I want to talk about the women we don’t talk about much—whether out of taboo, shame, or fear of admitting our decline, our failure, or even our naivety. I want to thank them, to praise them, to beg them to stay by my side a little while longer.
I’ll spare you the details of why and how I ended up there, because there would be far too many sad and personal details. The fact is that after a painful breakup, I was taken in by a shelter for women who are victims of domestic violence, along with my three boys, ages 5, 4, and 2.
I went there reluctantly. I was afraid of so many things. That people might judge me, perhaps!? Now I know that it was a reflection of my pain. It reminded me that love was hurting me and that this was the final step. It stung my pride.
I’d spent the week on the run, moving between my father’s and my brother’s homes, feeling out of place everywhere, feeling like I was a burden. That my children were too rowdy for everyone who wanted to help me. But I also believed that my home wasn’t the right place for me either, despite the advice of my friends, the police, and my lawyer. Because, in fact, I wasn’t one of “those women.” I had so hoped there was a better solution. But I went there because I didn’t know where else to go. I packed just a few small bags “because I’m only going to stay for two or three days.” I stayed there for two months.
No one hit me. I’m a well-adjusted, educated, intelligent mother and a certified educator. However, they hurt me mentally, in my very being, in my integrity, in my self-esteem, in my abilities, and in my credibility. That matters, too. I didn’t realize how much I’d been victimized and hurt until these women welcomed me, listened to me, and helped me understand the situation. It’s them I want to talk about—the ones who held my hand so I could move forward and make the right decisions for my children and myself during a critical moment in my life.
On the other side of that door, I felt at home. I was respected. I felt supported in my decisions, in how I disciplined my children, and in my abilities. They listened to me, and then they supported me. They eased ALL my worries. They accepted me; they didn’t judge me. They helped me realize what I had the right to experience—and my freedom. They took care of my children for a few hours when I no longer had the strength—when I didn’t even have the strength to take care of myself. They took care of my heart when I thought it was going to burst. They took care of my mind when I thought it was my fault. They guided me when I no longer knew which path to take. Gently, they helped me build a stronger cocoon. They helped me shape my wings, then paint them with my own colors. Gently, I found myself again. I remembered who I used to be. I managed to reclaim my own sense of self beyond just being a mom and a “spouse.” I put my name back on the map. I took back control of my life.
And then, when I felt ready to leave, they gently blew so I could spread my wings and fly. I had strengthened my spirit, and it was thanks to their support.
Today, I’m home, and sometimes I still need them. They respond to me with the same understanding. There are women in life who do you good. They’re the ones who held my hand. Thank you.
Anonymous