i am new here and come across this subject yesterday, immediately went to reply and... i couldn't. i thought i over, searched for the perfect words, found them, typed them out, read them, and then, deleted them. i wish there was some way, at times, to plug my brain into something that sorted and shared how i feel... it took me a lot of years before i would even admit to being abused, even to those who knew, who'd seen the results. i didn't talk about it, share it, refer to it. i am past that now, but still, it's painful, i can sit here and type and not have to admit that i am crying the whole time, but i am.

i don't want to share the details, only that it was physical and mental and emotional. worse, i loved him, he loved me, but he was broken and i thought, somehow, i could fix him, that he would get better, that if i hung in there with him... and it wasn't always like that. sometimes, he treated my like a princess, was so sweet, so good to me... it changed over time. the rages were few and far between at first, and a part of me encouraged them - i was just in the throes of discovering myself, my attraction to BDSM - i am a sub with masochistic tendencies. He'd hurt me, but not too much, and then, god, the sex after, was amazing - i welcomed it as long as he didn't go too far, and mostly, he didn't, and i accepted that, at times, he would, but that was a risk i was willing to take...

that changed one night. he taught me a new game, one of control, of cold rages rather then hot ones... one night, he walked in on me during a bath, not uncommon, but the look on his face was... he sat down, loving brushing my hair back and then, he took me by the throat and pushed me under the water... he out weighed me by 100 lbs or so, and worked out almost daily - it didn't matter if i fought him or not... he let me up, to breath, told me that one day, he'd not let me up until he'd drowned me like a stray kitten. it was in his eyes, he meant it. Afterwards, he bent me over the toilet and raped me anally- oh, yeah, we were a couple, but it was rape - this is the first time i've used that word, but i've known it was true... he hurt me...

that was the beginning of it. after that... i was afraid to take baths, only he insisted, and sometimes, he'd just bathe me or we'd play, and it be fine, and other times he'd tell me that he could, if he wanted and left it at that, and other nights... sometimes he'd not let me up until i was close to unconciousness... every time, i wondered if this would be the night i'd die...

finally, i couldn't take it anymore... i told him no, when he told me to take a bath, i was sure that night he'd go too far... he filled the tub anyways and forced me in. for once, i fought, put everything i had into it, hit him, screamed... i don't remember much, only that i fought him. i honestly don't remember that night, although i still have nightmares, bad ones, that i am sure are memories. i was told he threw me through me through the door going out to our backyard - it was glass... i don't really want to remember.

sad thing is, a part of me still loves him, not all of him, but that beautiful side of him that i fell in love with... it was like jeckyll and hyde, and i loved the one and hated the other. i still feel ashamed that i let him do that to me, shame and humilation, enough so that i don't share it, don't talk about it, and guilt as well. stupid, i know, and i am getting better and i am now in a loving, committed relationship where i control how much abuse i recieve, and it's done with love and trust.

part of my therapy is to write... i wanted to share this, here, were it feels right...

We are slaves of etiquette, chained together by the silences that lie between us.

We are victims of the fear of being hurt, of putting our hearts upon our sleeves, the table top, of taking off our masks and letting the trail of our tears remain visible, tattooed tear drops marking out life sentences.

We are trapped in our anger, unable to trust that the hand that moves forward to wipe the tears from our lashes, won't be the same hand that wraps itself around our throats and pushes us underneath the water one more time, and we are paralyzed by the knowledge that this - this will be the time he keeps his promise and holds us underwater until our lungs catch fire and the water rushes in to claim us once and for all, wondering if it would be better, easier, to just open our mouths and swallow.

We are nailed to a cross, not of wood, but of hope and love and the expectations of joy, surrounded by the angry chaos of our own fears, our own hopelessness, our bitter rage, our pain.

We are deaf blind and especially dumb, unable to raise our hands and shout out the words that would, could, or should, set us free. I am not just a woman, I am a daughter, a mother, a sister, more then just two tits and a cunt and a pretty smile, more then just something to take your anger out on, slake your lust, make you feel big and strong, make you forget all the emptiness trapped inside of you, eating away at your soul. We mourn for the child you once were, beautiful and full of laughter, yearn to rescue him and set him free once more. We are chained by desire. The ropes and chains we wear, the cuffs and shackles, are more then affectations, they are all the more real for being invisible and yet, we feel their weight just as strongly as we feel gravity's pull upon our bodies, the scars we wear mimicking the slash marks upon concrete walls marking out the days, the years, the decades spent in isolation.

I am not a victim. I am a survivor, and that makes me tougher then any motherfucker who thinks that just because he can slam his fist into girl-flesh, he is a man, that just because he's forced his swollen cock between cherry red lips, he's some kind of god. I am the queen of tough motherfuckers. You tried to kill me, and I wouldn't die. You sit around and joke, when you think I'm not listening. "woman is the only creature that bleeds for three days and doesn't die. Fear her."

It's not a joke. The only man who ever came back from the dead was the son of God. When your number is up, you will be dust. For every night that you come into my dreams and try to break me once again, I come back the next morning, still alive, still here, still unbroken. Fear me, for I hold death in my belly as well as life. And to all the brothers, the fathers, the lovers who pick up the pieces, who hurt for us, who shed tears when ours have dried up, we love you for that, and hate you for it as well, knowing that your sorrows will only fill the tub faster, and we grow so tired of swimming, so tired of keeping our heads above the waterline.

We are prisoners to our own fear, our bodies are cages, our minds are cells, our hearts are barred and bolted, filled with just enough to keep us alive as we jump every time we hear footsteps out side the door or see shadow pass by our windows or feel his breathe upon our skin...

I will not live like that. I am the queen of motherfuckers and when I go over the wall, when i am finally free, i'll send a postcard.

"Having a wonderful time - wish you were here. Hugs, cherri."