He hit me.

downloadHe hit me.
And I didn’t tell you because I was ashamed.

He hit me.
I was alone, scared and unable to move.

He hit me.
Shocked, I responded with “you don’t get to hit me.”

He hit me, again.

He hit me.
And for the first time I recognized through tear-stained lenses the choices I had made that put me here.

Too late.

He hit me.
His friends and family standing nearby, watching.

He hit me.
In a crowd of people I was alone.

He hit me.
And I realized that the only one who might have made me feel safe at that moment, had just hit me.

He hit me.
I took a deep breath and drove away, him in my car, threatening worse than what had already happened.

He hit me.
And I was frozen by fear and worried that this would not be the worst of it.

And then I got myself together and found my way to safety.

He hit me.
And when I called you crying and barely understandable, you stayed on the phone with me, until I was home. Safe.

He hit me.
And when I told you, you came to me out of concern and said you were angry with me for putting myself in that situation.

He hit me.
And almost a month later I wore the deep stains of bruising to my birthday dinner and told you.

He hit me.
Then called to wish me “Happy Birthday.”

He hit me.
And I said to him and myself, “I am not that woman.”

He hit me.
He said, “I’ll never do it again.”

“I know, I’ll never give you the chance.”

And now I’m telling you.

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