I have decided to shelf the idea of becoming an author awhile. If I ever come back to it I don’t give a care right now. There is a wall just inches to the left of my head, if it didn’t wake the neighbors I might just whack my head a few times for good measure.

This is hard because I have written so much in my life but I end back at square One every flippin time. I have destroyed thousands upon thousands of words that I have written because no matter what I have done none of them felt right inside me.

I know what I want to say in my heart, the love and acceptance I want to give to others, to let them know that they can overcome the ravages that sexual abuse does to their psyche, that they are beautiful and loved and worthy of so much. I try get it out on my screen…the message courses through me like my own blood, but nothing I write feels true to me.

I have been up for hours…reading. Never before emptying what I have written from my recycle bin. It is 6:30 a.m. and I have read everything I have in that stupid recycle bin. My recycle bin is empty now. Nothing was what I wanted to say.

Every word feels hypocritical. How can I show someone will be ok when what I share to let them know the commonalities still haunt me.

Yeah, I have forgiven, I have been given the grace from God above to forgive, love, move on in my life. But how do you detach what you have experienced from your innermost self and shut the pain receptors off? How do you share that a person is not alone when you isolate yourself from others?

I have written about climbing in the cardboard box that I kept my toys in and wiggling and scooting until the box was back under the shelf it sat below.

I have written about sleeping in that damnable box, hiding from my dad.

I have written about finding the strength to push a 9 drawer pink dresser in front of my door to slow that monster of a man from getting to me.

I have written about popping my window screen out and escaping into the rain or the darkness.

I have written about the fort that was an old washout around the roots of a dead tree near the playground, as well as the fort under the big metal table in the back yard.

I have written about the drunken anger when my dad found me hiding and how he raped me harder with the most horrid of language and threats smelling like alcohol as they spewed from his mouth.

  • How my sense of sexuality is warped and how I do not deserve to be pleased and only to please.
  • How, when a man takes time to care about me, I cry because it cannot be true.
  • How i search a man’s eyes to see his soul because I wonder if men really care.
  • How sex has never been satisfying unless it is painfully hard.
  • How I have never felt a sense of fulfillment, the most of anything would never fill the hollowness inside me.
  • How I would rather suffer than ask something of someone.
  • How I lack trust in humankind.

I am not a martyr, I do not ever want to act like one…but the lack of trust and sense of feeling alone in this world make people call me someone with martyr tendencies.

As the saying goes…physician, heal thyself. I can no more heal myself that I can lay a chicken egg. How can I help another when I feel like this.

I will continue to blog, for myself, and if people read that will be ok. I don’t care one way or another right now.





2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Bill Jones, Jr.
    Nov 05, 2012 @ 05:10:04

    Sweetie, you have been looking to write a book showing other victims how to heal. You feel like a hypocrite, because you haven’t completely healed yourself. However, you are defining healing in terms that are too narrow. For many victims of abuse, including the ones I know, they often define healing as being able to have someone validate that their feelings aren’t insane.

    For instance, one friend who’s boyfriend tried to kill her found herself still drawn to him, not knowing why. Instead of answering, I sent her a link to an article on “Stockholm Syndrome.” That alone gave her more comfort than any therapy, because there were others who experienced what she did, knew how she felt.

    Sometimes, answers are too hard. We stop and get discouraged because we don’t know what to do or how to help. But it isn’t always our job to help find answers. Most of the time, it’s our job to help victims understand the questions.

    I have known three other women who were raped by their fathers. I knew another who was tortured by her grandmother. They weren’t all looking for answers. Most were just trying to deal with the pain and the shame. They wanted to feel like they were still worth more than their abusers claimed they were worth. They wished someone could understand how they felt. They just wanted to know they weren’t only ones.

    One of these women was a brilliant writer, but she could never put her pain into words. I think she was – like you – trying to help everyone else. That isn’t required. Just write your story. Help yourself, put it down, free it from inside you, and when it’s a book, let it go.

    It will help who it needs to help. Just free it and let it do its job.


  2. amysomday
    Nov 05, 2012 @ 12:28:01

    Thank you Bill. Thank you for always encouraging me. You are such a love 🙂
    As much as writing feels cathartic , there is a point when it overwhelms me. And having somewhat of a photographic memory emotions flood so I stop, not wanting to break the dam that holds it all together.
    I will continue at some point…but yesterdays reading was surreal, painful and those stupid tears that cry so many of probably upped the stock in the Kleenex company.
    I need to take my camera out more and breathe a bit…see the beauty that God has made.


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