Many the Miles
I’m putting miles in between me and the person I was with him. A movie by myself, that’s a mile. A nighttime run, that’s a mile. Dancing with friends, cheap manicures, cooking dinner, working on my tan, reading a book, climbing temples, driving boats, talking to strangers, paying it forward and asking for it back, saving myself, all miles. College, several miles. Meal plans and housing assignments and orientation and AP credits, all put miles in between me and the old me. Literally thousands. I never want to be that meek and mild girl who woke up with his hands around her throat. Who always refused to snort his cocaine. Who always gave it up just to avoid a fight. Who had to tell him to put the gun away.
He didn’t know anything about me. He didn’t know my brothers’ and sisters’ names, or that I even had any. He didn’t know the name of my school, or that I had been on the newspaper there. He didn’t know I speak French and love languages. He didn’t know my favorite band or favorite color or favorite place. He didn’t know about my social justice work and wouldn’t have supported it. Nothing.
It was exciting, in a way. I could be whoever I wanted. I could make myself up and spin a pretend personality. But the disguise of a submissive, weak girl was too exhausting to keep up. Because no matter what happened, no matter what I did or what I let him do to me, I am a strong woman. I always will be. And no one will ever abuse me again.
Every time I tell someone what I went through, that’s a mile. This entry is a mile.
