The truth is, I could have been over this by now, but I haven’t chosen to be.

That is a whole bucket of truth, right there.

I am unsure of what magic key I am missing. What delirious scent of truth is bypassing my senses, what spark it is that will ignite the final piece of not being in pain. But I know that it is there, and I haven’t chosen to see it. I haven’t chosen to accept it.

I have chosen to hurt. I have chosen my mechanisms of defense. For all of these years, I have chosen to build walls, to push and to deny. I have chosen not to transcend. I have chosen, instead, to survive.

Here’s the truth about survival. It is little more than bread and water, it is little more than awake and asleep. It is not exquisite depths and heights, it is not dreams and achievement. It is status quo. It was my choice to allow what he did to me, to give me half life. This is not where you jump in and tell me that being assaulted was not my fault. I know. I know I didn’t invite his intrusion, I know I didn’t grant him permission. But what I have done is lengthen the cycle of his dysfunction.

I’ve chosen to be an asshole. I’ve chosen to be a liar. I have chosen to hurt in my hurt, I have chosen to rail in my pain. Those choices were wrong. I am choosing differently now. This is where the circle breaks. Where the lines disconnect and I start to ply new shapes into what I once thought so static, so immovable. This is where I mourn the loss of the young woman I never got to be. I choose to let her sleep, instead of searching every experience for her eyes. I choose to let her rest, instead of making her the centerpiece of my battle.

Because even more truth? She is safe now, and I have to choose to believe it. The moment the assault stopped, she was safe. My dreams are lies. They are my version of my worst fears, which are nothing that haven’t already happened. What more do I have to fear?

And so what if I lose this casket of fat that I close myself in, and I am not beautiful? Is it so much worse than living in a walking reminder of how I have chosen to survive? How much can one set of bones bear? How many different lives can one body live, in 32 years? How much time do I have to set it right?

I don’t know, but this broken, hurting woman cannot go on. She is bent and tired, she is begging for me to help. I am choosing to let her rest, too. I am picking up the sword, and choosing to fight. Because I am choosing to believe, that I am worth it. In no way does the hurt stop today, but I am choosing to do what it takes to rise above. None of these things are out of my hands.

Related posts