The October Truth

My name is Christina.

I write to save my life.  I blog to chronicle my healing.

I am a survivor of DV.   I have been raped, and hit, and thrown. 

I have been stalked, intimidated and bullied.

I have PTSD and I deal with it best I can.

It is not my fault that these incidents happened.

I did not make him do any of those things to me.

I am scared every day.

I am not the women I was before.

 

I speak the truth, and no one can take that from me.

 

No one can beat it out of me.

No one can subdue me to silence.

No one can ever hurt me. 

Again.

awareness

 

 

My Kungfu Boss

(via mobile)

Monday, the Beast marched into my work space, quietly snarling. I was threatened with the attorney, yet again.

My Kungfu Boss, a veteran of martial arts and Professor, calmly sat with an ear cocked as he continued to sketch and witness.

I broke down not long after.

Two hours later, the Beast was served with a no trespass order by my Kungfu Boss. And for once, I didn’t lose my job, or run for my life.

Note to self: Wear Clean Panties

Every day is an adventure.

Every day we roll out of bed and open the door.  There are high roads, there are low roads, offered every day.  We would all take the high road if we could.  The air is fresh and clear as far as our eyes can see.  The high road beckons, because it’s so much easier.

Some days though, the high road is closed for maintenance and so, we must take the low road or go nowhere fast.

Honestly, I’ve sat by the maintenance sign for months, nursing my wounds in recovery while waiting for the high road to open.  I’ve eyed the low dark road, shaking my head as the familiar sounds of pain and misery waft from its shadows.

So it’s no surprise that I’ve gone nowhere fast.

Today I dusted off my butt as I took a single step into the dark low road.  I emailed the Beast about parent time and I’m bracing for impact from His attorney.

It is more than swallowing pride, for the fear boils in my stomach.  I’m frightened of the unknowns on the low road.

It is much more than fighting for time with my child.  It is battling the PTSD and confronting the abuse from the Beast.

Someone special decided to love me as I am, and for that, I feel strongly beautiful.  I’m on Pink cloud no.9.   Being in love gave me the gentle push I needed.

Dear Lord, I pray I have clean panties on, because I am scared just a little bit more than shitless.

The Nobility of Lowly Beasts

“His kiss is softly menacing with obsession, warmly chilled with sickly sweetness, a poisoned apple chunk stuck in my throat, intent on rotting me from the inside out.”  quote from the book “Finding Tina 1” by C.L. Bolin

 

When I wrote the first book last year and published it, I never realized how toxic abuse had made me until I went looking for one of my own quotes today.  I knew abuse had made me physically ill and made me spiritually and mentally a trainwreck.  Abuse shifted my boundaries into No-Man’s Land.  Things happened to me continually, and I let them happen, not by choice but by survival.   The book was centered around my mate’s addiction(s) and abuse tactics, who at the time was the father of my child.  Thank you Lord, I physically escaped him in 2010.

A year later, I let a phone call happen for thirty minutes.  I allowed him to cut loose and say whatever he wanted.  Being called a worthless, white trash poor whore.. admitting he withheld my income to force me home.. Damn.  I did not really argue, or fight.  I did guide parts of the conversation into dangerous waters.  But I let the conversation happen, and not by choice.. but by survival.  You see, he was being recorded the entire time and I wanted proof he was not the sugar-coated goody persona behind closed doors.  He hadn’t changed.  He was worse.

I’ve held on to this recording for three years along with everything else.

And just when I think he’s healing.. that maybe he’s better.. I should have learned by now that Quiet does not equal Healing.  Hence, the quote I was searching for.  He is rotting from the inside out.  One would think three years is enough time to recover.  One would think he would think twice about diddling in my life anymore.  But he runs like clockwork, on schedule, and judging by the calendar he’s right on time.

The beginning of this September, he made a casual call to put my state help in flux, effectively taking his child’s meals off my table until it gets sorted out.  He pays no child support, or alimony, I ask for nothing of him.   I begged them to leave him alone.  Why awaken the Beast of Hell?

But apparently, one lying phone call is all it takes to starve someone.   It became the Prickled Bomb in my Glass House.

He reminds me more and more, that he is more so a bottomfeeder politician material than the Beast of Hell.. because even the lowliest of beasts feed their children before thinking about themselves.

Prickled Bombs in Glass Houses

“When I throw a cactus at another with my bare hands, we both get hurt.”

I don’t recall who wrote this, but every day it seems the words run through my head in a ticker tape.

This morning, the words are blurred and smeared.  I cried hard this morning.  Today, I wish I’d never dropped the restraining order.  Today, I’m a tense ball of livid unreasonable thoughts.  For in my hands, is a toxic cactus thrown from the Desert of the Past… unflowering, unpleasant, unappetizing… so aged that it petrified to rock hardness.

He knows I fell in love with someone.  He does not want this person around.  He does not share or play well with others.   He plays dirty, and meanly.

I have just been ignoring him as much as possible.  It’s healthy for me.  I’ve been looking the other way.  Ignorance has been bliss.  I’ve been in bliss, for two weeks.  I cannot stoop to the level of scum.  It is beneath me.

Now, I’m gripping the cactus so terribly hard, that the blood runs between my fingers.  He broke a wall in my Glass House of Safety.   As I stare through the shards, I want to hurl the prickly bomb back at him.  I want him to hurt.  Nailing him to a wall is too good for him.  He is diseased and everything he touches, becomes sick.

He will not disease me.. not again.  Not ever.

But my child stand between us.  The cactus will nick her as I throw it back at him.   The glass will hurt her.  I will not throw it back.

I will not.  But I must let go of the cactus.

For now, though, it remains in my hands, painfully, until I loosen my grip.   And then I will bury it, far away from my House. 

Let go and let God, Chris.