Trigger warning: The poem featured in this month's blog is from the perspective of a person in an abusive situation. It's dedicated to all those who have ever faced the dilemma of how to deal with it.

You might think the obvious answer is "get out, any way you can", but for those of us who have been there, we know first hand that this so called "obvious" answer is not as simple as it seems. And the options we have may offer little to know assistance in keeping us, or those we love who are also threatened, safe.

If you choose to read it, please do so with an open heart, and compassion. You cannot know the "right thing" for someone to do, unless YOU are the one walking along that very path yourself. And then the answer you might come up with, will still only apply to your situation.

And if you are in an abusive situation, I see you, I hear you, I love you, and you matter. Please believe that you are worth fighting for and give yourself permission to get out - any way you can.

​I was standing in front of the full length mirror, light streaming in through the store’s front windows. The salesperson and I were both smiling. The dress was gorgeous. I felt gorgeous. There was absolutely no reason for me to buy this dress other than it was rare I found something that felt so right on my skin.

As most good things that come into my life, I had tried it on as a whim. 

It was the last one, on sale, at one of my favorite boutiques to window shop in. I rarely purchased anything in there for two reasons:

I don’t make a habit of buying something just for the sake of spending money.
The place was EXPENSIVE.

But the clothes were lovely, and being among beautiful things was a source of inspiration for me. So I had wandered in on this wonderful summer afternoon just to see the soft colorful fabrics and be on my way.

Until I saw this dress. And had to try it on.

I’m always amazed by the people who tell me HOW I should live, MUST use any influence I have, or INSTRUCT me in the way to exist on this planet as a “good person”.

Take for example my social media presence. Time and time again, I have randoms telling me how I SHOULD be posting on behalf of this cause or that cause. And that I “waste” the power I (allegedly) have by showing myself in scantily clad lingerie, or simply sharing my thoughts on living in a healthy manner.

In theory, it may be my platform to do as I like with. But “you COULD be doing more,” is the refrain I’ve heard most often from those who know me the least.

“Perhaps these anonymous faceless nameless people are right”, I thought to myself one day. “Maybe I should be doing more.”

But what exactly could I do?
​

​I’m sitting up in bed watching snow fall outside my window. It’s the first snow of winter and its incredibly quiet. The flakes are ethereal looking. I play with my vision first concentrating on the mass coming down. Then focusing in on one flake at a time which seems to hover in the air as it falls.

And it’s that moment that I am overwhelmed by the wonder of it all. 

Because a single flake is so very small. Delicate. Seemingly negligible. Yet together they create these massive drifts and piles getting larger by the moment.

How is it possible that something so fragile can have such a huge effect? A minuscule barely frozen water droplet essentially grinding life to a halt for a brief time.

​Last night, several places in town closed earlier or didn’t stay open at all, in anticipation of the snow. People stayed in, hunkering down, perhaps snuggling in as I did. 

Yet it’s not like we had to do this. In modern times we have snow plows, central heating, special snow shoes, and snow tires. Life can and does continue even in some of the harshest of conditions depending where in the world you live.

​“I want to cut my hair off!”

My excited voice entered the salon a beat before I did. Michael was a bit surprised to see me as I had just been there a week ago touching up my roots to keep my tresses gypsy dark. He paused in what he was doing and smiled. 

“Do you mind if I sit until you have a sec?” I asked a little more hesitantly. “I have inspiration pics and want to hear your thoughts.”

He waved me to a chair while he went back to cutting. And as I sat there fidgeting, I thought “Am I really going to do this?”

I have a deep attachment to my hair. When I was a kid, it was a golden brown wavy thick mass. Ironic considering I was bald at my first birthday. Family legend has it a bow was pasted to my head so that people would know I was a girl. As though it mattered to a one year old what others thought.

At some point in my early elementary years, my hair was cut off into an ugly bowl shape. No idea why, and I remember being really upset by this. But then it grew out again. As I got older I kept it long until the day my dad took me for a trim at the salon.

The gum chewing girl was gossiping away with the stylist next to her when I heard “Oh shit”. I came out of my daydreaming to see my long locks had been hacked off accidentally as she laughed at something her friend said. I cried for weeks.