Domestic violence survivor
Who am I?
All of the above, it’s not exhaustive though. I’m sure other people would add plenty more.
Some probably cruel, some quite nice. Maybe indifferent.
Daughter? Not really anymore. I’m estranged from my family. They wouldn’t know if I was dead or alive. Moreover they’re probably not that bothered anyway, I’m far from the perfect daughter.
Mother? I try. But I’m in a different country now, did I abandon my children? Was I really unselfish enough to give them what they needed?
Wife? Not anymore. I failed. My husband detests me. For most reasons above and a whole lot more
Rape survivor? Who cares? It was years ago, but I always carry it around. A weight, a struggle. An obstacle I brought into my relationship. My excuse for my behaviour. My excuse to feel sorry for myself. A compound of irrational fears. Emotions that can’t be helped with medications and therapy.
Domestic violence survivor? Similarly, what’s the point of this? This label. So I dated an arsehole. I thought I could change him, I couldn’t. It just adds to my bitterness, my hostility and further compounds irrational fears. A sense of self loathing.
Friend? I hope so. To some. I do care about people.
The rest are a medley of words I associate with myself. I’ve come to learn as my behaviour.
I’m seen differently by different people. Like some like my assertiveness, some find it offensive.
If someone created me as a template of a person, they would screw up the page and throw it away. Too contrasting, too damaging. Not really worth all the hassle.
Wife, daughter, mother – I have lost the right to those titles. By my own doing. No one should pity me, there is no justification. No excuse. I failed on all parts.
I’m anonymous. One of those people that could disappear, and people might ask a few laters, hey what happened to that girl?
My direction has ended.
My journey is pointless. I am the person I will always be. I can try to better myself, less of the negative personality traits. I do think over the last few weeks things have shifted.
But I am one person. One person intrinsically destined to fail at anything I set out to do.
Destined to cause complications, hurt, annoyance, and fragmented distortion wherever I go.
Was it the rapist that changed me? Did he see something in me, like a cancer, and pushed this evil cancer to become all consuming?
Was it the partner? Did he break me down? Take away my sense of purpose?
Was it an accumulation of events? Or was I just born inheritably bad? A medley of bad thoughts. A cold heart.
What will become of me?
I’m afraid of my past, present and future. Because all are bleak.
In the mirror I see an unattractive, overweight, dark eyed image of a woman. I can’t relate to that reflection. I have no empathy, no pride, no belief in the plain face that looks back at me. One eye seems half closed, my nose is big and crooked, my smile is crooked.
Ugly inside and outside.
Am I destined to bumble through life? A loner, a loser?
I used to believe I was destined for big things. To make change, to help people, to fight for what I believe in.
But that was obviously a childish egotistical theory.
I am in truth a nobody. I belong to nobody, nobody belongs to me. I am unaccounted for luggage in an airport. Best avoided.
My identity is the depth of the name in my passport.