“Ah, yes, the past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it…or learn from it.”—Rafiki

For 13 years, I cohabited with the man who victimized me. That’s a good deal of time and experiences, a great accumulation of minutes and hours and days. There should be so many things to think back on, but when I look back at that time it’s hard to sort out individual memories and instances. A handful of images stick out, mere flashes of scenes. Everything is unpleasant. 

I feel like this is my brain’s way of saving me. It makes it easier to move on. Happy times are hard to recall, so getting divorced seems like no great loss. I’m not sad. I’m not feeling mixed emotions or nostalgia. And I’m glad for that. 

But I do feel cheated. 

In those 13 years, we married and brought two children into the world. We bought a house. I graduated college, started a career. I should have such a store of memories of that man and myself being happy together, but I don’t. I feel like he has stolen the magical firsts of my adult life. There will never be a chance to get those back. 

Maybe there are happy memories buried in my head, but I don’t think they’ll be the kind I’m looking for. I don’t think those firsts were very magical for me. 

In writing these blogs, I’ll be memory hunting. It will be hard work ferreting out these memories that flash through my head. Holding them up to the light will be good too. Hiding is another way to lie and I’m finished being one of people of the lie. 

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