Abuse: My Own Personal Voldemort

He didn't come in swinging, instead with vows and silky words. But those promises were pawns, the softness shards of glass. The bend, the break, the hurt wasn't in my bones, but in my soul. In my heart.

Abuse. It's such a lumbering, heavy word. I don't even like to say it out loud. It's my own personal Voldemort. He who must not be named. Because if I give it a name, I give it weight. I don't like to talk about it because I don't like to admit that it was real. That it happened to me. It was my reality for over ten years, and sometimes, even though it's over, it's not.

That's the worst part. He's gone, but he's not. (Don't mistake me. I'm beyond over him. He's nothing to me.) But he's still here inside my head, still taunting me. He gave me a box full of darkness, and sometimes it still eats me alive, blots out the sun. How do you exorcise a demon as slippery as a cuttlefish that sloshes ink into your veins every time you try to catch him? It's a daily thing, the shutting out of his vicious, cycling words.

So, I can't be afraid to talk about, scared to say the word abuse aloud. Because it happened, because it hurt, because I healed from it. It will always affect me. It's the reason for my self-doubt, for my anxiety, why I can't sleep through the night. That box of darkness is mine. I'm not afraid to own it. It was freedom and finding what was lost. It forced me to become the best version of myself. It was a gift.