When I Was You

by Minka Kent

I could easily draw a line, and on the other side of that line would be the woman I was before the attack. That woman, that version of me exists no more. Is that not the very definition of death?

It never fails to amaze me all the things people do when they think no one’s watching, the things they think they can get away with.

Bad people don’t sit around thinking about all the ways that make them bad.

Now I know with absolute certainty that people are selfish. They lie. Cheat. Steal. Hurt. Manipulate. Keep secrets. Wear proverbial masks. Even kill.

Some of us can’t help but be self-serving, letting our egos and ids drive the car as we sit powerless in the passenger seat.

But once the body’s fight-or-flight response is engaged, there’s no shutting it off until the threat to safety has been removed—something I’ve learned during my recovery.

I’m convinced somewhere, deep down, that version of me is still in there. I’m still working on digging her out from beneath the pile of psychological rubble and emotional ash. I haven’t given up—it’s just taking longer than I expected.

That seems to be a theme in my life . . . people leaving without explanation.

People get too comfortable living with their own assumptions. I’m convinced most of us prefer to shun the truth for reasons of our own.

“Money talks, wealth whispers,” and it’s a motto I’ve always tried to live by.

In the end, it’ll all be okay. And if it isn’t okay, it isn’t the end.

YES MA'AM