Victim.

Survivor.

Strong.

Brave.

I rather hate those words. I don’t really identify with any of them. I have a hard time with the inevitable sympathy and fawning that comes from sharing my story, like I’m some kind of fucking hero. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the support – but I’m not a hero. I’m not any of those things. You want to know what I am?

Lucky.

I am lucky that my two friends happened to witness his last slap, and literally strong-armed me out of the constantly abusive pit of misery I was just trying to live through day to day, any way I could. That’s what I had done my whole life, not knowing how to take ownership of myself and let myself have any needs at all. A lifetime of narcissistic abuse and toxicity had primed me for a grossly manipulative, psychologically, physically, and sexually abusive relationship in college that may have gone on indefinitely, if not for the fact that I was lucky to have good friends to help me. I am lucky that this relationship only lasted a few months. I am lucky that my only lasting scars have been psychological. (Okay, maybe I’m not entirely lucky there.)

I was raised not to have a sense of self-preservation. I was raised to think only of making sure others were okay. Even when I made the decision to find a therapist because I had just enough clarity to see I was really struggling – that wasn’t a decision I made for myself. I decided to get help because I knew I was hurting my partner and wanted to be better for him, to be worthy of the wonderful person he was (and is). I’ve been lucky to have him, lucky that he never gave up on me or decided my trauma was too much for him, lucky that he gave me a reason to fight and heal. I was also quite lucky to find an excellent therapist.

Self-preservation is a newer concept for me, one I’ve been actively working on for awhile now. I managed to extricate myself from the toxic havoc my mother has always wreaked, and I will take ownership of that victory, but, it’s hardly a matter of heroics. Some would even judge it as cowardice or the ultimate form of disrespect (if I had a dime for every time I’ve heard, “she’s still your mother…”). All I know is, it has been extremely difficult, but it has brought more peace in my life than I ever imagined I would be allowed to have.

Was I a victim? Am I a survivor? Strong? Brave? If you say so. But these words imply I had autonomy to decide to get out, at a time when I had no such wherewithal. Just luck.

Why do I share this? Why do I share at all?

Because other people aren’t as lucky as I am.