The only thoughts that I keep thinking is that no one is ever going to love me. I feel like saying the things that I don't have words for is in a way a type of death sentence. I fear saying the things that I run from, I fear that somehow getting close to that big black wall trying to save that 13 year old girl is something that I am not sure I am ready for. And at the same time, I am not sure that there is any other choice. I fear that this is going to be the death of me. I fear that I am not strong enough to help her. I fear that once I am able to reach out and she is able to reach back its going to be a connection like nothing I have ever known and that is terrifying. I fear that once I can finally connect to her that sadder than sad is going to be so big and so overwhelming that I won't be ok. Maybe this is the thing that I can't heal from, maybe this is one of those things meant to be buried and kept quiet to violent and too awful to be spoken about. I can do my art journals to convey the violence but to put a person in that, to know that those pictures that are so devastating were things that happened to me . To know that things were so violent and unimaginable my mind kept me safe by basically turning my mind off and moving into the black. I am not sure that there are many people that can understand that. To know that something was so horrific my mind went black, the weight of that . That is a realization that I know somewhere in my head. But I am not sure that my heart can deal with that reality. Even the real words were spoken and my heart skips a beat, somehow if I just don't breathe when those words are said then somehow they don't pertain to me. If I can not deal with that reality , I can not ask another human to ever hear what happened and hold me and love me. There are so many parts and pieces to my life and for a big part of them I have been able to speak and given them words but this wall, this time, those things I am so afraid. The hurt is too much; the humiliation so devastating that there will be no coming back.
I fear somehow getting lost in that black wall, I fear that my mind will turn my world black again merely to survive and I am so afraid of getting lost there. Even back then all those years ago I was grateful when I went away when everything had a darkness that was so far away from what was happening. Then the times I would come out of it and had to experience what was happening to me. The confusion, the pain, the lack of understanding, the absolute fear that I was going to die. There are no words for that. I was nothing, I was just parts and pieces and nothing I did mattered. I sit here almost frozen, not even understanding the feelings or emotions, and I want to so much. There is a need to open this well to talk about it to figure it out, to shed this skin that was there, to shed every part of me that was touched and robbed of so much because of them. As much as I want to be free of this, the pain inside is vicious and the voices of those around me blaming and shaming is still so loud. They said it was my fault, and yet in the same breathe said I was lying. I hear their words and lack of comfort or support and think I must have done something terrible to deserve such hatred. I spoke, and was hated for it. I spoke and was blamed. I spoke and fingers were pointed. I spoke and was met with such horridness that I just wanted to die. I never felt loved during that time; supported or cared for. My body was black for weeks, I just wasn't important enough for people to see. I took too much time and energy to be important and to be heard. Speaking up for me would have meant that adults take responsibility, no one was willing to do that. I meant nothing and was unworthy of care, unworthy of the most basic needs like safety and protection. Even afterwards and I used my voice to speak, no locks were changed, no furniture removed, not one thing changed. I was so alone and failed by far too many people. I still carry this time with me like it happened yesterday. I see the pictures, I feel the ache, I hear the sounds, I remember so many little things, and yet there are chunks buried deep. The nightmares are as if its happening all over again. I remember the warm sun and laying by the back door, I was literally somewhere else. I remember Andy telling them to stop and thinking that finally my hell was over. I remember Andy pretending and telling me it was ok, he wouldn't hurt me. I remember the fan, watching the blades spin, thinking that each turn would be their last. I remember saying their names, over and over as some kind of reassurance that I was real. Don, Chris Steve, mike and Andy. I wanted them to stop, I wanted them to acknowledge that I was a person. I wanted them to stop, I told them over and over. I begged and it did no good. I remember thinking I just wanted to fix the pillows. Make everything around me perfect. I can still hear them laughing and chanting, I was the joke. I remember thinking that I asked for this. I remembered kissing Don before we left that weekend and feeling those butterflies. I remember thinking this must be what I was good for. I am not sure that I can save any part of me from this. This is all easier when I see this as happening to the 13 year old, someone else, anyone other than me. I can no longer leave her alone to suffer, and wonder what that means for my fragile heart.
I heart your heart.
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