A Decade of Healing

So, it’s the new year. Another one. I’ve survived how many new years since I escaped my abusive situation? I guess it’s been nine years now. Nine years, going on a decade. And what do I think of it? Well, meh. But it’s also quite a feat. The fact that I’m still alive and haven’t killed myself? Kind of miraculous. Except nowadays I don’t really have this urgent need to kill myself. It comes and it goes but I am able to weather the storm.


I don’t know if I’m partial to writing as much any longer about how I feel and about my situation. In the earlier years of my recovery I had the need to write and write and write. But now, not so much. And that’s okay. I get away with writing occasionally.


I had a scare last night. Trauma memories came crashing in and I thought I was losing my shit. It hurt so bad. I just cried a ton until I couldn’t cry anymore, and then I slept. Sleep is renewing. It’s where the body and mind heals themselves. Imagine if you couldn’t sleep. What kind of a life would that be? Well, I know someone who has bad insomnia and let’s just say, he’s really not doing well.


I wish the bad guys in the world, the abusers, the murderers, the bludgeoners of bad will, I wish they would all just stop with the crap so that the good people in the world could go on living their lives. And whilst we have a justice system, that justice isn’t always served, as in my case. Mine is a cold case in the justice system and likely won’t be renewed. I didn’t have any proof of what had happened to me, so no legal justice could be served. How sad is that? Years of rape and abuse just amounts to nothing.


And yet I persist. I exist. I continue to live and to thrive. Occasionally I have setbacks, but then I get back on my feet and do it all over again, each and every day. I live. I manage to live, somehow.