It's been five years since I left him. Five years and two weeks, if I was going to be precise. Though I had stopped counting long ago.
Or so I thought.
It was the post that got to me. He meant for it to get to me, knew I would see it somehow. Referencing intimacy and things of a sexual nature much more than five years stale. Much more than a decade regretted.
He wrote only of his interpretation of love. He didn't talk about his mental breaks, his abuse and control and disappearing to god knows where for days. He didn't talk about the name-calling, the manipulations, the accusations, the terrifying regressions into some kind of rabid, primal child. Why would he? He has no need to remember any of this. It's not his trauma to recall. It's mine.
I could contact him. Cool and disconnected, I could imply legal repercussions and make that post go away. He has no right to illicit comments like "true love" from people who have no idea how often and easily he hurt me.
"He wants a reaction from you. Don't give him the satisfaction of letting him believe you remember even for a second that he exists."
Wise words from my crow sisters.
Letting my reaction go was easy. But letting the pain go is not. Little by little I process it. Days, months, lifetimes. Little by little I grieve for the innocent womanchild trapped for years in situations she didn't know she could leave.
In some ways, this failed attempt of his at regaining control was a gift. I can see where I have grown. It has shown me my strength. And as I lay bawling, mourning, cat and dog in my arms, I am releasing that pain just a little bit more.
I am putting that past farther and farther behind me.
This is my entry for the #monomad challenge, held daily in the Black and White Community.
Give it a try.
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Crow featured is Lulabelle, a juvenile Carrion Crow that lives in Scharbeutz.
