Compare Not

I did a terrible thing.  I read the stories of survivors and compared my story with theirs.  I actually thought "My story isn't nearly as tragic." Oh.  But it is.  The sexual abuse I still cannot speak or write about.  The verbal abuse that lingers in my head like a black monster in my head on my darkest days.  The emotional torment that played tricks on my psyche.  The constant anxiety of never being good enough no matter what I did.  The threat of what was to come if I didn't succumb.  Feeling absolutely numb.  The isolation from friends and family.  The mask of complete happiness when deep down I was dying a little more everyday.  The loss of my own inner voice.  Add it all up and it's pretty tragic.  His words punched me.  He got his actual punch in the physical form and that was the last time.  The one and only time.  But what about the times he got in my face screaming at me, calling me bitch and a whore?  Or the countless times he shoved me against the wall?  Or how about the time he purposely broke something I absolutely treasured?  Getting in my face when I needed my personal space?  The money he stole.  It can't be recovered.  It's on the street corner like a crack whore, now.  And just what about those countless times I did actually succumb?  Coming away from it all feeling like a used, cheap prostitute.  His idea of romance was telling me to perform oral sex on him or "You will regret you were ever born."  That.  That I resisted.  And I paid.  My soul came away bruised.  Oh, and the countless lies.  Or maybe his absolute truth of telling me he would bring "other women in" to "show me."  I never felt like a woman around him.  I felt like a child begging.  Which is why I still find it rather difficult and strange to say "please" and "thank you." 

No.  Do not compare.  Abuse is abuse and it's tragic, no matter how it's played out.  I find the punch is the easiest for me to forget.  The verbal much more difficult to maneuver around.  The intense threats that came at a moment's notice.  Always catching me off guard, which was his whole idea.  Keep me under wraps.  The good thing is that I didn't play submissive very well.  It just isn't in my nature, no matter what anyone might think.  I was born with a mouth and I used it.  But that's the thing, it was always a fight.  An extreme confrontation.  He knew I would do anything to avoid confrontation and that I would be the one to apologize first just to keep the peace.  There was no peace.  Peace found me the night I left with my baby in tow.  Even then, I knew I was entering into the biggest battle of my life.  God, but I still have my writing.  My poetry.  My soul's diary.  I vowed to remain brutally honest with myself.  Thank God.  It has saved me.