"I hit the walls so I don't hit you,"

I saw this post on a page I follow, and I fell down a rabbit hole of memories and regrets. Basically, in the post, the woman is thinking back to a time in her youth when she was briefly touched by a weird sort of violence that is all but ignored by most of society.

Every now and then, I'm struck by similar distant but not faded memories of near-but-not-quite violence from men in my life—sharp, spicy moments that barely moved me during a more pliable, naive time. Sometimes I literally shake with what I can only assume is the fear I shut down at the time finally rising up to claim its owed debt.

I remember glasses, plates, dresser drawers, varied appliances flying at or past my head, holes punched in walls, and a casual "I hit the walls so I don't hit you," or "I lost it and had to just throw something," or, most often, nothing at all—just a rage-filled glare daring me to say something or take it further, almost like bait, perhaps, so they can be absolved later for their 'crime of passion.'

Sometimes I shake my head because it really wasn't out of character for the person, and sometimes I truly shudder because it reared its ugly head from men whom I believed were better. I can't judge young me for being unaware or simply too acquiescent, but I sure as hell can judge a society that continues to admonish its women and girls for being abused yet still refuses to teach its men and boys not to abuse.

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