I chose the third floor because I wanted to feel safe. A single woman, living alone, safety was my highest priority. For some reason, with no good reason, being on the third floor added security. So when he moved in, naively, I thought safety was an inactive consideration. After all, I was living with a strong man on my beloved third floor. For a short while I was safe. It actually felt safe. He checked the doors, ensured they were locked, investigated odd sounds, and together, with the third floor, kept fear out. Goals partially achieved, no stranger ventured up the three flights to harm me, but hurt came nonetheless. And fear permeated my home, my safe space. On the third floor, kicking the walls, banging on the floor, fighting and pleading, I was miles away from safety. Though it took me longer than I care to admit, I came to realize that the third floor could not protect me from who I allowed in. I put my safety in unsafe hands, and I am accountable for that decision. My protection is not the guarantee of any floor or obligation of any man. I am responsible for me. I can check my own doors, ensuring they are locked, investigate odd sounds, and keep the injurious people out.
