I’m Not Scared, But She Was

By Elena Mas, Toronto, Canada

When the lockdown measures were put in place in Toronto, I was very nervous about the situation with the pandemic. I was checking COVID numbers every day, I was worried about my mom and dad, and my whole family: about them loosing their jobs or getting sick. Every day I was anxious and stressed out. But one thing I was NOT, was scared.

And I noticed that lack of fear. I noticed, because I know what being scared in your own home is like. I know how it feels to not want to be inside of your home. I know how it feels to stop before entering the front door and wanting to cry because you don’t want to go in.

I knew how many women were going through what I went through, but I was not in a place to provide help. So I gave thanks, to whatever higher power there is, for letting me live through this pandemic with a caring and loving husband who has never made me feel that way.

Months later, I heard my husband talking to a colleague and friend. She had reached out to him because she was going through it. I didn’t have a close or personal relationship with her, and yet I felt her. I heard their conversation from my husband’s side, and although I didn’t hear her voice, I knew that while my husband was helping her, he couldn’t understand her reality. Bless him, he doesn’t know what that pain feels like, and I am thankful he doesn’t.

So I told my husband to ask her if I could reach out and talk with her about it. He knew I could help. She agreed. At this point, she had left the abusive relationship. We talked for hours. She told me her whole story, and we cried. I told her parts of my story, and it helped me too.

Mostly, I told her that what she did and how she acted was to protect herself, and that it was OK.

I said, “Everything you’re doing and feeling is OK.”

She hadn’t heard that before. She told me how important it was to hear from someone who could really understand her, and I told her I wished I’d had the courage to speak with someone, all those years ago.

 

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