I read somewhere about struggle and how life is about struggle and what we do with it. My struggles have been something that have gotten me to a place in life currently where I talk to almost nobody other than the man who raped me for decades. What is wrong with me? Why has the struggle to survive gotten me to this place of isolation?

This place in the world is wrong yet right. All the bruises were wrong and the willingness to be bruised was wrong. It’s still wrong yet right. The bruises have transformed into a darkness so deep that the bruises have settled deep within. Resulting in an inability to do anything but hide. When the bruising began, the strength to endure became an obsession. The wrong yet right felt like the sentence given justly. The doors closed and held me tight. The doors opened and allowed the bruising and then the hiding in plain sight. The begging continues deep within and again the begging and pleading for safety is ignored as always. Wrong yet right. Right in ways that show up each morning with the sun streaming in the rapist’s windows. The sun shines on the rapist and joy lifts the rapist in ways that will always be mystifying and strange. Why does the wrong become a place for the light to shine?