Spitfire Words

“It wasn’t that bad.” I tell myself, looking at the girl who ended her life when I didn’t.

“He never hit me.” I tell myself, watching the woman talk about how she feared for her life when he raised his fist.

“Sometimes he was good to me.” I remember as I justify the times that he was bad.

“I didn’t fight hard enough.” I condemn myself as I remember how many things I let slide until I didn’t even know what to fight for.

“I was lazy.” I recall, watching in retrospect as he cleaned the house and I sat, mindless in front of the TV.

“I was just as bad.” I think of all the things I did that I knew annoyed him and how frustrated he must have been with me.

“I was never scared.” I compare my fear of always being trapped to the fear those women felt when guns were pointed at their heads.

I compare, contrast, find differences. I was never beaten. I was never starved. I was never locked away.

And when those women speak I feel ashamed, because his words can’t have been as bad as her husband’s fists. Because one violent event doesn’t equal years of trauma. Because even though I feel I know those things are true, when she says she was scared to leave, I remember wishing on every shooting star for a way out.

I try to remind myself that abuse isn’t comparable. My mind was destroyed even though my body was intact. And maybe he would have hit me. And maybe he wouldn’t. He did take my freedom. He did threaten to take my child. He did threaten to take my life. And I left before I could find out whether finger shaped bruises would turn into fist shaped bruises.

And that isn’t something to ever be ashamed of.