I. Am. Not.

 I.

Am.

Not.

Okay.

I feel it in my bones,

In my chest- in my soul.

The vibration is so high, 

So intense,

So overwhelming. 

I don't want to say it out loud,

Because then,

I have to 

Feel it.

See it.

Hear it.

Be it.

But...

I 

Am

Not

Okay.

I'd rather suffer in silence,

Than break in the spotlight -

And maybe that will be my demise.

I love that I hate it,

I'm shaking, and aching. 

I'm screaming at the top of my lungs,

But only inside. 

Clawing and kicking, 

And screaming- believing...

That maybe,

In the next moment,

It'll pass.

But then I'm found spiraling, 

On all of those wild things-

That make me and break me instead.

Empathy for The Abuser

 As a survivor of abuse,

I find myself, at time, not often,

But sometimes...

Checking in on my abuser, from afar.

Occasionally asking the mutual friend if anything is new with them,

Sometimes taking a glance at facebook...

And then I catch myself overwhelmed with empathy... re-playing the emotions of "They're not that bad... was I over-reacting? Did I make them look bad? I hope they're OK... I hope they've healed... I wonder if people still see me as a naive girl making up stories..."

But then it's like reality smacks me in the face.

What I went through was not OK.

The physical & emotional abuse and manipulation scarred me deep. Sure, I've done work to heal... yes, I'm thriving... but there is always a little seed of doubt that was planted, watered,  rooted, and grown by my abuser.

But then I think of her gentle eyes, and soft smile... the one she gave me when things were good... or when things got heated, then calmed down... and I wonder "Was it genuine? Could she really not control it?"

But then the facts hit me again.

Knife against throat. 

Choked until unconscious.

Thrown down stairs.

Hit in the face.

Stolen from.

Cut me off from friends and family.

Made "rules" that I had to live by.

Threatened self-harm as a way to control me.

Threatened harm, and death to me as a way to control me.

Cheated on and told it was my fault.

.

.

.

I was so lost.

So sad.

So thin.

So caught up. 

So sick.

So tired.

.

.

.

Will I ever lose the empathy I have for my abuser though?