Abuse is like having every bone in your body broken, then being ordered to rise up or face the consequences. Once you break something, it becomes something else. No longer what it was made for. Even though the bones may heal, you remain misshapen and broken, ever reminded of the damage that was inflicted upon you, by the ache in your muscles and joints, the heart motor that doesn’t quite keep its rhythm, but ticks along out of fear that its stopping might be preferable. The scars remain visible in your countenance; the sad look in your eyes despite the laughter lines.
Every once in a while you allow yourself to fall back into a heap and let your bones settle as they have reset, rather than trying to stand tall, because that is what you have been trained to do. Not because you wanted to, but because you had no other choice. But nothing is comfortable and, even the tired heap is not tolerable for long. So you fidget and move around and, learn never to stop moving just in case your joints lock and you can no longer articulate, or breathe without being in immense pain.
Abusers are bastards and, should be punched in the face, because by that point it’s already too late for them to be anything else.
The irony and, most unfortunate affectation of any abuse is that it teaches you that it’s ok, normal and acceptable, whether self inflicted or inflicted on others. It makes a mockery of trust and fealty. It makes us incapable of drawing lines, so we learn to draw circles, ever destined to repeat old patterns. Like the cogs of a machine already well oiled and set in perpetual motion. It makes us believe that through self governance any old crap that we are fed and are consuming is in some way good for us.
Abuse is akin to a religion, in that it takes dedicated grooming over years, indoctrination of habits and learned behaviours that develop with continued exposure, but that are no more than one person exerting their will over another. Even if only imagined. One person getting away with the murder of another, even if all that is killed is the spirit and will to engage fully with life and continue. It’s still a violation.

So here I stand, broken and in pain, still standing tall even though I don’t want to because it hurts. Wishing that I could, of my own free will, without fear of reprisals. All I want is to start again. Erase the memories that still linger and have killed my spirit and damaged my physical body beyond repair.
Perhaps my next life will be better. Perhaps my parents will be gentle and kind next time and teach me to feel valued for the person that I am, and not the person that they see me as. A mistake and a shadow, a doormat to have the world wipe it’s shoes on, because their parents and, all of society told them it was ok to be that way. Maybe next time.

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4 thoughts on “The Queen of Spears

  1. It’s difficult to read of so much pain and know that words cannot offer any respite. Words are all we have to describe the hope that somewhere in there is a strong will to take that next wobbly and miserable step that moves away from the pain and the avatar that brings it. Then do it again, again, and again. One step at a time, keep moving toward the light.

    1. Words are packages of magic that can ignite fires from afar. They can give warmth and solace, and can change the course of lives. Words have always been my release and my salve, so to be gifted them by another is always a blessing and a pleasure. Thank you for yours, they are very much appreciated. 🙂

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