A Post About Dissident Happiness II

When life is hard, think of the good--bettysbattleground.com

Dear person who read my 2017 post about dissident happiness today,

thank you. Every once in a while I check my blog stats and see what posts people are reading (by the way–where is my guest post about growing up with a bipolar mother, and my post about forgiving people who commit suicide re-blogged? They’re getting way too much traffic to not have links posted elsewhere). I saw that someone had read the blog post I made last year to celebrate the good things about the time while my court case with my abuser was going on. I’d forgotten about that post, and about my ability to be happy and positive during really dark times. Seeing that link and re-reading that post was really helpful, especially since I’m going through some fiercely dark times right now. So I’ve decided to do a round two, 2018 edition.

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The Light That Shines Through: A Post About Dissident Happiness

Read about the good days in a crappy year on bettysbattleground.com

I have not been very happy this past year. Just over a year ago, on an innocuous evening in June, someone knocked on my door while I was in the bathroom. My husband answered, and accepted a packet that an unfamiliar layman was delivering for me. My world changed while I was taking a piss.

The packet was a lawsuit; a motion for genetic testing to establish paternity. Had I answered the door, I would have been able to identify the layman who’d delivered it to my home address as the father of the man who physically and sexually abused me for four years when I was a teenager. The paternity suit in the packet was legitimate; my abuser fathered my eldest child, though he had been uninvolved in my son’s life for almost as long as my son had been alive.

The parentage suit, which was quickly followed by a custody suit, threw my world into a darkness almost as deep and suffocating as the four years of our relationship. I had to recount, and then defend, the worst instances of my abuse. My abuser submitted intimate letters and photographs, which he had apparently kept in his possession for ten years, with the seeming sole purpose of humiliating me. I was obsessively fearful for my son’s safety, especially because he is a non-verbal autistic. My PTSD was aggressively aggravated, and my lowest shames were paraded before my abuser for his amusement and use. On top of that, my beloved Abuelita (grandmother) had died just a month earlier, and I was struggling to recover from my PTSD related suicide attempt. The past year has been a hell.

But this isn’t a post about hell. This isn’t a post about the custody case. This post is about the little pricks of light that shone through the darkness of the past year, sometimes impossibly so; those fervent, stubborn moments of happiness and joy that kept me dragging onward through the fight. This is a post about happiness that chose to exist beyond all odds. Dissident happiness.

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