No Words

If you know me, this might sound shocking… But, I have no words.

It might be because the last year of my life is one hazy, shade of grey that looks simply like a lot of pain and darkness. It might be because God isn’t ready to let my tongue unleash all that has happened.

But, I have no words.

You think you don’t understand what has happened… have you thought to ask me? If you don’t think you can sort through the events, what do you think I feel?

When I am driving down the road, and remember the times he hit me while driving. The times he poured water on my head, and spat loogies at me. When he would demand I got out at every restaurant to get him food, after I worked all day to even have money to get it. He didn’t work, I did. He didn’t pay rent, I did. And, eventually when there wasn’t enough money left, he ate, and I didn’t.

When I am laying in bed, and remember the time he forced me to sleep on the floor. Or, on a couch. Or, on an air mattress downstairs. When he’d stay up all night scrolling through Instagram with all the lights on, while I tried to sleep next to him. When I had a knife under my pillow, just in case he snapped in the night. What would I have done with it? Nothing, but it made me feel a little better.

What about when I think about him choking me to get his hands on my phone. Or, calling me names about any outfit I might put on. Or, hating to go to church because I was afraid of how he might rip me to shreds after.

What about the day he slammed my head into a stair, and someone asked me about it at work the next day?

What about when he punched me in the face, kicked me in the hip, kicked me in the ass, leaving rib contusions… What about when my boss pulled me into a conference room and asked me about that.

What about when he shattered a food tray over my body, threw a blender at my leg, hit me with a Swell water bottle.

What about when he hit me in the head with his slip on van shoe as I begged him to stop.

What about every time he threatened to kill me, or told me he knew where my parents lived.

What about the time I said I wanted to kill myself, and he said “go on, do it.” Or, when I said I wanted to die, and he said he would be glad to help.

For every dollar I spent, for every tear I cried, for every painful thing that happened… seems like I should’ve just left, right?

I have no words.

When he told me, this is what God wanted for me. When he told me, I’d never succeed without him. When he told me, I was lucky he’d even think to spend time with a girl who looked like me. When he told me, the only way I reach what God has for me is through him.

This was more than a mental or physical battle… this was game of spiritual warfare. One that has had me more confused about who I am, who God is, what my life really means. One that has left me in tears during worship, with panic attacks during sermons. One that has left me in shambles.

You think you can’t really wrap your mind around it…. You should try to be me, but that wouldn’t really help.

Because I have no words.