One night, while I was relaxing on the couch watching a movie, I heard a ruckus coming from the street outside my window. It went on for a bit, growing louder with each passing moment. It sounded like a fight, and it was close. Curiosity got the better of me. I paused the movie and listened. A moment later, I cracked open the blinds so I could see what I was hearing.
A man and a woman stood on the sidewalk hurling insults at each other. She had done something he didn’t like, and he was angrily telling her exactly what he thought. The words were brutal. I waited for fists to start flying—that’s how volatile it felt. I was scared, in a way. Yelling isn’t unfamiliar to me. I’ve been conditioned to accept name-calling as somehow normal. These two were playing out a scene I had lived many times over the course of my life. I’ve heard it all. Still, hearing it from complete strangers was unnerving.
As the fight intensified, I became more tense, almost afraid for them. Who was going to throw the first punch? The woman wasn’t all that big—would she be able to handle being assaulted? And what if she swung first? I’d never seen a fight like that , and I didn’t know what would come of it.
Watching the scene unfold, I felt a deep sense of familiarity. I’ve been there, in her exact shoes before. I know what it’s like to feel that mix of anger and fear. I could have been the one out there, yelling and carrying on. Unfortunately, it’s something I’m good at. At one point, I even thought she was doing it all wrong. Don’t yell back—it will only anger him more. Don’t stand up to him. Back down. Cower. That’s how you escape. I knew the steps by heart and almost wanted to coach her. Eventually, the fight settled, and they walked away together toward whatever destination they’d been headed for.
I closed the blinds and tried to return to my movie, but I couldn’t relax. I felt uneasy—almost frightened—the same feeling I used to have when the aggression had been directed at me. Fighting had been my way of surviving, and I hated knowing that other people were still living that way. It wasn’t fine, or normal, or harmless. It was cruel—borderline abusive—spilling out onto the sidewalk. Knowing others were reliving a life I had worked so hard to leave behind was deeply upsetting.
I never did go back to the movie. Scenes from my past ran through my head: all the times I had been verbally assaulted, belittled, mistreated. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want it. Watching them, I saw what I must have looked like to the outside world—fighting, groveling, just trying to survive whatever was being thrown at me.
I hadn’t enjoyed those fights. I didn’t like being called stupid or foolish for my actions. That isn’t what I want for my future, and I’ll be damned if I let myself fall back into that again.
I am overcautious now—hypervigilant about who I let into my life and who I give access to. I no longer want to give anyone permission to mistreat me. That’s what I was taught to do before: accept it, endure it, survive it. Not anymore. Not this girl.
No longer answering to that life,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 