Writer's Workshop Wednesday ~ I have a secret, by Anonymous

I have a secret.

I am a liar.

I am an enabler. 

I did not fall down the stairs. I did not trip. I did not fall. I'm not a klutz or accident prone.

I do know where my bruises are from.

I'm a master of deception. I can look you in the eyes and tell you everything is fine. I can say that even as I die a little more inside.

You know me.

I'm your daughter, your sister, your friend, your neighbor, a fellow blogger. You know me, but you don't really know me, or everything I hide from you.

I am ashamed. I am embarrassed. I am guilty. I am afraid.

I'm not even sure how I ended up here. It happened a little bit at a time. It started with the hurtful words, the loss of my self worth and self esteem. When he had me down, down, down as far as I could go, when I knew I was worth nothing, and no one else would want me, I was resigned. He was the only one who would put up with me, who would want me, and God knows, I could never make it on my own. I'm worthless. I'm useless. I need him to survive. I can't make it on my own. No one else wants me. I'm ugly. I'm fat. I'm stupid. When I knew my place . . .

The little things began. The shoving. The pinching. The slapping. Not too much, just enough. Just enough to put me in my place. I had to be good, to do what he says, and he wouldn't hurt me. If I do as he says, he'll treat me right.

And he's always sorry, right? He always apologizes. He really does love me. He doesn't mean to hurt me. I make him do it.

And the shoves turn into slamming me against the wall, throwing me down the stairs. The hair pulling turns into dragging me through the house by my hair. The slaps turn into punches, his fist slamming my lessons into my face. 

If I don't listen, he'll choke me, slam me through a window, or worse, get out the gun. 

Until I'm left cowering in a corner, afraid that next time he'll kill me. That next time, he won't stop.

Then he started disappearing. Staying out all night, coming and going as he pleased. There were other women, the proof was on his FB, in his texts, on his phone. The way he smelled when he came home.

If I told him I knew, he'd hurt me. I have no right to go through his private things. Who do I think I am? Just who in the hell do I think I am to touch his phone, go through his messages?

No, better to live with the knowledge then to confront him. I'm not good enough for anyone, not even for him. Of course he has to turn to other women.

So I lie. I lie to him, to myself, to my friends, and to my family. I live in misery and fear and I lie.

He's a liar, too. He has everyone so fooled. He's such a great guy, we have such a great marriage, we're so much in love. We're so happy. You all believed it. For years, you believed it.

Besides, he told me if I ever told anyone, he would kill me. If I ever leave him, he'll find me. He will track me down and he will kill me.

So who can I tell? Who can help me?

I've had a loaded gun held to my head. I've been choked. I've been put in the hospital. I've had my face reconstructed. I've been used. I've been raped. I've been forced to have sex with other men. Hit, slapped, shoved, drugged, beaten to within an inch of my life, and I know I'm worthless.

Between two marriages, between two men, there's little abuse I haven't seen. 

I got away once. From the first one.

You'd think I'd learned my lessons.

I found my way into another man's arms and he only held me for so long before he started slamming me around, too.

It's all a blur. So many years. Sometimes, I can't remember who did what. Which one had the gun, which one used his fists? All of the abuse assimilates itself into one story and the faces blur into one, and I can't tell them apart. I just know I've been pushed down, so far down, and beaten into a ghost of myself. Seventeen years of abuse and I can't tell them apart anymore.

I'm a liar. Because I'll smile and tell you I'm okay.

I'm an enabler. Because I don't leave.

I have a secret.

I'm your daughter, your sister, your friend, your neighbor, a fellow blogger.

You know me.

But you don't really know me.

I hardly know myself anymore. 

I don't understand how I got here. Again. I got away once. This time, I will run so far, far away I'll never be found again.

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