This piece of writing is dedicated to any man or woman who has undergone a traumatic and possibly abusive relationship.  Maybe you didn’t have anyone to talk to?  Maybe you said too much… either way, we all must relish in the strength of knowing that we are not alone.  People make mistakes, missed judgements and snap decisions can lead to unhealthy behaviors; we are all human.  This is a compilation of an ongoing story of so many, and the stigma that we must keep quiet has got to end.  Here’s to being honest, finding true love in your self, and learning to let go. 

It’s supposed to hurt, that’s how know it meant something” -Peter Pan   

The first time I saw your face,
I looked into your eyes and felt safe.
You were strong.  Stronger than me.
You could protect me.  Keep me safe.

So I took my heart and my head and I placed them in your arms, because frankly I was so tired of carrying all this weight alone.  I wasn’t afraid.  I was confident… wide open. I was secure in your abilities and in my judgement.  Brutally honest.

I looked into your face, and I felt…. comfortable… and while yes there were scars of track marks from relationships come and gone, I never thought I’d be the one cut so deep.  Cut off.  Cut out.  Cut up.  Upper cutted.  Under cut.  Cut. Down.

One day.  Your face changed.  It started taking on different shapes.  At the beginning there was the way you looked at me with love, and what I took to be kindness. And then the kindness turned to tension. Jealousy. Distrust.  Skepticism. You started looking at me with rage. Brutal. Sheer. Mad. Unjustified.  Anger.  Not reasonable.  Not comprehendible.  Not fair. Not mine to own. And I still thought I had to face you. My brutal best friend.

Your lips that were once soft as silk ran sharp.  Your ears stopped listening. Every story I told was meddled and warped into your own version of this illusion.  You lied.  So many times…

I stopped looking you in the eyes.  They were unreal, though they still hid your spark deep down, your mouth spoke otherwise.  Your actions told differently.  I could see it in your eyes.  How blinded by your own scars you were.  How even you couldn’t hear how terribly you treated me. And I reacted just as poorly. I pushed just as hard. I yelled just as loud. I fell just as far.

I stopped looking you in the eyes and started looking at your hands.  The hands that grabbed me and held me, down, against my will.  The hands that scribed message after message of impurity and manipulation. disgusting.  The same hands that once held me so safe  became the face of your brutality.  Your hands shattered what was left of any chance we had in love.

Your face still looks safe… an illusion that causes me to doubt my own self so hard that I refused to face reality.  Your hands feel safe in the way a mother screaming at her child to stop crying feels like comfort.  Safe in the way that’s the only safe I’d ever really known.  But it was an illusion.  And I finally caught  glimpse of reality, before it was too late.

It took at least two years of redefining my self worth to see that there are other faces.  Other eyes to see and ears to listen.  Other hands to hold, other arms to feel safe. That my OWN security had to come from within me, and not within your arms or Fæsbök.

And from this day forward, I will more than eagerly walk towards my future with gratitude, knowing that because I met you, I now understand what the face of brutality looks like; and I will never again look away in love.

❤
MissConflict