The Day I Chose Me

A couple of years ago, I finally decided to leave an extremely abusive relationship. I was with my partner for five years, and I endured mental, physical, and emotional abuse on an almost daily basis. She would call me crude names, as well as tell me I was worthless and that no one would ever want to be with me or love me. She would punch me, pull my hair, and throw my personal belongings, often times breaking expensive electronics. I lost count of the number of books she destroyed. She was abusive, narcissistic, and mean. When I finally got up the courage to leave and stay gone, she lit our house on fire, destroying much of my clothing, all of my books, and sentimental items that cannot be replaced.

It took me some time to realize that the relationship left me traumatized and with PTSD. I would be doing something mundane and have a flashback that would cripple me for the rest of the day. I still have those moments, though they aren't as frequent as they were before. I have taught myself how to differentiate between what are flashbacks and what it real in the present. I have hard days, as most with PTSD/depression/anxiety do, but I am slowly getting better.

Five years of enduring constant abuse and belittling made me realize some things about myself. One thing was that I absolutely did not ever want to go through that again. If I were going to be with someone, they would treat me with respect as I did them. I never want to be a victim in my own home, nor do I want to be afraid of my partner. I also learned that I immensely want to be a writer. I used to write when I was in high school quite frequently and even after I graduated. When I became involved with this person, though, I was told that my writing was silly and pointless and that nothing would ever come of it so there was no point in continuing. When I left, I started writing again. I missed the feel of my pen on the paper, writing something for myself and not a college class. I missed the way that letting my words flow made me feel. The first time I wrote after leaving, I wrote for so long I lost track of time. And I cried. I cried until I couldn't cry anymore. I cried from joy, I cried from pain. I mourned the loss of myself, what I had lost to the scared victim over those five years.

I have learned over the last couple of years that your worth isn't measured in how you look, what kind of car you drive or how much money you have. Granted, this is something I have always known, but those five years made me feel so terrible about myself for the way I looked and how not-so-great my car was. Your worth is, or at least should be, measured by how you treat those around you, especially those you claim to love. What kind of person are you when the doors are closed? When no one else is watching you? I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror and be proud of how far I've come and how much I have accomplished. I still have work to do, but I am more than willing and thrilled to put the work in. Part of that work is finishing my degree and focusing on my writing.

I am Samantha and I am a writer​.