Independence Day
This week is the 4th of July. A time for baseball games, BBQs, watermelon, picnics, summertime, laughter. The stuff memories and really great commericals are made of. Like many things it is bitter sweet for me. It is another anniversary, one I would rather had never happened.
I'm not much into sports. I was a cheerleader and I was good at it and I can hold my own at tennis but those sports where balls are constantly flying at your head while you try to swing, kick or dodge them have never appealed to me. Baseball is no exception. The concept of standing in one place with a rather small piece of wood in your hands as someone hurls a ball toward you and you try to keep it from hitting you by swinging the aforementioned stick is not something I understand. I realize it is "America's pass-time" but it makes me question America's sanity. Given my feelings on the game it probably doesn't surprise you to learn I've never been hit by a baseball.
Despite my having worked hard to avoid a situation where I could be injured by a baseball and having no real knowledge of what it feels like to be struck by a 93 mph fast ball I flinch every time I see a player get hit. Why you ask? Besides the fact that it looks HORRIBLY painful it is because I am fairly certain I know what that pain feels like.... hard, fast, likely to leave a mark and completely capable of taking your breath away.
How do I know this? I learned it at the hand of my ex-husband days into our marriage just before he raped me for the first time.
We'd been married 9 days. It was the 4th of July. The irony wasn't lost on me then and still makes me shake my head. I knew as I laid there, everyone preparing for their independence day celebrations, that my independence was ending. My control over my body and life were gone and I wasn't sure if it would ever come back or how I could get it back.
When you've lived a life as a domestic violence victim you tend to measure things differently, hours, minutes, seconds matter because they are life changing. Even after you have escaped and move forward you never cease looking at the world in a different way. You cherish things that don't matter to many. You celebrate things that appear minor to others and emotions are triggered by things most don't understand, many times because you can't bring yourself to talk about it.
The 4th of July is one of those holidays for me. It is filled with a variety of emotions, and meanings. I am so very appreciative of those that serve our county past and present so that we can be free. I love the family time, the fun and the memories the are made. I tear up at the parade as the flag goes by. Cheetos are a chip I have only recently started serving at our annual picnic because it was the first bag of chips I picked up out of the bag at the picnic we went to after my ex was done with me. My heart lurches during fireworks because although they celebrate freedom for my country but also remind me of the sound a shot gun makes when an angry man is firing it to get your attention. Most of all of all these things, although wonderful, also remind me of a time when free was a four letter word I didn't dare even think about.
It's been sixteen years but there are moments the betrayal, pain and hurt are just as fresh as the day I laid there waiting for it to end and that makes Independence Day bitter-sweet at best. So I celebrate the good in the world, struggle through the fireworks, which were my favorite part as a kid and tear up for what was lost and gained on a single day, always thankful that God allowed me my own Independence Day 119 days later when I walked out of that house changed but still whole, carrying the most precious reason to celebrate inside me as I walked out the door. I celebrate that I'm here, that Mr. Boy is here and that we can celebrate with those we love and I keep a tissue nearby and now you know why.
Despite my having worked hard to avoid a situation where I could be injured by a baseball and having no real knowledge of what it feels like to be struck by a 93 mph fast ball I flinch every time I see a player get hit. Why you ask? Besides the fact that it looks HORRIBLY painful it is because I am fairly certain I know what that pain feels like.... hard, fast, likely to leave a mark and completely capable of taking your breath away.
How do I know this? I learned it at the hand of my ex-husband days into our marriage just before he raped me for the first time.
We'd been married 9 days. It was the 4th of July. The irony wasn't lost on me then and still makes me shake my head. I knew as I laid there, everyone preparing for their independence day celebrations, that my independence was ending. My control over my body and life were gone and I wasn't sure if it would ever come back or how I could get it back.
When you've lived a life as a domestic violence victim you tend to measure things differently, hours, minutes, seconds matter because they are life changing. Even after you have escaped and move forward you never cease looking at the world in a different way. You cherish things that don't matter to many. You celebrate things that appear minor to others and emotions are triggered by things most don't understand, many times because you can't bring yourself to talk about it.
The 4th of July is one of those holidays for me. It is filled with a variety of emotions, and meanings. I am so very appreciative of those that serve our county past and present so that we can be free. I love the family time, the fun and the memories the are made. I tear up at the parade as the flag goes by. Cheetos are a chip I have only recently started serving at our annual picnic because it was the first bag of chips I picked up out of the bag at the picnic we went to after my ex was done with me. My heart lurches during fireworks because although they celebrate freedom for my country but also remind me of the sound a shot gun makes when an angry man is firing it to get your attention. Most of all of all these things, although wonderful, also remind me of a time when free was a four letter word I didn't dare even think about.
It's been sixteen years but there are moments the betrayal, pain and hurt are just as fresh as the day I laid there waiting for it to end and that makes Independence Day bitter-sweet at best. So I celebrate the good in the world, struggle through the fireworks, which were my favorite part as a kid and tear up for what was lost and gained on a single day, always thankful that God allowed me my own Independence Day 119 days later when I walked out of that house changed but still whole, carrying the most precious reason to celebrate inside me as I walked out the door. I celebrate that I'm here, that Mr. Boy is here and that we can celebrate with those we love and I keep a tissue nearby and now you know why.
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