I survived torture which left permanent injuries on my body and soul.
I survived attempts on my life by my husband over years.
I survived years of rapes.
I survived loss.
I survived an abusive adoptive family.
I survived five years of living on the road and in campsites and forests.
I survived heroin.
I don’t see how I am weak, or pathetic, or useless, or fragile, and even if I am judged to be those things, I really don’t see why others think they have the right to call me by those labels, just because they judge me by their fucked up standards and lives which have not been mine.
I survived and I am still me.
So, I don’t enjoy being chased by crackheads down streets with them threatening me and the Boy. That doesn’t make me weak. Anyone who is ok with the lawlessness of San Francisco is mentally ill themselves. You cannot live in this part of town and simply ‘be ok’ with it. It is a warzone.
But I am not weak. I just don’t have a lot of choices because of the actions of the man I married, and because any blood family I used to have who were decent people are long dead.