DOMESTIC VIOLENCE

In the months just before my divorce was final, my body was covered with bruises. Bruises down my legs, on my arms. Every time I’d show up to yoga—which was a whole lot less than I’d have liked—I’d be sporting a new mark. My sister pulled me aside one day and said, “What the hell is going on?” My coworker stopped me outside a doctor’s office after lunch and lifted up my chin so that she could get a better look at the bruise on my right temple. “I fell down the stairs” wasn’t going to cut it with her. We’re too close for lies like that. I had to tell her the truth about the abuse. 

Yeah, it was all me.

I’m 5’ 2”. I guess you could say I'm petite. And I’m about as strong as I look—which is not at all. But did that stop me from relocating furniture, pulling boxes out of closets (onto my head a of couple times), and dragging exercise equipment out of the garage during my therapeutic domicile redo? You know the answer: Of course not. I’m about determined as I look as well—which is a whole helluva lot. (I’m my mother’s daughter and super proud of that.) So I use what’s available to me: shins, forearms, feet, noggin. And I bruise so easily that I forget which injury came from what activity.

Since I finished the post-split house stuff, it’s like a I have a brand new body. Sure, it’s still pudgy where I don’t want it to be and the whitest one you’ve ever seen (I promise to say more on that later), but it’s nearly bruise free!

Until last weekend, that is. I woke up on Friday morning to discover a massive bruise just below my left knee. It’s the size of a small melon. I couldn’t figure out how I got it. That is until I went to yoga and did a straight-legged sit-up. Then it hit me. Or rather, I hit me. How did I get that big bruise on my leg? Oh, I whacked my own forehead on my shin. So I have to ask— Should I feel terrific that I’m flexible enough to do that or really stupid that I used my own head to bruise myself and then promptly forgot about it?

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Really, really important note: The Wasband never, ever laid a hand on me. I have to be clear on that. He would never hit a chick. In your curiosity about the demise of my marriage don’t let yourself think that I was a battered woman. I wasn’t.