The Soldier And The Battle

PTSD

The first time someone said it to me, I couldn't comprehend why they had. I was no soldier. I had not seen battle.

It was a haze, a fuzzy memory. At least that's what I said. I lied, I could remember every single detail. How I felt. How I cried while I stared in the mirror. How the stench of his cologne smelled. How I gagged when I smelt it on him the next day and the day after that and for four years after.

How did I live with it? They had asked me this question more than once. Knowing what he did to me. Seeing him everyday. Subjecting myself to his treachery and keeping quiet.

How did this happen? I am still lost to this day. How did I keep quiet? How had I not realized what I was? A victim of sexual assault. But I didn't want to hear it, I don't want to hear it. I want to forget these moments and be okay. I know one day I will.

Am I a soldier? I trudged through this battle. I have seen horrific things. I have fought hard against myself, others, and him. I have muddled my way through. I have come out the other end stronger. I have a couple of wounds. Maybe some that won't ever heal, but I survived. I am here. I am here.