We attach and detach ourselves to life situations based on how we feel about them. Joyous occasions that we didn't physically participate in become a part of our narrative solely because the recipient of our fabricated tales become happy as we talk about it. We pick and choose which parts of our actuality to share, limiting the words that shame us and suppressing feelings that burn our insides like heated acid poured slowly on an open wound. Our friends and acquaintances view our life like an Oscar winning movie they wish they had the honor to star in. Lie. Deceit. Hmmmmm, harsh words indeed, but not necessarily needed to describe the art you choose to imitate your life. I chose art that I halfway interpreted. Many times I shorted myself and illustrated it one fourth of the way. It would seem if I was honest with myself that feeling of acid wouldn't have burned so long nor flared up intermittently.
I never thought of myself as a victim of domestic violence. That's something that happened to other women. They got beat up. They got jumped on. They got cussed out, slapped and belittled. They were made to feel 100% less than the women they are. You're the pretty adjective woman that he fell in love with until that gorilla beast fist connects with your face. Then you become the adverb. Pretty ugly. Pretty dumb. Pretty insignificant.
Domestic violence didn't happen to me because it didn't happen on the regular. I got my first black eye when I was 21 and my second one when I was 48. Reading it sounds like I received medals. No need for flair or the description regarding the particulars, however one of my opponents did say,
"The reason why you got punched in the face is because..."
Negro, what? And that's negro with a short I, two G's and a short A. I will say that writing it and thinking about it doesn't hurt anymore. What happened during the years in between is not something I'll go into detail about, yet I remember the irregular, regular occurrences.
Recently I had a conversation with someone that opened my mind to my does not apply mentality. It wasn't that domestic violence did not apply; it's the hurt, shame, sick in your pit, shock and embarrassment that comes with it. How do you recover from that? One negro, and that's negro with an I, two G's and an A, hit me in my face while we were at work and then walked off. My coworker walked up and asked me did he hit me. I said no, smiled and proceeded to work as if nothing happened. Sick in my pit and holding tears of shame. Telling yourself your truth enables you to not allow anyone else to assist you with their lie. You're still here and you're beautiful.
My realization has been a long time coming. Each relationship would be different. Better. Make it last forever. Girl...well, I'm divorced, single, and I'm still here.
As you take self inventory check what does not apply in your life. Is it there or not there because you made the decision, or is it due to someone else's inadequacies? A black eye, a busted lip, and mental gymnastics that are not sport regulated do not define you. Forgive yourself. Forgive the who, what, where, when and how. Live my friend...live.
The picture I chose to accompany this post was taken by my mother when I was 18. We were in my brother's room waiting for my friends to come get me to go to the Monte Carlo club in Niagara Falls. My father kept this picture in a frame on the coffee table that was in front of the couch he sat on nightly. He looked at it EVERYDAY and said how pretty is babygirl is. This was before I allowed so many does not apply foolishness to suffocate me while still breathing. The girl in the picture is here and moving forward. The smile on my 18 year old face is now in the pit of my 57 year old body. Does Not Apply...oooooooooooooweeeee...Ain't God GOOD?
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