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.

Everything you need to know about people can be found in the things they don’t talk about.

Perception is everything. And at the end of the day, people believe what they want to believe, and no one wants to believe someone who looks so nice could be anything but.

Lie. Cheat. Steal. Beg. Borrow. It’s the way it’s always been for me, the way it has to be for people like us, and we have to be smart about it, or we die with needles in our arms or bars on our windows.

And I promise, hand to God, when we finally get out of here, I’m going to spend the rest of my life giving this woman the kind of heavenly existence she deserves.

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

What Shane Knudsen stole from me—my dignity, my sanity, my money—was more than made up for by the fact that he gave me my life back—the only one I have. The only one I’ll ever have. The one I’ll never allow anyone to take from me again.