I have held that terrible time against you
and against myself for many years now.
I felt shame that I found myself in such
a vulnerable situation,
embarrassed that I didn’t see
what must have been obvious—
or not,
since you were (are) quite adept
at disguising that abusive part of who you are.

I have carried that time in my body,
shrinking back with fear
when a voice was raised or a jaw clenched,
unable to push myself out of that
memory that surrounds me,
pulling me back to that out-of-control
scene where I felt trapped and afraid.
Or even when a loving arm moved too fast,
my breath catching in alarm.

But recently, I have felt an internal shift—
particularly with the news of abused women
being killed by their abusers.
And I know that I acted with as much
self-protection as I could muster,
rising above my body and watching,
sinking low and going limp so
blows met no resistance,
moving from active to passive
with no conscious thought.

I now see that I need feel no shame.
I wasn’t stupid or naive.
Instead, I was blindsided, innocent
of the possibility of such cruelty.
And that awareness makes me grateful.
I can count myself among people
who rose above their oppressor,
stopped resistance that fueled fury,
recognized the power of detachment.

I count myself lucky for getting away,
staying away,
listening to that inner voice that said, “No!”
pushing back denial that suggested
I was wrong, happy I didn’t fall for
nice words covering harsh actions.
But I also understand those who didn’t get away,
who were yanked quite literally back, and
who didn’t survive the brutality.

I am grateful for the compassion I feel,
the lack of judgement,
the awareness that like a fish
caught in a net,
sometimes getting away will not happen.
And for those who do escape,
healing moves at a glacial pace,
until walls begin to crack
and light, however feeble, shines in.

Though this story comes from long ago, the lessons it offered continue to unfold.