Reflecting on a time of no muscle or power, I am happy to say the war is over; I thank my maker for the final bell ending the horrific rounds in the ring; I know the tourney is done. The punches have ceased, the bruises healed, the blood has congealed; no longer a punch bag, verbally, emotionally, mentally, physically or sexually. Thankfully the referee is now redundant, the ring is empty and the judges have declared their ruling; tournament over and unlawful. The opponent is broken, the audience retreated; the auditorium an empty vessel. The sadistic cheering of the spectators is finally silenced and the silent screaming from the target is thankfully hushed and mute. The predator has been deemed incapable; disqualified for breaking the rules. The psychopath is alone and lonely.
The blows have stopped, the pain is managed, the fear suppressed. The prey fled in order to save her soul and the predator was grounded. There are no winners in a sport such as this; no medals or trophies, only sadness and despair. But in time a new peace and a different language emerge from the darkness and eventually a light shines, hope trickles and an emotional river swells and flows more freely. A new sense of trust propagates in the heart and soul. But it takes time, buckets full of time, to transcend the punches, scars, memories and propaganda. Parts of it never heal and the smallest nugget of pain remains buried deep within the brain, as a reminder of the journey. A nugget that is a relic of the past that serves to jump out now and again as a prompt of “never again.”
Domestic violence doesn’t discriminate, it can be found in every background, upbringing and social class…so don’t judge me when you don’t know me, do not underestimate me until you have understood my challenges and do not question me when you haven’t walked my journey.