s all on me.

While I know that I can’t control other people, their feelings, thoughts, and/or beliefs, it still pisses me off that I have to deal with how they’ve changed me. It seems so tragically sad that people, who are supposed to love you unconditionally, can be so mean, so ignorant to this, and so oblivious to their role. I won’t deny that I’ve made decisions that have hurt others, but my participation is always acknowledged and, eventually, I try to fix my mistakes.  I can’t say this human right has ever been reciprocated to me by the people who would help the most.

This week I was only told to pay attention to how our revelations made me feel. I’m not supposed to act on them. So I sit and think about them, I cry about them, and I think about hitting my head against the wall because of them. I don’t act on the anger or sadness. I just let them sit there…and I document them, so that I can take the notes back for our next session where we’ll rip open wounds that I have forgotten exist.

I started this blog a year ago. Really, one year ago this week. Did you know that? I didn’t expect this is where I would be sitting, how I would be feeling, a year after I started writing this. And although my expectations of myself are always unrealistic, this one might sting the most. I don’t know if I wanted to be loved more, love myself more, or give love others more but there was a want that has yet to be met. It’s disappointing.

August is going to be the hottest month of the year. It’s also setting itself up to be the darkest. With that said, I’m going to be forced to invest in a better flashlight. I can make it through this. It’s just going to take a while.

In The City…

It’s been one month since I moved back closer to home. I’m at the opposite end of the city, but I’m here…and it’s surreal. The last month has proven to be one of healing. I’m working my butt off to get back on my feet and become the woman I want to be. One week after moving here, I started my domestic abuse therapy and three weeks later, I was diagnosed with PTSD.

I mentioned this briefly via Facebook and Twitter. I even wrote a ‘quickie’ to announce it. But as the diagnosis set in and minutes became hours, which have now become days, I’ve really struggled with it.

It’s an interesting dynamic, actually. Initially, I found comfort in being able to pinpoint what was causing the behaviors unique to post-abuse Fina. Then, I started really resenting the fact that I had to waste time labeling anything (i.e. Why the fuck do I have to be diagnosed with anything? Haven’t I suffered enough already?). And now, almost one-week  since my diagnosis, I’m really, really struggling to find a solid place. One minute I’m relieved, the next I’m angry, and the next I want to lay in bed for the rest of the day to avoid anything that might trigger a PTSD response.

Most people relate PTSD with war veterans and, truth be told, I’m starting to feel like my life has become an internal battle. I avoid enemies until I’m ready to make my attack, if approached too rapidly I will defend myself at all costs, and (the worst part for me) I tip-toe through situations I deem dangerous, to be certain I don’t trip any land mines. I’m, literally, waiting for everything to blow up around me. It feels better to keep myself protected: to lie to those close to me so they don’t know how much I struggle, to overcompensate when I’m uncomfortable by laughing it all away…it’s all painful. It’s all scary. It’s the worst place I’ve ever lived my life…even worse than suffering the abuse.

Sometimes I detach from the emotions I’m feeling, so that I can look at them objectively…as the ‘real’ Fina would. In truth, I think that’s where this blog started. It was a way to detach, observe, and analyze the life I was living without having to do any real work. But I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat in front of a computer and reread the entries, starting at one, to see what they revealed to me on that particular day or how many times I’ve cried because I was still feeling the pain. I was reliving it through my words. The objectivity was lost. And, some nights, so was I.

Somewhere between the life I was living in the country and the life I wanted to lead in the city, I was clawing at ghosts that wouldn’t let me escape. Now I am facing those ghosts and it’s more terrifying, grotesque, and ugly than I’d imagined.

But I see now that there is an exit. I don’t know how long it will take me to reach it and that exhausts me. I’m scared to know that I could live with this for longer than I’d really like. I know I have to put in work and, quite frankly, the energy that requires comes and goes from my daily life.

On the verge of something great, I tend to back away, fearful that I’ll never reach what I came to do. I’m scared of failure…always have been. But the stakes are too high this time. I either cower in the shadows and allow this darkness inside to linger, to stifle the light that used to lead me to the greatest places. Or, I step out of the blackness and let it consume me for just a bit longer, knowing that the confrontation won’t last forever and I’ll come out on the other side a better person.

I’m terrified, friends. I hate where I am right now. But there is no turning back.

Week One

I refuse to turn on the internet until I start getting paychecks from the new district. I start working at the new school the first week of August, but I won’t be getting paid until the last week of September. That sucks. A lot. So no Internet, no tv…just a smart phone, some books, a girl and her dog. It’s pretty peaceful, actually. Unplugging has really helped me solidify some happiness that I hadn’t anticipated staying around so long. It’s also made the time between each post ridiculously long.

It’s not a hassle to take care of myself anymore. Sometimes, I even find myself taking time away to pamper myself. Which is good since my new therapist told me I need to focus on doing that for the first few weeks of sessions.

I met her for the first time last Wednesday. She was nice, young-enough looking, and her clothes were professional enough (but still trendy), so I think that we can get along. She understood, almost immediately, that my biggest struggle is with myself.

I’m okay owning up to past events. My name is Fina. I was abused. But I’m not okay with my participation in the whole thing.

The girl before the abuse.

The girl in the abusive relationship (the victim).

The girl trying to live with the fact that she has a whole lot of life left to live.

Each girl talks to me on her own time. When I need to be strong or meet new people I’m the girl before the abuse. If I need to avoid confrontation, the victim easily takes over…but the girl that’s here now, well, she’s not really sure where she fits in yet. So I’m hoping my therapist can help me with that.  She says that it’s great that I can analyze my growth/development in this way. And that it means that I’ve done most of the work on my own, claiming that I could go really far with three months of sessions. That was the first time I doubted her. She says I’m just doubting myself. I know she’s right.

We went over the basics at our first meeting, yet I still left and cried all day. Everything triggered tears.

Anyway, I go again next Wednesday morning. She forewarned me that we’d be talking about the actual events soon. I know this whole thing is going to be painful, but I’m uncertain that I really remember what that pain feels like. I guess I’m just going to take it one day at a time, and realize that, if I could walk away from the relationship, I can certainly deal with the aftermath. After all, if I want to move forward, away from the James era of chasing something that was never going to happen, I have to allow myself to believe that I deserve more than that. I’ll get there.

It’s days like today that I feel a bit proud. It’s not easy to talk about this stuff. Most people can’t understand what I’ve been through. Some do, but refuse to talk about it, because it triggers their own pain. And some are so personally hurt by my situation that they focus far too much on their hurt than on the fact that I took the worst of it. Through all of that, I’m not blaming anyone else for not being there for me. I’m understanding that it’s the card that I was dealt and I need to learn to do things on my own anyway. Maybe I’ve just always expected others to pick me up. Maybe now’s the time for me to let go of all of that.

I’m doing alright on my own. My name is Fina. I’m a survivor. I don’t need anyone else to help me back to my feet, because I’m not letting anyone knock me off of them anymore.