My words are poked, prodded, analyzed; parused.

My life is judged, written, scripted; held in a higher vault than all the rest. After all, I passed some mean test.

Though I refuse all labels, one keeps veering its glittery head. Domestic violence survivor. “Glory, glory! She made it out alive. She’s not dead!”

I am not refusing the compliment that is bestowed upon me by so many that show genuine encouragement and support.

What I do detest is the pedestal to which some place DV survivors. That higher than high place. And we should never again feel sadness. We should never again feel anger or frustration. We should never show any sign of any negative emotion, because we survived the worst of the worst.

The rules. Now, the female DV survivor is some pristine model of a strong, successful woman. Pristine. We cannot feel anything but extreme gratitude & happiness.