He is out there, my monster. The man that once took my breath away. The man that I stood before my friends and family and claimed as my husband. The one whose last name I took. The man who I loved, trusted, adored. The one that I believed in more than anything. The one who even when things were getting bad, I painted as a saint to the outside world while still trying to believe it myself. The man that broke me. The man that promised to destroy me if I ever left him. The man that is still trying to make good on that. The man I walked away from. Or maybe crawled. Point is, he is out there.
Real time. I hit publish and these words are catapulted into the universe and I no longer have control of where they go. I’m very aware of this. Aware enough that I feel the nervousness in my bones and the wariness and unease. And opening up myself to remember and recall brings back all the emotions and hurt and my sleep is filled with nightmares. I’m fully cognizant of what I am doing.
I’ve been writing for a few years but only for myself. It sits safely locked away in a password protected vault and is not shared unless I want it to be. My words are safe. My memories. My hurts. But so are the words that my children utter to me. The experiences we share. I’ve created an environment where they know their words are important to me. I’ve cultivated an environment where they know they are safe to be everything that they are. And sometimes this environment opens up doors where I hear their hurts, their struggles, their fears, and their memories and my momma heart splinters.
Real time. I am opening up myself to a room full of unknowns. Those that will scoff and those that will believe. Those that will judge and those that will say “I’ve been there”. Those that will whisper my words to someone to bring down more hurt and those that will whisper my words to someone to ease their hurt. And I do not care. My head is high, my shoulders are back, my worth is known, and I will persevere. But my children…
Real time. My monster could happen across my words at any moment. He will not like them. That’s ok. I’ve long since gotten past caring what he likes or dislikes. This isn’t for him. This is for me. And for those that it may help. But my children…
With every word I write, I remember this is live. I remember that it could happen across anyone. And so with every word I write, I also withhold words. Words that cannot be shared until my children are safe. Words that cannot betray the trust they have in me. Words that will eventually free them.
I’m not afraid for myself anymore. There isn’t much left in this world that could hurt me the way I’ve already been hurt. And here I am, still standing. But my children… I will do everything in my power to keep them from ever feeling the hurt I have felt. I’ll carefully consider these words each and every time. I do not click publish lightly.
He’s out there, my monster. And I’ve a mighty job to do. Real time.