One thing I’ve learned is that abusers don’t see themselves as abusers.

They’re “Doing what is necessary”, the abuse “hurts them more than it hurts you”.

They can’t hear your cries, your pleas fall on hearts of stone.

And most of all they absolutely cannot understand why you are still upset about it.

There was a time when I had a pickaxe in my hands and my abusive stepdad turned his back to me. For a moment I knew I could murder him, I could bury that pickaxe in his skull and he couldn’t stop me.

I felt at that moment that nothing that would happen to me as a consequence of doing that would be worse than the abuse I was going through at that time.

I don’t know what stopped me. I had to live with the abuse for another full year after that moment.

To this day, my mom has no idea how close I came to becoming a murderer.

If you knew me, the idea of me wanting to pop a man’s head like a rotten coconut would seem cartoonish and comical.

But I was close.

If I knew I was dying and I met the man responsible for it, I could cross that line.

I’ve been close before.