My junior year of high school, I was assigned to write a journal entry about something that had happened to me that is really hard for me to talk about with other people for my English 11 class. I decided to write about the abusive relationship that I endure my sophomore year of high school. It didn't last very long, but that really doesn't matter when it comes to abusive in any form. I have never revealed the identity of the person who did this to me, and I never will. I feel that it is not important to give him a name. It's not about him... it's about me and my feelings. To this day I still live with the effects of that relationship.
September 5, 2011
Today it finally ends.
I'm through being treated like a punching bag. I'm a human, for God's sake. I'm fragile, I break, I bruise, I hurt, and just like every other human, I cry. I cry today, right now, but they are not tears of sorrow and pain this time. No, they are tears of relief. Relief from the torture I've been living with for the past month. Yes, I know a month doesn't seem like a very long time; some might call me fortunate for only having to endure for 30 days. Some have had, or are having, it worse than me, too. He never cut me, never laughed about hurting me, never meant to harm me...it just happened.
He was so upset today when I texted him. Fearing for my life, I couldn't do it in person, so I broke up with him over a text. I didn't want to. I'm bigger than that, but not big enough to stand up to him if he were to freak out like all those other times. And this time he would have had good reason, unlike past fits he'd threw.
I remember the first time he ever hurt me- band camp.
We were goofing off, playing, pushing each other a little, but he pushed a little too hard. Bang! My back hit the door, the soft skin of my elbow catching the corner just hard enough to slice my delicate skin. I have a small scar now, and a few more to match.
Mom knows everything now. She said she'd been worried about me for a while, but she knew it was a delicate situation. She'd always ask me about the bruises on my wrists, but I would just wave her off, saying he'd "gotten a little too rough."
Yesterday, I looked my naked self over in the mirror. My eyes followed the contours of my thin figure, noticing every blotch of purple and brown. I am ugly. He ruined me. “Covered in scars and bruises, who will ever want this now?” I said as tears streamed down my face.
I have to look at that face every day. The face that had no remorse as his hand met my cheek, the mouth that said "I'm so sorry," the eyes that mocked me as I stood in astonishment, the man who beat me without punishment.
I will never be able to hide from that face.
Today it finally ends.
I'm through being treated like a punching bag. I'm a human, for God's sake. I'm fragile, I break, I bruise, I hurt, and just like every other human, I cry. I cry today, right now, but they are not tears of sorrow and pain this time. No, they are tears of relief. Relief from the torture I've been living with for the past month. Yes, I know a month doesn't seem like a very long time; some might call me fortunate for only having to endure for 30 days. Some have had, or are having, it worse than me, too. He never cut me, never laughed about hurting me, never meant to harm me...it just happened.
He was so upset today when I texted him. Fearing for my life, I couldn't do it in person, so I broke up with him over a text. I didn't want to. I'm bigger than that, but not big enough to stand up to him if he were to freak out like all those other times. And this time he would have had good reason, unlike past fits he'd threw.
I remember the first time he ever hurt me- band camp.
We were goofing off, playing, pushing each other a little, but he pushed a little too hard. Bang! My back hit the door, the soft skin of my elbow catching the corner just hard enough to slice my delicate skin. I have a small scar now, and a few more to match.
Mom knows everything now. She said she'd been worried about me for a while, but she knew it was a delicate situation. She'd always ask me about the bruises on my wrists, but I would just wave her off, saying he'd "gotten a little too rough."
Yesterday, I looked my naked self over in the mirror. My eyes followed the contours of my thin figure, noticing every blotch of purple and brown. I am ugly. He ruined me. “Covered in scars and bruises, who will ever want this now?” I said as tears streamed down my face.
I have to look at that face every day. The face that had no remorse as his hand met my cheek, the mouth that said "I'm so sorry," the eyes that mocked me as I stood in astonishment, the man who beat me without punishment.
I will never be able to hide from that face.