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Beth


Thunk, thunk, thunk. She's slamming her body into the wall. Bouncing off and slamming into it again and again. A voice, HER voice, is yelling "take them off, take them off. There's commotion and confusion. A tugging and pulling on her arms behind her. Then her arms are free. She scoops up the key from the floor before running to the bathroom where she gags over the toilet. The man's thundering voice comes from above. "WHO did this to you?" In response, the girl's voice screams inside her head - "YOU did. YOU did this to me!" All the while looking up at him in confusion and fear and not saying a word. How the hell did she end up handcuffs??


Blank spot. Now she knows that's called dissociation. Suddenly it's late at night and the monster is asleep. Temporarily quiet. The girl is whispering in her 16 year old daughter's bedroom. Telling her daughter to call 911 if she so much as hears any sound that night. Her daughter's eyes are big and round as she silently nods her head. No questions asked. Which in itself, is a sad statement of their life.


No deaths that night. Unless you count the death of the girl's soul. Total annihilation. He erased her in one fell swoop, mopping up what little remnants she had left from his extinguishing her over the years. To her credit, she called a psychologist the next day. "You know what this is," the therapist asked, as the words "it's abuse" reverberated in the girl's ears. Disbelieving, the girl sought out many more opinions before settling down to do the work. Robotically trudging to appointments and then to a Domestic Violence support group and even a Rape Crisis Center, the girl listened and learned, slowly talking about the blank and not so blank spots. On and on through the hellish divorce where she went NO contact on the advice of a psychologist who told her to follow in her daughter's footsteps. Really? No contact? He'll kill me, she thought. But no, he was moving on to other prey. One after the other. She was safe now. Well, safe if she didn't tell one last secret to the proper authorities. She didn't. But as it turns out, safety is a misnomer when one's body is under assault from it's own treasure trove of memories. Oh why can't the good memories be the ones to hold near and dear? The times with the babies and toddlers and their cute antics. The preschoolers and young children growing and developing in their own unique ways. The vacations and recitals and shows. The times with grandparents and friends. Those were good memories, right? The middle aged woman WANTS them to be good memories. And they are ... as long as she was good in his eyes. The dark gleaming eyes of a Lunatic, waiting to eat her alive. And that he did.

 

Beth


I'm an educator and work as a special education teacher. I enjoy exercise, tennis, skiing, and riding. I love reading, movies, and theater. I work hard to overcome PTSD!


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