Furious or wounded or both

I remain in awe of the strength of the survivors who shared their stories with me. Women and men both, with terrible tales of past abuse. We must find a way to do better.

It’s hard to feel safe, I am finding. It’s hard to feel truly looked after, truly cared for, despite my many advantages, my middle class privilege, my pales-in-comparison story, my large and loving family, my rock solid husband. And if I am finding it difficult, how much more difficult is it for those who must push forward while doing without.

We must find a way to do better by each other.

I believe in conversation, I believe in action. I believe in art, I believe in listening. I believe in the power of people, but I don’t know what it will take to get a majority rowing in the same good direction.

I used to have a thing about what I called cosmic hints. Things the universe seemed to be doing to get my attention. You know…hitting you over the head with what it wants you to notice. I don’t really go in for that kind of stuff these days.

This week a heavy, full, glass jar fell off a high shelf in the kitchen and landed on my head. I put my hand in my hair and staggered around the kitchen, shout-crying in outrage and pain. The blood on my fingers when I pulled my hand away frightened me. My husband came running, fresh from sleep, unsure whether I was furious or wounded or both.


I am fine and not fine. Like everyone else I know right now.

So what do we do now?


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