I dont want to touch this feeling. I want to deny. I want to not think about it. I want to forget. I want to pretend that I had a happy childhood. I want to pretend that I had parents who loved me and cared about me and protected me. I want to pretend I was a normal little girl who had tea parties and played with dolls. I want to pretend I was a normal teenager who had friends and wore makeup and did her hair and talked about boys. I want that to be my history. I want that to be my life. I donít want this. Its an overwhelming emptyness. It is terror. It is this confusing mess that I cannot even begin to untangle, I cannot even put words to it. I donít understand it. I donít understand why this all happened, it seems so absolutely insane to me. I want to know what I did wrong. I feel like if I had not been born broken none of it would have happened. I failed basic development in utero. As my mother said I was supposed to be the baby that she enjoyed, and then she couldnít. I was unloveable. I had no worth, I had no value. My needs did not matter. What happened to me did not matter. I was rejected, cast off, ridiculed and bullied. a complete freak. And any time I responded to this I was put down. I was bad. I was wrong. I cant even talk about ESU. Or middle school. It took forever even to type that. It feels like to much. Far to overwhelming. I go into denial. It couldnít have happened. Or into minimization where I tell myself it was not so bad and compare it to others who had it worse and convince myself they think the same about me. I am terrified to think about it, look at it, look at the darkness and see what is there. I go numb and blank. It is easier to hate myself. It is easier to take it out on myself, to hate me and my body. To believe it is all my fault, I caused it, I am to blame. I am horrible and worthless and I donít matter. That feels safe. In some bizarre way it feels like I am in control. If it is my fault and I caused it and I am to blame then I was never the helpless victim, I was not the wounded child. I am wrong and bad and it was all my fault. I deserved it all, I deserved to be abused I deserved to be raped. It does not matter what anyone does to me it does not matter what happens to me. No one cares, I am alone and everyone hates me. It is hard to dispute what was true for so many years. THat was my reality. This having friends and connections and having people who listen and care and love me is new. I donít know what to do with it, I donít entirely trust it or believe it, and part of me feels like it is all going to go away anyways. I a thinking about my dream. My mother was happy when I threw away my journals from childhood. I told her about it knowing it would make her happy. I threw away something she could not love or embrace. I killed off part of myself. Maybe the dream is saying I canít do that again. I wish I had those journals. But I know what was in them. Nothing about the abuse just pages and pages of how depressed I was and how I wanted to die. Pages about how much I hated myself, how horrible I was etc. I am angry at myself for throwing those away, I wish I hadnít, I want to be able to read them and feel compassion for the part of me that was there, to really know rather then feel anger and hatred. The truth is my childhood sucked. My childhood was horrible. The truth is my childhood was pain and abandonment and being alone and unprotected, it was being bullied and raped and criticized it was being friendless and rejected. I cant pretend anymore, I canít act like it was something it wasnít. I think I feel the need to tell and tell and tell not because I need someone else to listen and validate me, but because I need to do it. I need to see it and feel it and understand it. I need to tell myself my story. I need to face my own truth.