Conversation with Sleeplessness

Hello, Sleeplessness, my old friend.  Care to join me in reflection?

There is shame typing these words.  I feel embarrassed that I have not written since March.  There are things we do not talk about and would rather go without.  Cowardly, I know.

These emotional, late nights make me reflective and pensive.  I was thinking of the ones who made me: the ones who created, shaped, and formed this undesirable, inferior, socially-awkward waste. 

I was thinking of the first one who damaged me, who taught me no touch was safe and that even as an adult few people would believe me.  And I was thinking of sending him another letter.  I even know what I want to say.  But no words I can write will ever make him feel as bad as I feel every waking breath of my life.   

My words refuse to be written.  Everything is in my head but none will come out.  My thoughts peek around the corner of consciousness to see if it’s safe to come out. 

And I think to the mother right now.  Is she not my mother?  Whose mother is she?  I don’t understand why she doesn’t love me.  Was I not a good girl?  Did I not try to be the perfect child so she wouldn’t be unhappy?  Why does she not talk to me?  I tried to be good.  And there is a chasm in my heart where I wanted her to be, where I wanted her to fill it.  But though she lives, we have no mother.  And I don’t know where I went wrong.  I must have disappointed her.  And that breaks the bits even more.

A sense of dread percolates inside me.  I fear the worst is stealthily prowling towards me, advancing on me, waiting to pounce and take me as her prey.

Most telling of this mood that has descended upon me was a social event I went to this evening.  A group of unfamiliar women, a plethora of wine, a buffet of indulging food, and a lively book discussion.  I was awkward.  I do not have the skill of social interaction.  I know they thought I was silly and nothing to contribute to the discussion.  And I feel inferior.  I feel they all know that I am damaged, split, and unfocused. 

A part of me can almost live with the secrecy and shame of abuse, but I feel everyone knows as if it is written on my forehead.  Any intelligent person would have walked away from the book club tonight and thought that I wasn’t “all there”. 

I know I will live with the shame of sexual abuse for the rest of my life; but, dammit, I hate that other people can sense it in me like a dog senses fear. 

I’m exhausted from wreaking of sexual abuse and dissociation, yet Sleeplessness makes me languish in my stench.