Flashbacks

Sexual Abuse Flashback

4 years ago
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I see thick blue lines under my skin pulsing; silently pleading to be stuck. Blood within me bursting with need to escape.

I’m hurting and I don’t know what to do. A person that sexually abused me on and off for eleven years was texting my roomie earlier. I was getting and having a good time with her; that is until she showed me a text from that person. She doesn’t know he used to do those things to me. I’ve only told four people in my entire life the identity of this person because he is a blood relative. I was deeply in with two of them1. The other two people were my sister and .

The text message my roomie showed me read, “tell her to take a picture of her tits and send them to my phone.” When I read that, I was transported back to the garage where he used to me. Laying there, helpless, unable to scream or fight back. Paralyzed by and .

How can one statement ruin ten months worth of hard ?!?


  1. and [↩]

Letting Go

4 years ago
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I’ve been thinking a lot about forgiveness. About a month ago, my counselor asked me if I have considered forgiving those who have sexually abused me. I’m sure I looked at her as if she was smoking crack.

I thought, ‘forgive them?!? Pfft. Why the fuck would I want to do that? She must be the crazy one.’

She could tell I wasn’t ready to think about doing that quite yet. She added, ‘It’s not something you have to do this minute, just think about it. Whom are you hurting by having all this and bitterness toward those men? You’re not hurting them. They probably don’t even think about what they did. Those are holding you down just like invisible shackles.’

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Hyper-Vigilance

4 years ago
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I had a nightmare this morning about . 1 I do not remember all the details, but I remember seeing him and a whole lot of blood.

I was trapped inside his house like a cub in a bear trap. Every door I opened led to a funhouse-esque slide and there was blood everywhere. It was pouring out of me in every direction. I could not get out of his house; I felt absolute terror. That is all I remember.

I know I had that dream because he dropped by my house a few days ago. I had hoped that he did not know where I lived. He was part of the reason I moved. Unfortunately, he knows where I live. I cannot help but wonder if he walking down my street the day I moved in this house was a coincidence or not.

I do not know what to do about the situation. There is always the legal route, but he is the violent type and I think that would just make matters worse.
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  1. ex-lover who intimidates me and is stalker-ish. Related post. [↩]

Rebirth

4 years ago
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A lot of lip service is paid to the importance of eating healthy, exercising, and getting enough sleep. I dismissed those ideas like they had no importance whatsoever. I rarely paid attention to those ideas in the past because on some level I didn’t care. I didn’t want to be healthy and I resented my body. In fact, I tortured it.

I could wax philosophical about my reasoning all day, but regardless of why, the fact is that I just didn’t give a damn about it. However, I need to understand the cause(s). I have to understand why I purposely abused my body before I can permanently change it.

I hated my body for so long. I didn’t hate it because I’m not some tall, blonde, super-thin Barbie doll figure. I hated my body because it was vulnerable and it made me vulnerable. I hated it for attracting my step-father, five step-cousins, my step-uncle, two of ’s uncles, two of my cousins, and a three neighbors. Fourteen people I had trusted sexually abused me. With that much , I just ‘knew’ it was my fault and the was overwhelming.

I hated my vagina, I thought it was what made me ‘bad’. After the first (when I was six) I started scrubbing it with S.O.S scouring pads, steel wool, or a scrub brush whenever I bathed. When I was seven I climbed the tallest tree in my step-grandma’s yard and jumped out of it onto one of her huge flowerpots. It almost broke my tail bone and pelvis. I wanted to break it so it wouldn’t draw them to me anymore. It was black and blue for almost three weeks. Once it healed, I was riding a friend’s 10 speed bicycle and i jumped down on the bar as hard as I could. I was bruised again for a week or two. I gave up on breaking it, but I still hurt it – I started stabbing it with nails, screws, straight pins or anything else sharp and pointed I could find.

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Obloquy of a Cutter

4 years ago
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Cutting is my most destructive addiction. I started myself when I was twelve – after my first suicide attempt. It wasn’t a behavior. In fact, self-injuring was my coping mechanism for life. It’s what kept me from killing myself. Granted it wasn’t a constructive or healthy method, but it worked. Until December 2005 I hadn’t cut since high school.

I’m not quite certain what caused me to start doing it again in the first place. There are several possibilities: maybe it was the need to release pent-up emotions (rage, , , hatred, , ); maybe I wanted to punish myself; maybe I felt I deserved it; maybe it helped me regain control; maybe it distracted me from all the emotional pain; maybe I used my blood as a substitute for tears. It was probably a combination of all those things.

Regardless of why I did it, the need consumed me until it drowned out everything else and all I could think of was seeing my blood running down a drain, filling a pickle jar, or soaking a towel. It was so hypnotic and relaxing and beautiful.

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