A choice

The person who wrote this is a member of my family of choice, and while I knew that this was a part of her history, I wasn’t cognizant of just how emotionally draining the concept of “domestic abuse” is. I’ve never been physically abused by a man, although one did hit me once. Once. I am lucky.

I hope that anyone who reads this and sees herself (or himself!) in it finds the strength to find help.

 I’m lying, gut crumpled on the kitchen floor in a dingy two-room apartment in Lowell, Massachusetts.  Stupidly, I remember that I washed and waxed that cracked linoleum this morning.  I see a spot I must have missed over there…right past the blood streaming from my nose.  It’s hard to breathe.  I snort.  Blood sprays.  My head pounds.  I think I connected with the chipped refrigerator door twice.  I’m not sure about that.  I’m dizzy.  He rears up and kicks me, laughing.  Profanity.  From him.  Lots of it.

Read the rest…