Don’t fuss; don’t fight.

It’s been so long. I don’t even know what I’m doing back here. It was just….muscle memory. To come back. To write. To pour my soul on the page and pray the trauma releases from my body.

I’m so tired.

I won’t ever stop fighting. But I’m tired. And hell, maybe I’m supposed to stop the fight. I dunno.

But it’s Mother’s Day weekend. It’s the anniversary of the things that went down. And I know there have been dozens of new moments I’ve created over the years. Hundreds of breaths and joys. Love and gratitude that abound. Yet still it’s the attack that trumps. And it feels inaccurate to call it an attack, and yet I don’t know what to call it. The violation. The event. The irreparable damage. The….memory.

There are many events and people I’ve let go of over the years. This one keeps sticking. I don’t have to know the hows and whys of it. I mostly accept that it’s simply part of the experience I’m experiencing. I have a harder time with….my body not being able to forget. That the memory and the trauma are still here and continue to linger. When I might be free of it. That it can sometimes feel so toxic and debilitating and sharp.

I have a hard time…..being in the present with it. Because I’m still so angry. Because I continue to feel violated. Because I’ve come up with every excuse for himself and still can’t simply sit with the terrified little girl who knew she wasn’t safe…..but kept hoping against hope that maybe she was safe enough.

The reality was, I wasn’t safe. I didn’t know better and didn’t have tools to do better or demand better. I didn’t know it was bad enough that I should have left. The reality was….I truly was doing the best I could. It’s probably time I start making peace with that. And accept reality even if I didn’t like it and even if it hurt like hell.

I’m not required to keep hurting. I surrender this. Little by little. To the best of my ability.

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