Just another label

The time since March I spent away from the blog was generally a happy time.  I finished school, obtained a job, and have spent the last four months enjoying my time at my work. 

Apart from work, things are falling.  There are still issues around intimacy I can not escape, and every time I go through these issues I recreate the traumatizing experiences all over again.  And I’m to blame.  Tonight was no different.  And because of my self-inflicted actions earlier, I have lost myself inside my mind.  I can’t tell where I am and who is there.

During our last session with Therapist there was something we wanted to say to him but the gatekeeper was stationed and the thoughts couldn’t crawl around the wall.  I felt so frustrated and angry.  I didn’t know what the thought was but I knew we needed some type of support from Therapist for which couldn’t be asked. 

Almost as soon as we got to the car and it was safe, I realized what needed to be said.  The discussion in our session touched on abuse and that’s when the feelings came up to say something to Therapist and get support.  When we got to the car the littles were upset and had said they wanted a hug from Therapist. 

I don’t know how I feel about this.  Since we’ve been discussing issues of intimacy, there has been more trust developing for now.  And the adult in me thinks it is brave that they would want a hug.  I think they deserve a hug. 

The adult me also thinks it might be precarious and bad boundaries to ask for a hug.  What would he think?  Would we regret it?  I believe and hope the littles would feel safe and receive the support needed.  Therapist is the only that believes them and I fear they might look to him like a father-figure.

I am sure there is a nice, tidy, demeaning psychological label such as transference to explain what is happening.  I loathe the idea that our feelings our reduced to psychological jargon.

I have compassion for the littles and will do everything ever possible to keep them safe and sound.

 I close this with the feeling once again that feel so much more, but said a lot of nothing.

I think I'm just dead.

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.