Til It Happens To You

You tell me it gets better, it gets better in time
You say I'll pull myself together
Pull it together, you'll be fine
Tell me, what the hell do you know? What do you know?
Tell me how the hell could you know? How could you know?

'Til It happens to you
You don't know how it feels, how it feels
'Til it happens to you, you won't know, it won't be real
No, it won't be real, won't know how it feels

Growing up, words like child abuse and domestic violence weren't something I heard very often. I didn't even really know what they were until I was in middle school and by then, I was already in the midst of being abused myself. When I was sixteen, almost seventeen, the physical abuse finally stopped, but it wasn't until I was eighteen that the mental, emotional, and verbal abuse finally ended. But even now, almost ten years after the last time I spoke to my biological father, I still feel the effects of being abused. I struggle with anxiety, depression, nightmares, and a distrust of men. Most days, I'm able to function and get through my day without much incident, but there are still days when I will have panic or anxiety attacks in the middle of work and it's a literal hell. And on the rare occasion I actually run into my father (like today), it spirals me into a nightmare of panic, wanting to throw up, and shaking.

A 1997 survey stated that 1 in 5 high school girls were a victim of physical or sexual abuse. Over half of the abuse occurred at home in this same study. My abuse was always at home, behind the privacy of doors that kept the rest of the world from seeing the hell that I lived in. It wasn't always physical either. Sure, there were beatings with a belt and slaps across the face, but the worst part wasn't the physical. I almost would take the beatings to the verbal, mental, and emotional assault. Being told you're worthless or that you are a "stupid bitch" over and over again is a nightmare that sticks with you...even now, ten years later, I feel worthless sometimes and like I won't do anything good in my life. Even though all the evidence says otherwise, I still feel like trash because that was what I was made to believe and how to feel about myself.

Something I have been told many times, mostly by well meaning and loving friends, is that it gets better in time. And while I know that they mean well, I want to beat my head against a wall because they don't know. They don't know what it's like to have a parent mistreat and abuse you for years on end, then blame it on you. Sometimes I want to ask them how the hell could they know how I feel when they've never experienced what I have or walked in my shoes. It doesn't just take time to get better. It takes therapy, sheer willpower, and a hell of a lot of love, patience, understanding, and compassion to get even one ounce better. While I wouldn't wish that on anyone, I sometimes wish they could understand how I feel...understand that I don't want to be the way I am, but that I am the product of my experiences and can't always control how I react to certain situations because they're triggering for me. For over ten years, I have struggled and fought tooth and nail to get better, to work through the hell, and figure out how to make it better. But still, it's like there is this wall between me and them and I'm screaming at it, but they can't hear me.

Until it happens to them (which I hope it never does), they won't know how I feel.