They don’t want to hear my stories. They refuse to believe what I say.
“Show me your scars,” they tell me, crossing their arms in disdain. “Prove to me the harm he has done. Without physical proof of your pain, I have to assume you have none.”
I suppose it is easy for the outsider to distrust wounds for which there is no physical evidence. And I confess, such indifference further adds to my pain.
If only he would hit me. Sometimes I wish he would. Then they might understand what he has put me through, how much it hurts, that some of the deepest wounds never bleed. Maybe if my bones were broken, if blood flowed from all the hurting places, the cynics and know-it-alls would not be so quick to downplay my fears or tell me that the things he does or says are inconsequential.
