Abuse?

by goandneverlookback

AU: Justification of abuse in the thoughts of a nineteen year old Teresa Lisbon. AU: her mom didn't die, and their relationship was a bit complicated. Not explicitly about Lisbon, but in my mind it fits into who we see she grows into. Poss. trigger warning. A brief outlet for my thoughts on a couple subjects. *THIS IS AU PLEASE DON'T HATE ME*

I never called it abuse. That would've labeled me as a victim. But it was there-in the words, in the touches, in the bruises. But I always ended up okay. Didn't I? I picked myself up and I kept going. I never let anything stop me. A few sleepless nights, a few silent tears in the shower, but everyone has bad days every once in a while. Abuse would mean I didn't deserve it. Did I?

I could've been a better daughter. I was never perfect, no matter how hard I tried to be. And I was the best possible outlet for her stress. I would absorb it and internalize it and not take it out on others. It wasn't until years later that I learned not everyone's family operates as ours did.

I could've been smarter. What did I expect? A small statured female in a predominately male setting. They were just hands, just words. It could've been so much worse. Maybe I was just too sensitive, too opposed to touch, too out of touch with how interpersonal communication should work. I never reported them. There was too much else going on. I didn't want to be a tattle tale. They needed my help, and if their well being came at the price of my…"discomfort," then so be it. What does it matter how long it took me to not flinch and curl inwards when someone came near, protecting the most private places where no one should be?

I could've kept my mouth shut. Small people should know when to keep their mouths shut. But I never did. I was smarter, more well spoken, but he was bigger. I said no, I begged him to stop. But it was "just roughhousing." He said it was fun, but I was scared. I knew it was retribution for being a "mouthy little asshole." Sleeves got longer, pant legs touched the ground, terrified that people would see the bruises, because "it's not [his] fault [I] bruise easily." I should never have spoken.

I did deserve it, you see? Weren't they justified? If only I'd have been…better, closer to perfect, less sensitive, attracted to them as they were to me, less opinionated, less passionate about what I believed, less outspoken….less me.

A/N: Not explicitly Lisbon, but head-cannon backstory. Just an outpouring of my thoughts over the past couple of days. Currently a one-shot. If you're stuck around reading this far, I thank you. You're a wonderful human being and I hope life is treating you okay. Read and review if you please :)