Processing The Process
These are my raw, unfiltered stories of my current reality.
I am currently empowered, still confused, and tired-often all at the same time. I am sharing these moments not because I have all the answers, or any answers at all, but because I know how isolating this can be, and still is for me at times. I truly would like to think I am not alone, and neither are you if we have each other. This is me, processing the process.
The Simple Star
Over a period of 18 years, I was trained to be available. So when he knocks on the door, I don't think-I just move. It's muscle memory. My stomach drops, but my feet walk to the door. Even when I know it's him, and even when I promised myself I wouldn't answer, I find my hand on the latch.
Every single time, I feel so disappointed in myself. Why did I let him in again?
Today, I put a tiny obstacle in my own way. I put a small star sticker right above the deadbolt.
To anyone else, it looks like my kids were just playing around. More importantly, if he notices it and asks, I have my script ready: "Oh, I didn't even notice. The kids must have put it there. How cute."
But to me, it isn't cute. It is a Stop Sign, a Warning Light.
Now, when there is a knock at the door and my hand reaches for the lock automatically, I see this star. It forces me to pause for just one second. It breaks the spell. It gives me just enough time to remember: I don't have to open this door.
The Price of Hope
I call it "cracking."
It's that moment when I finally get tired of saying no. The moment when I start to think, Maybe this time will be different. Maybe we can just be a normal family for a while again. So I let him in.
We do normal things. We watch movies. We play cards. But underneath the surface, I am working. I have to keep my wits about me. I am monitoring his mood, managing the conversations, all while waiting for the mask to slip. And it always does.
Once I finally get him to leave, the toll hits me.
As soon as that deadbolt clicks, I collapse. I fall into a sleep so deep it feels like a coma. I might not wake up until 5 PM the next day.
I used to judge myself harshly for this. I used to wonder why "hanging out" left me bedridden. But now I know: I wasn't just hanging out. I was in high alert survival mode. Once the threat is gone, my body demands its payment.
I opened the curtains.
To the woman sleeping in the dark. I know why you keep the curtains closed. I know you aren't doing it because you hate the light. You are doing it because maybe, like me, you were told looking out your own window made you a spy. You keep your curtains shut because you have been taught looking anywhere that they do not have control over what you might see is a crime.
I know because I lived in the dark, too.
Recently, I did something that to some might sound like nothing but to me, it's everything. I moved my bed.
I pushed it right up under the window. I leave the curtains open. I lay in my bed at night and stare up at the stars until I fall asleep. And when I wake up, the morning sun is beaming down on me.
The sun doesn't care that I am "spying". The sun just says "good morning beautiful."
If you can't open the curtains today, that's okay. But please know: The sky is still there. It is waiting for you. Eager to hear your dreams again, and the best part? It doesn't belong to him.
My Personal Toolkit
These are the resources I created to help navigate the chaos. They are the pages I wish I had when I was starting over. If they speak to you, they are yours.
My Glittery Shame
I was in the craft aisle with my daughter, picking out tiny trees and glitter for snow globes. As I looked at all the beautiful, colourful supplies, a wave of familiar shame washed over me. I felt stupid. Why did I still want to play? Even though I was here, picking things out to create something with my daughter, his voice was in my head saying, "When are you ever going to grow up?" I thought arts and crafts time ended in second grade."
She held up a jar of glitter and said, "Mom, remember when we used to do stuff like this all the time when I was little?"
"Of course I remember," I told her, my voice catching. "I always loved crafting."
When she asked me the innocent question- "Why don't you anymore?"- I felt the failure rise up. The tears just came. I couldn't explain the years of ridicule.
My beautiful daughter, without needing an explanation, put down the glitter, walked straight up to me, and gave me a massive hug right there in the middle of the aisle.
"Mom", she whispered firmly. "You NEVER should have listened to him."
In that moment, the shame was gone. We bought the glitter.
The voice of shame still catches me off guard sometimes—not unlike the reflux I experience when I pass by things I once loved but gave up due to his teasing. However, that uncomfortable feeling only lasts for a moment. Stronger than the ridicule is the warmth of my daughter's arms wrapped around me. That moment of pure, beautiful love drowns out the voice that criticizes and shames me. Instead, it cheers me on, reminding me that I am allowed to embrace my passions. Creativity isn’t just for children, and I am worthy of enjoying what I do.
