The morning after, was always perfect.

The morning after, there were smiles & special hugs.

Sometimes, there would even be treats.

At the breakfast table, eating the buttery, crumbly coffee cake my mother often made to take our minds off the night before, I would reach down
and feel my knees. Yes, there were still wounds there. Yes, I HAD knelt on broken glass to clean up the wreckage.

Yes, my knees still bore the wounds. Yes, I would tell myself.

It HAD happened. You're not insane.

I would look at the wall.

Where there were 10 decorative plates
my mother cherished, there were now 5 and 5 empty, round, white, empty spaces.

It HAD happened. Yes. It WAS real.

Yes. It was wrong. And now, sitting at the breakfast table, with nervous laughter and warning smiles - this - this is also abuse. To make me question my very eyes.
To make me feel crazy. To take an offered hand that slapped the night before and think, this is fine.

THIS too, is abuse. This is the theft of recovery, the death of healing, the end to hope, the incredible lack of consequences.

But I still have wounds. My knees still bleed.
https://twitter.com/RedloraineV/status/1324023012652281857?s=20
https://twitter.com/RedloraineV/status/1316461984557137921?s=20
they want us sweet as pie so they can run us through with out any resistance https://twitter.com/RedloraineV/status/1339602019451949063?s=20
Some of the best people have come away from gangs, cults, and abusive families - there are paths out to real freedom https://twitter.com/RedloraineV/status/1325523134494109696?s=20
On a fancy night out, my father punched my mother because she hadn't looked away fast enough when another man caught her eye. It was in the lobby of a fancy hotel. Nobody did a god dammed thing and he said she made him do it.

Both sides were to blame. https://www.rawstory.com/ken-buck/ 
https://twitter.com/RedloraineV/status/1352654213071872000?s=20
https://twitter.com/RedloraineV/status/1353019720136413184?s=19
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