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The Colours of Abuse

The Sad Truth About Abuse

By [email protected]Published 5 years ago 3 min read
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You love him, and he has his issues. But who doesn’t, right? Those thoughts rush through your mind every time he lays an unkind hand on your porcelain skin, creating the marks of indigo, that mark you his property, the green of envy upon your arm proves the fear of letting go, the crimson blood shows his anger across your face, the crystal water falling from your eyes demonstrates your love. I can fix him, it will be okay… it never becomes okay. When making love becomes everything except love, when the hand that once held you, now makes it hard for you to breathe, this is when you know it will not be okay.

Love; a word and a feeling I have always been intrigued by. With you it was easy, be kind and make him feel loved. Easy doesn’t last forever, rules in a relationship are quite simple, right? Don’t cheat, don’t lie, and always love even when you don’t like… don’t speak to my friends, don’t go through my things, and don’t see me at lunch. I can sleep with that girl, but don’t be friends with those boys. Rules are normal but demands and consequences are not. My mom always said relationships were difficult, they took effort, you are supposed to lose yourself. When I received this advice I wasn’t made aware that losing yourself and not recognizing who you’ve become are different. My eyes became dark, and hair became fragile, but no one seemed to notice; “she’s stressed from school”, “didn’t get much sleep last night?” Wrong. You were all wrong.

The first intimate moments together were sweet and beautiful, with them being my first they were special, the sweet and tender love I was introduced to becomes overwhelmed with fear. The hands caressing my face now hold my throat, the lips on my neck now make no contact with me at all; all they do now is speak vile words that once were so kind. I used to love being vulnerable, but with the pressure on my throat pushing down on every last piece of dignity I had, I couldn’t wait until I had passed out. For a moment of relief and an instant where I would no longer had to feel the hatred being inflicted on to my body—no—not my body. That body I was in no longer felt like mine. The bruises, scratches, the tears did not belong to me, I was no longer me. The consent I gave was out of fear, not out of desire.

I am not the only one, my friends have gone through the same things; the tears, the fear, the guilt; every colour of abuse I wore, she shared. “I loved him, just the same as you,” she would tell me with tears in her eyes, “I had only wished I had told you about him, to stop you from loving someone incapable of loving you.” She apologizes as if his actions were hers’ to apologize for. Even though his actions are his own, and they are ones he will never regret, and I would never forget.

Today, mental illness is seen as an attractive quality. Pain is seen as sexy, and fear is seen as desirable. “I can fix you!” they say looking at the broken one they love so much. The more pain you cause yourself means the more pain you cause others. “Girls and young women, between the ages of 16 and 24, experience the highest rate of intimate partner violence —almost triple the national average. Among female victims of intimate partner violence, 94 percent of those age 16 to 19... were victimized by a current or former boyfriend or girlfriend.” (www.loveisrespect.org) Ninty four percent of young females are in either emotionally or physically abusive relationships. The colours we wear are not to be ashamed of, they are there to show our resilience, to show our purple for loyalty, our yellow for trust, and our blue for strength. The colours of abuse are not something to be worn in secret however many people do, maybe even you.

Work Cited

“Dating Abuse Statistics.” Loveisrespect.org, www.loveisrespect.org/resources/dating-violence-statistics/.

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