Redemption

WHY ARE YOU PUNISHING YOURSELF FOR SURVIVING?

I listened to the church bells ring. It's ironic to have a church by a hospital. It might be a symbol of hope for some or a terrible omen for others. Staring at the peak, watching the bell move, it's a reminder that it's a new day. That somehow I'm still breathing, and no matter how many times I've wished to stop, my story isn't ready to end.

In my slumber, I met a little girl. Her eyes were like mine, curls sprouted from her head, and there was a look of confusion on her face. She isn't sure why she's meeting me for coffee; she's not old enough to have it. She ordered an apple juice, and while I sipped from my mug, she sucked down her drink from a straw.

She's still so innocent, so I wasn't sure why I told her about my life. The more I talked, the deeper her eyebrows furrowed, but I couldn't stop. It's like she didn't understand. Neither did I. I told her about the abuse I suffered from, and she looked no older than six. When her hand rested on mine, I asked for her name.

She said, "Sawyer."

I started apologizing. She wasn't sure why. I saw the bruises on her arm. She tried hiding them. I told her things would get better. She looked at me like nothing was wrong.

And I realized that's abuse. It's not always being beaten on. It's believing that there's nothing beyond what you're enduring. That it's normal. Every time my dad raised his voice, it was discipline. Whenever he laid a hand on me, it was what needed to be done. I didn't know any better. He said that's what daddy has to do.

I spent years thinking it was my fault. That I did something to upset him. And I'm apologizing to the younger version of myself because I couldn't protect her. I couldn't protect myself.

She asked if I was real – if we really survived. I told her yes. She told me how she wants to die, and that any life would be better than the one she's living now. I gripped her hand tighter and promised her that we would never give up. She asked if I ever felt the same. I told her yes.

That's when she asked, "but you survived. Why are you punishing yourself for surviving?"

I didn't know how to answer. The question repeated itself in my head until I cried. She's right, though. I've spent every day punishing myself for surviving. I've hated every inch of my body for being too weak to protect myself when, in reality, my body did what it had to survive.

I didn't freeze or condone the abuse because I was weak. It was my body's way of responding. It did what it could to keep me alive, and I've spent every day hating it.

I've spent every day torturing myself, hoping the punishment would make me feel better for allowing my dad to hurt me. It caused me to second-guess everything. Never trust myself. Never feel like I'm good enough for anything. Not because somebody else made me feel that way, but because I made myself feel that way. Because I thought I deserved it.

So, I looked at myself and realized that everything I do from now on will be for her. That's when I apologized. She asked why. I told her how much I hated that version of myself and everything I became after. She cocked her head to the side, analyzing everything about me, from my head to where the table cut off her view, and she smiled.

"But I don't hate you," she fell into a fit of giggles.

I felt myself smile. "I don't hate you either."

"Are you happy?" she kicked her feet back and forth. "Like the real kind?"

A few tears slipped down my face. "I'm working on it."

Her head fell to the side. "How?"

"By doing things for myself. Because I want to. Not because other people want me to."

"We can do that?"

I leaned forward, whispering. "We can do anything."

And I watched a smile grow on her face. Suddenly, she started laughing. The kind of laughter that sounds like relief. And I joined in. I did it until my belly hurt and tears swelled in my eyes.

When it all died out, she sighed. "I think it's time for me to go now."

"Already?"

"I just wanted to be your friend," she slid out of the booth. "I never knew why you hated me so much."

"I don't. Not anymore."

Her curls bounced as she skipped to the door. "Then go be happy!"

When the door opened, light flooded my vision, and she disappeared. That's when I woke up in the hospital room. That little girl has been in my head ever since. That's why I told the doctor I didn't want any visitors. I made up my mind. Nothing would change it. I didn't want anyone wasting their breath.

I'm going to New York because that's what will make me happy. I'm choosing myself because I deserve to. I'm leaving because I owe it to the little girl who spent her whole life thinking death was better than living.