In the end, it was all just forgetting. Purposeful, conscious forgetting. Forgetting the abuse, the anger, verbal lashes, the 2 by 4 and the time I made that one mistake. It was about forgetting the combativeness; the jarring highs and lows between enemies, the parental pairing that was “god’s” will. It was forgetting the other women, their presence contradicting the so-called truths he had professed, over and over and over again.
And yet, in this world, forgetting is living. Wholly conscious and relevant as the guide to my “how not to.”