I’m not a jealous person, but occasionally, it consumes me. It only happens in very specific scenarios. It’s whenever I see someone run well in a race. Jealously may not be the best word- that’s what my abuser told me it was. However, when I really sit with the feelings, I see it’s so much more than that. It took me years to admit to myself that he negatively affected my life and that I would have been better off without him… but it’s the truth.
I feel sad.
I mourn something that I could have been, but that he took from me. For years, when I would run, I would black out. My body was conditioned to run in panic mode and anytime I put my running shoes on, I would be back in that god forsaken state. In high school, the assaults would happen right before I went to practices that he coached. He would r**** me, and within 30 minutes I would be warming up for my workout. By the time I got to the track, my legs would be numb, my mind blank. I was there, but at the same time, I was as far away as possible. It took a long time to overcome that, hell I still feel it sometimes when I run. I feel sad that I was never able to pursue my dream without his hands around my neck, choking and suffocating me until my love for the sport was reduced to only him.
I feel anger.
Angry that he used something I loved for his own gratification. He twisted my passion for his own benefit. I’m mad at him, and sometimes, I even am mad at myself. I’m frustrated with myself for not being able to push through it. I feel like I allowed it to consume me and that I chose the suffering. I know that’s not true, but it’s what I feel in the deep canyon that he left behind.
I feel resentment.
I feel resentment towards anyone that he coached who he did not abuse. There’s a sick and twisted part of me that wants them to know how hard it was for me. On the race line, all they are thinking about is their race plan. When I’m on the race line, all I can think about is him. There was no race plan in my head, only a survival plan.
Lastly, I feel hopeless.
I never reached my potential as a runner, or a human. I feel the aspirations and hopes kicking around in that dusty part of my brain. They were things he told me I could be, but only with his help. I feel like a failure because I never achieved any of those dreams. I never will. But maybe that’s not actually what I want, maybe those were just things that he wanted, and that he used to control me. I can be more than just some fast runner. There’s more to life than that. I just don’t think he wanted me to see that because if I did, then he wouldn’t have been able to maintain his deathly grip on the leash around my neck.
So, “jealous” may not be the right word. It’s so much more than that. The pain he left behind is deep and complex and can’t be reduced to one word, or even three. This isn’t me being a jealous, stuck-up bit*h (although I can hear his voice telling me that). This is me admitting that he hurt me in a profound way and that every once in a while, when I’m reminded of what my life could have been without the abuse, it burns and strings my open wounds.
Edited by Haze_D