by Patty Marinelli

Created on: November 15, 2009

Where do I start to tell the story of my survival? I am still finding it very hard to talk about the early days, as it has just been a year since I left him. All I can say is that you take it one step at a time. I was forty eight years old when I got off the bus with three suitcases and two hundred dollars in my pocket. I had no car, no job, and was going to live with my daughter and her three children. I was wearing a shirt way to warm for the August heat in an attempt to hide the bruises that stretched from my neck to my wrist. I was fifteen pounds under weight and tried to hide the eyes that had been crying for a week.

I owned my own home before I met my abuser, and was now going to live in my daughter's two bedroom apartment with my daughter and her family. Something was wrong with this picture. I was supposed to be the stable person in this mother daughter relationship. She was supposed to be the one to come home to live with her mother. I was so ashamed. But when my daughter met me at the bus depot I suddenly felt safe. My daughter was there to protect me.

After a week of sleeping all day and hiding in my room, I ventured out to go to a job fair. As I walked around the conference room I noticed a booth from the local career college. It was then that I realized my future. I wanted to be a paralegal. The thought of going back to college so late in life was a little intimidating to say the least. But I made my appointment, signed up for my classes and started my new life. I want to be able to help victims like me. I want to help people who feel like they have no one in their corner when their home no longer is safe. I wanted to show that you don't have to wait alone in the tunnel waiting for the light to turn on. I want to help them see that there are people waiting to help them walk to the end of the tunnel, and show them how to turn on the light for themselves.

I had my next two years scheduled for me. Now I had to work on me. I didn't know how to live independently. I didn't know how to make decisions on my own. I didn't know how to interact with other people without second guessing my words. I was so shell shocked. But on the first day of school, I got up, actually wore makeup, and faced my future. Going back to school was better than therapy for me. I have thrived in this learning environment. I have found friends, contacts, and shoulders to cry on when I needed one.

Every day is a struggle, but I am past the eye of the storm. I still have pity parties. I get angry when I have to drive a twelve year old car. I get angry when I think of the way I let him speak to me. I get angry when I think of the years I wasted on trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. But I thank him now. I thank him for helping me realize that I am a person of value. I am a person who deserves to be loved. I am worthy. I know now that answers to your problems can't always be answered by a Knight in shining armor. Hopefully, one day Prince Charming will show up, but not to rescue me. I will have rescued myself.

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