First comes the shock.
Not a lot of people know that. They all figure that the pain is instant.
It’s not even a primary or secondary part of the situation.
Pain doesn’t even matter then; not as you’d expect anyway.
You’re hurting, but not from the slowly forming bruises.
It’s what happens next that haunts you. The disregard, the hate… Who can handle that? To be reduced to a whimpering pile on the floor. To be despised for being weak.
I have…I’ve picked myself off of that floor more times than I could care count. I’ve felt the scathing loneliness of it all.
I’ve been shrunken, pulled apart…and I’ve handled it.
And, alas! it made me who I am today. Not a warrior,
but a woman who can handle anything.