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giving up...

Posted by missophelia , 09 February 2013 · 32 views

What does it mean.

Going back there. Back to...

Everything being so deeply buried that I thought I was fine.

But I was not.

Instead, I was....

Depressed. Angry. Fearful. Anxious.

I had nightmares.

I had flashbacks.

I had no trust. Not in anyone, not really.

I hated myself. I hated looking at myself in the mirror. But the hatred went further, went deeper, than just the image in the mirror that I hated. It went to my core. I hated every single layer between my outer surface, and my inner core.

I had a miscarriage when my daughter was six years old. And I believed that it was my fault. God, or someone, was punishing me for all I had done that had led me to being raped.

I was suicidal. At one point in my life, the urges I had were to drive out onto the highway, and when moving at top speed, I would open my car door and fling myself out onto the pavement.

Or, maybe, I could find some other way to end my misery and the misery of everyone that had to have anything to do with me.

Or maybe I could just SI, until that pain subsided. Until I felt something. Until...

I was never good enough. Not for anyone. Not ever.

I gave up on my talents. My art. My writing. My music.

I had a few friends over the years, but just never became close to them. I never felt worthy of anyone's friendship. I was afraid to let anyone that close to me. And I was afraid that if I did, they would see the real me.

Because I KNEW that anyone who got to know the real me, would not want me as a friend. No way.

There were times I worked hard to keep everything buried. Times I wanted to scream into a pillow. Because to scream into the air would show the pain I was in, the pain that was trapped deep inside of me.

There were times that it all spilled over, spilled out, and I would have rage episodes. Terrifying rage episodes that would leave me with destroyed rooms, agonizing muscle spasms, a pounding heart and no breath, a tight knot in the pit of my stomach, tears streaming down my face, my words of anger and rage in the wind, and a desire to curl into a ball and sleep for hours.

There was one of those rage episodes that my daughter saw, when she was a little girl. I am hoping that someday she can forgive her mother for exposing her to a glimpse of my hidden locked away rage.

I believed every single thing the man who raped me said about me. About who I was. About what I was. About the fact that I deserved to be raped. About the fact that I liked it.

And wanted it.

And at the same time, my insides were being literally eaten alive with all that I kept buried.

Being molested when I was 10 years old.

Having an uncle who tried to rape me when I was a teenager.

Being raped by a superior of mine when I was in the US Navy.

And everything in between.

And with all of that, and more, I also had myself convinced that I was fine.

And there were times that, on the outside, and at least just below that outer surface, that I would be ok.

But I wasn't.

And when I think about giving up....

I need to remember what I've just written.



Blog Warning

This is a blog of my thoughts, my feelings, my happiness, my pain, my joy, my sorrow, all raw and real. I am not censoring my blog, so please take gentle care of your self.

March 2015

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    Blog Warning

    This is a blog of my feelings, my emotions, my joys, my sorrows, my thoughts, my struggles as I heal. All raw and real. I am not censoring my blog, so please take gentle care of you.

    1 user(s) viewing

    0 members, 1 guests, 0 anonymous users

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