I know he didn’t mean to hurt me, but he did.
At first, I tried to push down the pain, swallowing it like a bumpy pill; no good.
I retreated to the bathroom, closed the door, and quietly wailed, silently screamed my pain. Still, no good. Soft, high pitched screams forced themselves out of me. I punched and punched and punched my thighs. It wasn’t enough.
I needed to feel physically what I was going through emotionally. I needed to find someone to punch me. I found Ryan.
Somehow, magically, he stood on the stairs leading up from the lower level, chatting with some ladies. I was barely polite, uttering only, “I need you to punch me.” I think he saw it in my eyes. He said a sweet adieu and followed me back downstairs.
We somehow ended up on a couch. He told me to sit. He began punching my chest, my ribs. I told him I was going to cry, but don’t stop. He leaned me forward and began working on my back.
Then, the sobs came. Loud, guttural, full bodied wails of sorrow. Tears streamed down my face. I was in pain, but I barely felt Ryan’s touch. I let go, let my pain wash over me. I was allowed to be in my sadness. Once, he motioned as if he were about to stop. “I said ‘Don’t stop,'” I yelled. He began again, harder. And still, it barely registered.
I don’t remember how we ended up stopping. I just know at some point I stopped sobbing and he stopped hitting.
He rubbed my back, helped me to breathe slowly. He got me a paper towel for my snot and sat beside me. I rambled on, vaguely talking about why I was so upset, without actually saying it. He listened, but then gave me the best advice. “You have a 24 hour reprieve. Do whatever you have to to feel better. Let yourself step back and look at the situation without the emotional turmoil. Then, talk it out with them.”
So now I’m waiting, trying not to be angry, trying not to cry. But, most importantly, not allowing myself to brush it under the rug. Not falling on my sword for others, letting my heart hurt without comfort.
We will talk and I will say my peace. How things move forward is up in the air, but I refuse to feel like shit and not call him on it. I refuse to feel like the tossed aside rag doll and not voice my strong opinion on the fucked up nature of events.
I am not a fucking after thought.
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