This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“Leaving isn’t weakness. Staying alive long enough to escape is strength.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Call the ancestors the loud ones, the protective ones, in close. The ones who don’t mind flipping a table when truth needs to be told. Let the ancestors pull up their rocking chairs and lean in like, “Alright baby, tell it exactly how it happened.“ Because today, we’re walking straight into a fire that too many people pretend isn’t burning. And the topic is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.
This month isn’t just a purple ribbon or a hashtag. It’s a national reckoning. A month carved out because silence has killed too many. Shame has trapped too many. And judgment has wounded too many who were already bleeding. It exists because domestic violence is not one thing. Not one story. Not one bruise. It’s a whole constellation of harm that is emotional abuse, financial control, spiritual manipulation, psychological warfare, sexual coercion, digital stalking, physical stalking, rape, threats, intimidation, and isolation. All of it real. All of it dangerous.
And Lord knows, the Deep South has a long tradition of saying, “Well, why didn’t she just leave?” With the same tone they use when asking why you didn’t bring potato salad to the church potluck. But today we’re not whispering. We’re not sugarcoating. We’re not letting judgment drown out truth.
Domestic violence is more than bruises. More than shouting. More than slammed doors. It’s the slow erosion of your identity. It’s the constant fear humming under your skin. It’s the way you learn to read someone’s footsteps like weather patterns. It’s the way you shrink. Fold. And contort yourself trying to keep the peace that never stays peaceful.
And let me say this with all the Southern sass I can muster. If you’ve never lived it, you don’t get to judge it. Because “just leaving” is a fantasy sold by people who have never had their life threatened. Their finances controlled. Their spirit manipulated. Or their faith weaponized against them. I know this because I lived it. Fourteen years in a domestic abuse situation that nearly swallowed me whole. The cycle wasn’t simple. It was a trap crafted with precision love bombing, threats, and intimidation. That is continuously repeated until you forget what freedom feels like.
I didn’t stay because I was weak. I stayed because I was scared. I stayed because I was conditioned. I stayed because every exit felt like a death sentence. And let me make something crystal clear. It wasn’t a billionaire. It wasn’t a senator. It wasn’t a monster hiding in the shadows. It wasn’t an immigrant. It wasn’t a drag queen with a story book. It wasn’t a trans person. It wasn’t a black person. It was a white, “Christian” man in the Deep South. One who used the Bible like a weapon. While twisting scripture into shackles. Preaching submission while practicing cruelty. A man who believed control was his God-given right. And fear was his favorite language.
That’s why Domestic Violence Awareness Month matters. Because abuse doesn’t look like one stereotype. Survivors don’t fit one mold. Judgment is easy. But understanding saves lives. It is a promise. A collective vow that we will speak loudly. Love fiercely. And refuse to let anyone’s suffering stay hidden behind closed doors.
And now, let me drop this mic so hard the ancestors stand up and clap. I survived what was meant to break me. I reclaimed what was stolen from me. And I will never apologize again for the fire in my voice. Thanks for reading! What have been your experiences?
Affirmation: I honor my survival, my truth, and my healing. I am worthy of safety, love, and a life without fear.
“If self‑care requires a loan application, it’s not wellness. It’s a scam with eucalyptus.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Today we’re grilling the Wellness Industrial Complex until it admits it’s been robbing us blind like a raccoon in Lululemon leggings. Self‑care has evolved from “take a nap and drink some water” to “sell a kidney so you can afford a serum infused with moonlight, angel tears, and ethically sourced unicorn collagen.”
Every time I open Instagram, some wellness guru named Saffron Moonbeam is perched on a rock in Sedona telling me, “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” Ma’am, I can’t even afford the cup. The cup is $89.99 and comes with a crystal straw that promises to “align my abundance chakra.” Meanwhile my bank account is over here whispering, “Your abundance chakra is over drafted by $37.12.”
Let’s take a guided tour through the self‑care items that the wellness industry swears I need. And the financial crimes they commit against my checking account.
$300 Serums-Apparently my face needs a potion made from fermented cloud vapor and the hopes of Scandinavian virgins. For $300, this serum better erase wrinkles, trauma, and student loans.
Sedona Retreats-“Reconnect with your inner child for only $4,999.” For $4,999 my inner child better come out doing taxes, laundry, and emotional labor.
Organic Herbal Teas-Why is tea $22 a bag? It’s leaves. Leaves! I can go outside and get leaves for free. Mississippi has leaves everywhere. I’m basically surrounded by generational wealth.
Crystal Water Bottles-$120 for a bottle with a rock in it. I can get a rock from my driveway. I can get a whole collection of rocks. I can start a rock museum.
Sound Baths-$75 to lay on the floor while someone hits a bowl with a spoon. I can do that at home with my cookware and a bad attitude.
Weighted Blankets-$200 to feel like a Victorian ghost is sitting on my chest. I can get that for free by thinking about my to‑do list.
Yoga Pants-$98 for leggings that roll down the second I inhale. For $98 they should hold me together emotionally, spiritually, and physically.
Let me tell you something. My ancestors did not survive polio, wars, and the Great Depression. So, I could spend half a paycheck on a jade roller that promises to “release facial tension.” My grandmother would rise from the grave. Slap the serum out of my hand and say, “Splash some cold water on your face and go sit down somewhere.” And honestly? She’d be right. Because self‑care is not supposed to require a credit check, a payment plan, or a GoFundMe titled ‘Help Me Achieve Inner Peace.’
Sometimes self‑care is drinking water. Taking a nap. Ignoring people. Eating a snack. Telling the world “no” with your whole chest. And none of that costs $300. Bowl rung. Crystal shattered. Sedona canceled. Thanks for reading! What’s your most outrageously overpriced “self‑care” moment? And did it at least come with a free sample or a spiritual awakening, or nah?
Affirmation: I am whole. I am worthy. And I do not need a $300 serum to glow. My radiance is free. My peace is priceless. And my bank account deserves rest too.
“When misinformation rises, let your ancestors steady your spirit and your sass sharpen your truth.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Let it crackle like your last nerve at Thanksgiving when Uncle Red-Hat started yelling about “Socialism Turning Us Into Communists!” Sprinkle the sage. Invoke the ancestors especially Big Mama, who survived segregation, three husbands, and that one church lady who kept stealing her potato salad recipe. Today, we are gather in the sacred, smoky glow of your living room m. To address the aggravation, frustration, and the spiritual constipation caused by folks who insist that socialism → democratic socialism → communism → gulags → the end of biscuits and freedom. The ancestors are already pacing. PawPaw whispered, “Lord give me strength.” And reached for his flask. And your great-aunt is clutching her pearls so hard they might turn into diamonds.
Let’s talk about the red-hat choir who believes any government program that doesn’t involve tax breaks for billionaires is “communism.” These are the same folks who cash Social Security checks. Use Medicare. Drive on publicly funded roads. Send their kids to public schools. And call the fire department when Earl deep-fries a turkey indoors. But the moment someone says, “Hey, maybe people shouldn’t die because they can’t afford insulin,” suddenly it’s, “Communism, Martha! Grab The Bible And The Bug-Out Bag!”
Pumpkin spice patriot, communism is not hiding behind your Kroger pharmacy waiting to jump out and seize your property. The ancestors are tired. Our spirit guides are tired. And even our pets are tired. It is emotionally exhausting watching people scream “Communism” at things that are literally not communism. It’s like watching someone confidently shout the wrong answers on Jeopardy. Or watching a toddler insist the moon is a cookie. Or watching your cat try to fight its own reflection. You want to help. You want to explain. But you also want to lay face-down on the floor and let the ancestors take you home.
Here’s the truth. Democratic socialism is not communism. Not historically. Not economically. Not ideologically. Not spiritually. Not even in the same group chat. Democratic socialism says, “Let’s keep democracy, elections, private businesses, and capitalism. But also make sure people don’t die because they can’t afford healthcare.” Communism says, “Let’s abolish private property. Centralize production. And run everything through the state.” These ideologies would not sit together at Thanksgiving. They wouldn’t even sit together at the DMV. Try telling that to someone who thinks “Karl Marx” is the name of a NASCAR driver.
11 Ways Socialism, Democratic Socialism, and Communism Are Not the Same Thing
1. Private property exists in socialism & democratic socialism. Not in communism. Your house? Yours. Your business? Yours. Your lawnmower? Still yours. Communism says, “The lawnmower belongs to the people.”
2. Democratic socialism requires elections. Communism does not. If you can vote for someone other than the ruling party, congratulations. That is not communism.
3. Socialism & democratic socialism use mixed economies. Communism uses central planning. One is capitalism with guardrails. The other is “the government decides how many shoes get made this year.”
4. Democratic socialism protects civil liberties. Communism historically restricts them. If you can complain about the government on Facebook without disappearing, that’s not communism.
5. Socialism & democratic socialism allow private businesses. Communism does not. Under socialism/democratic socialism, you can open a bakery. Under communism, the state owns the bakery, the flour, the ovens, and possibly the cats.
6. Democratic socialism focuses on social welfare. Communism focuses on class abolition. One says, “Let’s help people.” The other says, “Let’s restructure society from scratch.”
7. Socialism & democratic socialism keep markets. Communism eliminates them. If you can choose between Target and Walmart, you’re not in communism.
8. Democratic socialism works with capitalism. Communism replaces it. One is “Let’s fix the leaky roof.” The other is “Let’s burn the house down and rebuild it.”
9. Socialism & democratic socialism allow wealth differences. Communism seeks to eliminate them. Jeff Bezos still exists under socialism. Under communism, Jeff becomes “Citizen Jeff, warehouse worker.”
10. Democratic socialism preserves individual rights. Communism prioritizes collective control. One says, “You have rights.” The other says, “We’ll let you know what your rights are after the meeting.”
11. Socialism & democratic socialism operate within democratic frameworks. Communism does not. One keeps elections, courts, and civil liberties. The other historically centralizes power in the state.
So, the next time someone looks you dead in the eye usually while wearing a shirt with an eagle, a flag, and a Bible all photoshopped together and says, “Socialism leads to communism!” I want you to pause. Take a breath. Let the sage smoke swirl around your head like you’re summoning every ancestor who ever had to explain something obvious to someone determined to misunderstand it. Then smile. Not a regular smile. A Southern smile. The kind that says, “Bless your heart,” without ever using the words. And respond, gently but firmly by saying, “If socialism leads to communism, then your Social Security check is a gateway drug.”Watch their face do that little twitch. You know the one. The twitch that means their brain is trying to reboot like an old Dell computer from 1998.
Then continue. Because this is your moment. “If democratic socialism leads to communism, then your Medicare card is a communist passport. Your public school is a Marxist training camp. And the fire department that saved Earl’s house when he deep-fried that turkey indoors? That’s a taxpayer-funded socialist miracle.”
Let it sink in. Let the silence marinate like chicken in buttermilk. Because you are not arguing with facts. You are arguing with feelings dressed up as fear. Sprinkled with misinformation. Wrapped in Facebook memes. And deep-fried in cable news.
And you have survived far worse. You have survived humidity so thick it feels like soup. You have survived hurricanes, power outages, and men who say, “I’ll fix it later.” You have survived PTA meetings, school fundraisers, and children who wait until 10 PM to tell you they need poster board for a project due tomorrow. You can survive this conversation.
So, walk away. Let the charcoal crackle behind you like applause. Let the ancestors cackle like they’re watching a soap opera. Let your spirit guides fan you with palm leaves and whisper, “You did good, baby.” Because trying to have a conversation with people who are willfully ignorant, are usually the very ones who ate boogers and glue during their childhood. And never outgrew those behaviors.
Because we, at This Puzzled Life, are armed with humor, truth, and the kind of ancestral backup that could move mountains. And when misinformation rises, you rise higher. Mic dropped. Mic shattered. Mic reincarnated as a wiser mic. Thanks for reading! What other political nonsense would you like for me to address?
Affirmation: I speak truth with humor, courage, and ancestral backup. I am unshaken. Unbothered. And fully hydrated.
“Silence is the oldest accomplice of violence. And Mississippi has been silent for far too long.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal, y’all. Because my ancestors are pacing the porch tonight. I can feel them in the humidity, the cicada buzz, and in the way the air gets thick right before a storm. They’re whispering. Tapping their feet. And shaking their heads the way old Southern aunties do when they’ve had enough of the foolishness. And Lord knows Mississippi has given us more than enough foolishness wrapped in Bible verses. Dipped in denial. And served with a side of “the South will rise again” delusion.
Because let’s tell the truth. The “Christian” community down here loves to shout about sin until it’s time to call out violence against Black bodies. Then suddenly everybody’s quiet. Clutching pearls. And humming hymns like silence is salvation. They’ll condemn a teenager’s skirt length before they condemn a system that keeps killing Black people. They’ll preach forgiveness while refusing accountability. They’ll talk about “God’s love” while ignoring the blood on their own soil. And I’m done pretending that’s holy.
Mississippi has always been a place where racism isn’t just a belief. It’s infrastructure. It’s policy. It’s tradition. It’s the foundation poured into the dirt generations ago. And too many folks still treat it like sacred ground.
And now, again, violence has come knocking at the doors of Black families. Again, the state government refuses to investigate. Again, accountability disappears when the killer is white. Again, we are told to “wait for the facts.” While the facts are buried under good ol’ boy politics and backroom handshakes.
A one-year-old Black baby was shot and killed by a white officer over diapers. Let me say that again. A baby died because a grown man with a badge felt threatened by diapers.
A Black teenage boy was found dead under mysterious circumstances. And instead of answers, we get a cover-up thicker than Delta mud. Evidence missing. Stories changing. Officials shrugging like a child’s life is just a paperwork inconvenience.
And now, a Black woman found hanging from a tree in 2026. And the state wants us to believe it’s anything other than what it looks like. Mississippi has a long, violent history with Black bodies and trees. We know what this is. We’ve seen it before. Our ancestors saw it before. And the silence from leadership is louder than any confession.
This isn’t coincidence. This isn’t isolated. This is a pattern, a legacy, and a sickness that Mississippi refuses to treat because too many people benefit from the infection. And let me tell you something. I’m old enough now to stand up and say it plainly. I’m old enough to fight for marginalized groups which include Black folks, brown folks, Indigenous folks, immigrants, and anyone who doesn’t fit the whitewashed mold Mississippi keeps trying to force us into. I’m old enough to say that I’m proud that I didn’t buy into the racist ideology that some of my own family members still cling to like it’s heirloom china.
I broke the cycle. I chose humanity over heritage. I chose truth over tradition. I chose justice over comfort. And if that makes me the black sheep at the family reunion, hand me the potato salad because I’ll graze in the pasture with pride. I’m proud to say I’m not like them. Not molded by their fear. Not shaped by their hate. Not carved into the same brittle statue of “tradition” they keep worshiping like it’s holy. I’m proud to say I crawled out of the same Mississippi clay. And still managed to grow in a different direction. And it was one that didn’t twist my roots around racism and call it heritage.
If rejecting their ideology means I lose my seat at the family table, then pull the chair out from under me. If refusing to swallow their silence means I’m no longer welcome in their church pews, then let the hymns echo without me. If choosing humanity over hypocrisy means I have to walk away from religion entirely, then I’ll walk away barefoot. Head high and unbothered.
Because I refuse to be loyal to a system that kills Black children and calls it “procedure.” I refuse to be loyal to a state that covers up Black death and calls it “ongoing investigation.” I refuse to be loyal to a community that sees a Black woman hanging from a tree and calls it “unfortunate.” I refuse to be loyal to people who hide behind scripture while ignoring suffering. I refuse to be loyal to any ideology that demands my silence while it destroys lives.
Mississippi may be built on racism. But I am not. Mississippi may cling to its racist past. But I do not. Mississippi may worship its own mythology. But I refuse to kneel. I am not like them. I will never be like them. And if breaking away from their beliefs is the cost of protecting my soul, integrity, and humanity, then that’s a price I’ll pay in full with no regrets.
Let them keep their “South will rise again” fantasies. I’m rising in a different direction. One they can’t touch. Can’t claim. And sure as hell can’t control. That’s my mic drop. And I won’t be picking it back up. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?
Affirmation: I honor my ancestors by refusing to repeat their pain. I stand in truth. I stand in courage. And I stand in love even when I stand alone.
“Shame has never saved a life. Compassion has. And still can.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we’re not just cleansing the house. We’re cleansing the collective delusion that addiction is a moral failing. The sage is smoking like it’s trying to file a worker’s comp claim. The charcoal is popping like it’s gossiping about the neighbors. And I’m standing in the kitchen with the kind of determination usually reserved for Southern women who’ve had enough.
Piper struts in first.Tail high. Eyes narrowed. And a clipboard already out like she’s conducting a federal audit.
Piper: “Before we begin. I need to know if this is a cleansing ritual, a public dragging, or a memorial service. My paperwork differs.”
Me: “All three. It’s International Overdose Awareness Day. And I’m about to educate the masses.”
Coco barrels in next. She’s breathing heavily like she just ran a marathon but actually just walked from the living room.
Coco: “Is this about the humans who say addiction is willpower? And overdose is a moral collapse? I once ate an entire rotisserie chicken while sleepwalking. Explain that with willpower.”
Tinkerbell descends from the top of the fridge like a Victorian ghost who died of judgment.
Tinkerbell: “If willpower cured anything, half this household would stop doomscrolling at 2 AM. And the other half would stop emotionally eating Cheez-Its.”
Me: “Exactly. We’re dragging ignorance today.”
Piper adjusts her glasses. The glasses she does not need and sighs.
Piper: “I’ll prepare the minutes. This meeting is already chaotic.”
International Overdose Awareness Day started in 2001 as a remembrance event at a Salvation Army needle exchange in Melbourne, Australia. It was created to honor those lost. Reduce stigma around overdose. And to push the world to stop treating overdose like a shameful secret instead of a public health crisis. And let me say this plainly, with all the Southern sweetness of a peach cobbler baked in righteous fury, “Addiction and overdose are not moral issues.” And it’s not about willpower.
The next time you have diarrhea, keep in mind that it’s just willpower. Sit there with a Bible verse and see if the situation resolves itself. Let me know how that works out. That’s how ludicrous that argument is.
People don’t become addicts because they’re weak, sinful, lazy, or lacking character. Many addicts die wanting anything in life other than to be an addict. They die fighting. They die trying. They die hoping. But some folks, including people in my own family, love to say, “Addiction is about willpower.” It never has been. It never will be.
I’ve been an addict. I’ve been a professional treating addicts. I’ve buried friends. I’ve buried family. Not once have I judged them for their struggle. But the hypocrites in my life? The ones who claim moral superiority while ingesting alcohol at a rate that Pete Hegseth and Kash Patel struggle to keep up with? Hypocrite, please.
Overdose is an unfortunate part of addiction. Whether it’s chemicals, behaviors, or the slow-motion self-destruction people pretend “doesn’t count.” Because it’s socially acceptable. So how about we stop demonizing people who overdose while absolving ourselves of our own harmful, numbing, escapist overdoses?
If we’re being honest, some folks overdose on alcohol, self-righteousness, denial, Amazon Prime, gossip, rage, food, religion, and control. But somehow that doesn’t get labeled as a moral failure. Funny how selective morality works.
And here’s the truth that makes some folks squirm like they sat on a church pew with a splinter. Overdose doesn’t happen because someone is weak. It happens because someone is human. Humans who loved. Humans who tried. Humans who fought battles most people couldn’t survive for five minutes. Humans who deserved compassion instead of commentary.
But every year, we lose more people. Not because they were broken. But because the world still treats addiction and overdose like a character flaw instead of a medical condition. We lose them because shame is louder than science. Because judgment is easier than empathy. Because some folks would rather cling to their superiority complex than admit they don’t know a damn thing about what they’re talking about.
So on International Overdose Awareness Day, I’m lighting this charcoal. Sprinkling this sage. And saying this with my whole chest, “Stop demonizing the people who are drowning while you’re out here drinking from your own poison well. Stop pretending your socially acceptable overdoses are any less destructive just because they come with a cute, monogrammed tumbler or a Bible verse slapped on top. Stop acting like overdose is a choice when half the people judging can’t even choose to drink water or go to bed on time. And most importantly, start honoring the people we’ve lost by refusing to let stigma bury the living.
The dead deserve dignity. The living deserve compassion. And the ignorant deserve education. Loud, unapologetic, Southern‑fried education. Today, I’m choosing truth over tradition. Compassion over comfort. And humanity over hypocrisy. If that makes some folks uncomfortable? Good. Growth never happens in comfort. And comfort has never saved a single life. But truth might. Compassion might. You might. Thanks for reading! Share this with others.
Affirmation: I honor the lives lost. Uplift the living. And refuse to let stigma speak louder than truth.
“Trauma Bonding is like being a hostage who has developed an irrational affection for your captor. They can abuse you, torture you, even threaten to kill you, and you’ll remain inexplicably and disturbingly loyal.”
– Ann Clendening.
I posted this today to help give you a voice to your own abuser/abusers. I have been in therapy for many years, and sometimes, I even doubt these words. The problem is that we were so indoctrinated with their beliefs, comments, gas lighting, manipulation, and co-dependency that we formed a something called “trauma bonding.”
Trauma Bonding is an unhealthy emotional attachment that develops between a victim and their abuser. It is a complex issue that occurs in different abusive situations that include physical, sexual, and emotional abuse. But it’s also important to note that not everyone who goes through abuse forms a trauma bond. However, some people may be more prone to forming a trauma bond due to the early experiences as a form of repetition compulsion https://www.attachementproject.com, 2025). This can happen in domestic abuse, child abuse, elder abuse, exploitative employment, kidnapping or hostage-taking, human trafficking, and religious extremism or cults (https://medicalnewstoday.com, 2023).
Characteristics of Trauma Bonding:
· Intermittent Reinforcement: The abuser cycles between periods of abuse and kindness creating a sense of hope and dependence in the victim. Victims of abuse may be waiting for that next “feel-good moment” in the relationship that also keeps them trapped in a cycle of abuse and relief (https://www.domesticshelters.org, 2021).
v This is also how many addictions keep you stuck. If everything were bad all of the time, you would grow tired and leave. But the intermittent reinforcement is how they maintain control.
· Isolation: The abuser often isolates the victim from their support system, making them more vulnerable and reliant on the abuser ((https://medicalnewstoday.com, 2023).
v I was not completely isolated physically from my support systems. But emotionally I was very isolated. He constantly told me that my friends and family didn’t have my best interest at hand. He would make up lies about things they said and assassinate their character behind their backs.
· Fear and Insecurity: The victim experiences constant fear and insecurity, leading them to believe that they cannot escape the abusive situation (https://www.savantcare.com,2023).
v The constant fear and insecurity that I experienced was, in fact, my prison cell. And I was afraid to leave even when the door was wide open.
· Justification: The victim may rationalize the abuser’s actions or blame themselves for the abuse (https://thriveworks.com, 2024).
v I was conditioned to believe that everything I did that made him angry was my fault. And it wasn’t. Now, I can see that his actions were because of his behavior, not mine.
· Emotional Manipulation: The abuser uses emotional manipulation to control the victim’s thoughts, feelings, and behaviors (https://wondermind.com, 2023).
v This right here was the #1 key factor for why I wouldn’t leave. He even told me, “No other man would ever put up with the things that I have to deal with in you. All of the good things about you, which aren’t many, are because of me. You are useless without me. I have given you everything you wanted. And disobeying me is the thanks that I get? Why do you need anti-depressants when there is no reason that you should be depressed.
Trauma bonding kept me trapped in an abusive situation. People have said, “Why didn’t you just leave?” The problem lies in the way they you manipulate you into believing that everything bad that happens, no matter how minor, is the victim’s fault. And day after day, their hold strengths without you even realizing it. And in my case, I felt as though I was responsible for their thoughts and feelings. I constantly strived to be “good enough” or “well deserving enough” to see the person that he told and showed me he could be when we met. And quite frankly, it was always just a game. Their abusive self is “the real them.” Believe your instincts and the colors in which they present themselves. For that is who they truly are.
If you have read through this and have never been in a situation where everything you do is being controlled, consider yourself lucky. But don’t you dare sit there and say, “It was their own fault that they didn’t leave.” That is one of the most callous things that you can say to someone who is currently trying to survive and those that have survived finally leaving that situation no matter how long it took.
You have absolutely no right to tell me or anyone else how we should feel simply because you have not experienced it. I stayed much longer than I should’ve. And there are times when I still beat myself up for it. Now though, I give myself some grace for not knowing how to leave or recognizing what was going on in plain sight. It’s not just one event that causes this. It’s something that happens every single day methodically planned and executed by the warden in the relationship.
Once you leave, I highly recommend getting into therapy. Just because you think that no damage has occurred, doesn’t mean that it hasn’t happened. Even now, 19 years later since I left him, I have phobias, anxiety, depression, difficulty concentrating, and difficulty making decisions. He has left a mark that will last a lifetime. And some of the things that he did I’ll never recover from. He once told me, “You’ll never be without me no matter what you do!” And the truth is that, while he still doesn’t have total control over me, I still allow parts of him to live rent free in my head.
The next post will be something that represents those of us who have managed to leave and have an understanding through therapy how and where to put the responsibility where it truly belongs, on them.
To those who are still in these types of relationships, I see you even when you don’t openly identify yourself. To those who have left and still live in fear, I see you and you’re not alone. To those of us who continue to strive to change those hard-core beliefs that were instilled by way of threats, intimidation, and violence, I see you as well. None of you are alone. And not all relationships are like this.
Find a therapist that you trust and open your soul to them. Coach has been a lifeline of compassion and understanding for me that I’ve rarely experienced. And she has never made fun of or questioned why I didn’t leave. Unconditional support and her teachings have made life possible for me many lonely nights. I will probably always struggle with some things and that’s ok. This process is certainly a marathon instead of a sprint. And there is no time limit for healing. The whole point is to continue showing up and moving forward in whatever way that might take shape. You are not on an island like you think. There are millions of us both male and female who struggle with the effects and consequences of domestic violence and abuse.
You are loved. You are wanted. And you deserve the good things that life has to offer. Thanks for reading! And I hope you look for the next blog in a couple of days that I post that will help you begin to find your voice. The power to heal is now and ours.
Affirmation: My story has power and inspiration through it.
