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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.