Better to be strong than pretty and useless. -Lilith Saintcrow

Ever since I was a little girl with blond hair and a lisp that was just cute enough, I have had this chronic sleeping problem. To be honest, I've often wondered if it's genetic because my sister, as it turns out, has also had a struggle with sleep. Sleep doesn't seem to come often for us and when it does, it's that jittery, hot, sticky sleep. The kind of sleep where your mind is incessantly on the run, where your dreams and reality run together so much that it all becomes a hazy blur. And then you're left trying to decipher what's real and what isn't. Sometimes I truly believe that a girlfriend of mine hit it right on the head when she said to me, "I feel as though I've lost actual hours and days of my life." This crazy lack of sleep, I can painfully identify with.

I've had chronic nightmares since I was little. To the point where I wake up with cold sweats and can't do anything besides literally pray for morning to come. Most times, they involve people I know, sometimes people I haven't seen for years. Bad things happening to them or me will leave me a bit winded for actual hours, sometimes even days, afterward. Sleep, silence and the dark have never been great friends of mine. Sometimes I think my sleeping habits have worsened because as I've gotten older, I tend to get too lost inside my own head.

And I know it's a common problem because I have a handful of girlfriends with the same backgrounds and case histories who endure the same troubles. I find myself forming a very close bond with these women because we understand each other. For the most part, we've lived the same life.

About a week ago, I was talking with just such a girlfriend. She was beyond exhausted. She had had a fight with her husband the night before and was unable to sleep the entire night. For most of the morning, her eyes were watery and she spoke with an unseasonably reserved sense of calm.

I could see she was visibly upset and asked her if she wanted to talk, about anything at all, "because catharsis is therapeutic," I nudged her with my shoulder. It took a lot for her to open up because truth be told, this dainty little person is a lot stronger than she looks. But she did and then allowed me to take notes so I could share some of her stories.

 

Courage isn't having the strength to go on. It is going on when you don't have the strength. -Napoleon Bonaparte

The premise of her story isn't unlike that of any other of its kind. She met and seemingly fell in love with an isolating, cheating abuser who brain washed her into believing she was a bad mother. She lived with him and his family and endured all of his not so endearing qualities that are stereotypical of a "Momma's Boy". She had to ask permission for minuscule things like dinner with the family at their table and showering when she felt like it. She had no choice but to ship her child to his grandmother's house because she was living in such a state of chaotic disarray.

She was living out of a suitcase and getting physically beat on by her live in boyfriend, a man hell bent on trapping her. He locked her away in a little bedroom upstairs, away from her son, away from her family and friends. He even refused to let her work in the beginning and when she did finally get a job, he garnished her wages. She had nothing for herself: no freedom, no solace, no sense of self worth. She had virtually no pieces of herself left.

The more confined he kept her, the deeper she fell into a downward spiral. She was nothing but a little toy for him to pull out when he wanted to play. She was nothing. Half a person with half a soul.

Her big brown eyes welled up with tears as she spoke. She stopped to gaze out the window and regain her strength. When she looked back at me, the tears were gone. The fear in her eyes had vanished. She looked at me then strong and new; a brave woman now unafraid.

A brave new hustler.

 

Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength. -August Wilson

She was scared but she knew she had to get out. She had to get out for the sake of her child, for the sake of her own life and self worth. She was up all night, unsure of whether or not to go back home to New Jersey. Would he follow her? Should she risk traveling to get her son, knowing the kind of crazy that would be waiting for her when she got back home? Scared and alone, she knew what she had to do for herself and her child. If she didn't get out now, she never would and eventually, he would suffocate her. Death by suffocation. And strangulation.

A week or so later, she returned to Florida with her son and familial monetary assistance in tow. She packed her things and got her own place, gradually pushing her overbearing, soon to be ex boyfriend away so he didn't pick up on her scheme hatchery. Anything to soften the blow of the impending breakup. She needed a clean break and she needed to be smart about it. She played it cool, kind of like Frank Sinatra when he played Danny Ocean (oh, and ps, swoon... Have you SEEN that movie?).

She made her own life, in her own place, living bright and free with her son. She could shower and eat when she pleased, spend all the time she wanted playing with her son and work toward becoming the strong, sexy woman she was before her asshole boyfriend beat it out of her.

 

Anyone can hide. Facing up to things, working through them, that's what makes you strong. -Sarah Dessen

Basking in the glow of her new found freedom, she started making friends with the people in her apartment complex. Her son made friends with the surrounding kids and she found women she could identify with in their mothers. But naturally, her tentative idiot ex boyfriend hated to hear about her socialization and new friends. Because obviously, it meant he was gradually losing control over her. She had her own place with a door that locked, a place where she could go to escape his rancid behavior. A place that he didn't have a key to...

She told me about this one time in particular when a girlfriend of hers slept over. Somehow or another, he got wind of said girly sleepover and he lost it. He slurred drunken cuss words at her and accused her of being a lesbian. Because apparently girls can only be in the same room if they're having some sort of girl on girl, kinky lesbian orgy. They couldn't really be friends, right?!

What an ass! (Seriously, just rereading my notes to write this makes me want to flick him in his stupid, jealous, big, dumb idiot face. Wow, I really need to calm down...)

They had one more huge blow out before she finally ended it once and for all. The argument was so loud and chaotic that the neighbors came out of their apartments with curious concern. For my sweet, strong friend, that final fight sent her through a fuzzy, violent flashback of all their previous fights and moments of tension. Memories of wild screaming and fiery fierceness came flooding back and suddenly, she stopped listening. Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears and suddenly, a lot of stuff started making sense.

So she fought back. After years of being beaten down by him, she fought back. She fought for herself.

 

The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is an attribute of the strong. -Mahatma Gandhi

Moral of the Crazy: I wish I could say that with my psychology experience, collection of serial killer analysis books and tons of Dr. Phil episodes under my belt, I understood men. I could write for hours about how most men are children who are irrevocably selfish and monstrous beings. (Infant man child. Beating on women makes you a cowardice piece of pent up man garbage.) I could go on and on about how angry I am about domestic violence. (The fairer sex and children should not be left to fend for themselves against horrible men with temper problems. Take a damn anger management class. Pretty sure they're free like, everywhere.) How my blood literally curdles when I hear girls talk about how terrible their men are just to turn around and make excuses for them. (Don't make excuses. Make them man up or get out. They don't love you because if they did, they wouldn't treat you like a red headed step child.)

Men like this leave an awful, just terrible taste in my mouth. Imagine, if you will, it to be something reminiscent of the bottom of a bird cage. But we've been over this friends, and as much as I'd love to, as much as I think I would sleep better, we can't rewrite history. It's done. People make choices and sometimes they're bad ones. Some men, for whatever reason, find justifiable reasons to put their violent hands on women, to get physical when things get heated. (That makes me want to fling acid in their face. When it "gets heated", an expression I just completely loathe by the way, walk the fuck away. Fight the gentleman's war: fist in pockets, mean mug on, count to ten and walk around the block. Because she's a grown woman who you're supposed to love and goddamn cherish. She's not a punching bag.)

But this isn't the moral. Libeling (I don't know if it's technically even libel because that would imply it isn't true, right? I don't know... the only crimes I'm super clear on are the really super violent ones.) my ex boyfriend and those of a few of my friends via social networking systems doesn't take the pain away. It doesn't make them turn into better people. What should be truly celebrated and ranted about is the women they've made survivors out of. Women like my friend, Kathy, myself, another friend who opted to remain anonymous and even my own mother. And that's just off the top of my head.

These women are not victims. They're survivors. They're strong, beautiful and warm hearted. They've chosen to forgive the men who have scorned them and start a fresh life, free of memories of their captor's face. (Personally, I'm still working on the forgiveness part. Some things are easier said than done. But anyway... I'm a work in progress.) These women are brave, new hustlers. And as a woman, I am in constant awe of their drive to continue, their capacity to survive, their command of respect.

I salute you.

It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men. -Frederick Douglass