Out Loud

I often have flashbacks and dreams about the sick details of being raped, but I can hardly ever say those details out loud. I have told my therapist some things, but up until now, I never knew that I had also told my mother, and that when I told her, it was out of anger. Anger is a difficult emotion for me to be honest about, and I tend to shove it down as deep as I can get it. My mom said that it was before I went into treatment for the eating disorder, which means it would have been about four years ago. At that point, I had not told my therapist much of anything other than it had happened. I was in a dissociative state when I told her and I don't remember it at all. I haven't talked to my husband about it yet, but she said that he was there, and that later when she came back downstairs, I was sitting in his lap, crying. That tells me that I was back inside the mind of an eleven year old girl. I don't like to think that I'm angry with her about it. As I child, I don't remember blaming her, but on a deeper level, if I'm honest about it, there is anger, it is just hard for me to access. Hiding behind the dissociation, I could safely express it, and so that is what I did. Hurting someone intentionally doesn't feel very good, even if I didn't know what I was doing. It is definitely something that I will be discussing with my therapist tomorrow. I'm not quite sure it is something that I'm able to wrap my mind around. I guess there is a part of me that felt it was important for her to know. I think that it may be important for me to be able to hear myself say those same words out loud.

There Will Be An End

I'm finished with the dark of my bedroom where the red glow of the alarm clock taunts me with the time. I didn't sleep the night before either. He is gone, and sleeping alone feels empty and strange. I fill the coffee maker with water, emptying the grounds from the night before into the trash can, and wait to hear the gurgle and beep so that I can pour a cup. I hear the television blaring from the the basement, letting me know that the boys are still awake, which makes me feel less alone. They are watching American Pie, and their laughter comforts me, so I carefully carry my coffee down the stairs. I have an In Style magazine, so I prop myself on the couch, turning the glossy pages, although I'm restless. I decide to get on the computer to type out these words. Writing cures the boredom because I don't really want to think about my therapy session the day before. I'm afraid to process the feelings. I cried, which I rarely do, and afterward I didn't feel any better. It wasn't hard enough to make a difference because I pushed my fists into my eyes to make it stop. Behind the tears are feelings that I can't name. Looking at my therapist, she has questions in her gaze, and they are questions that I have no answers for. I could say that I'm sad or angry just to say something because the silence in the room is audible. My session ends, and sometimes I feel as if I'm running out of time. I want there to be an end.

Yesterday a co-worker told me that she had been reading my blog, and for a moment I could hear her painful silence. She bravely told me that her brother had sexually abused her for years, and she had never told anyone. She was able to break her silence, and it was in that moment that I knew my journey of healing was actually helping others. I do believe that the pain will eventually end when the truth is set free, and that hope is what pushes me forward. There will be an end.