Days

Days.

I hate the days when I feel pointless. like today, I feel it, like some pit of sadness that I can’t get away from, feels like drowning if anything, I’m not even sure why it started. maybe I woke this way, I’ve been so busy burying myself in everything else that I haven’t noticed.

I was probably around 9 or 10 when I really remember feeling this way on a perks ant basis, like I knew that this was my life and there was nothing I could do about it, or course if hope, I always had that. I’d try my best to be so damn good all the time and it never got noticed.

I used to beg God to take me away; to not let me wake up in the morning because I could t stand another moment. if I believed in God, perhaps I’d ask that of him now. everything feels so pointless.

I wonder what I’m fighting for. I’m here, I survived my childhood, but what for? what difference did I make?

When I was a child I would feel this way, usually after my father had… I’d say sexually abused me, but as I don’t see it as abuse I’m not really sure what to call it, but after my father had done his things and I’d go back to my bedroomI’d climb in bed and feel so dirty and disgusted with myself because I once again have in.

I used to write pages and pages of things, usually they started with why can’t my dad love me? why do I have to do these things? why am I so bad? I used to cry and pour my heart out into notebooks until I fell asleep. I’d curl myself I to the corner of my bed but I wouldn’t lie down, I was too afraid of that. what if the bad man came back?

But my sadness was because I was alone. completely. I feel that way today.

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Not Through My Eyes.

ImageToday I sent off a picture of the child I was to someone who is doing a collage of survivors. I didn’t think so much of it until I was staring at his face. Looking at the bruise on his forehead. Looking at the smile on his face that hid the horrors he had endured the night before.

He still smiled.

My therapist used to tell me often to take out a picture of myself when I was a child and to really look at the face and the innocence that’s there. I never really did it. I didn’t see the point. I didn’t believe what she was telling me.  She wanted me to look at him with my eyes and not my parents.

I couldn’t do it.

I hate that child. I agree with what he endured. I wish I could go back in time and push him down the stairs and tell him how much I hate him. Because I do. Some days I hate him so bad that I wish I could reach in and rip him out and throw him away.

I see him through my parent’s eyes. I see that he is unworthy. That he caused his parents to do the things they did to him. That he didn’t fit and wasn’t good enough to be part of anything, including his family. I don’t even see him as a child. I’d never hurt a real child, I’d never hate one, but him, I loathe.

He made his parents that way. They were not abusers until he came into their lives. It was his fault that they did things people would think as awful. Yet they were not awful people. They were good; they just got landed with a child that made them do bad things.

Today I looked at his face and saw him with my eyes.

It was one of the hardest things I have done.

I Am A Supporter.

I am a supporter.

I often think that supporters don’t get the credit they deserve. I think in many ways they suffer too. Some days worse than the survivor they support.  I do not envy my partner. I wouldn’t want to have to deal with me on a day to day basis. I couldn’t do it.

She has a voice. She wrote this and said I could share it.

All I can say to her is thank you.

I am a supporter.

I am also a partner, a friend, a shoulder and a confidant.

My partner is an abuse survivor and in the same way that supporter fills many shoes, the term abuse has many meanings.

Mental, Emotional, Physical and Sexual Abuse are all wrapped up in one horrific package called childhood; a loose term for what my partner’s actual learning years were until he was a teen. He lived it; breathed it. Abuse was normal in his eyes. For a countless number of children, the abuses they endured have been implanted into their minds. How they think, deduce, and make decisions. The way they understand their feelings and how well they manage them have been determined by their abuse.

Abuse is very much like a map and a child will follow whichever road the abuse leads him or her as well as fall back on the road traveled, which has become familiar. Actions that feel almost right to an abuse survivor can be very difficult for those of us who have not been abused, to see or even understand. We look at situations from a different angle that does not necessarily exist to a survivor.

These are some of the things I learned through my partner as we got to know one another and conflicts came into our relationship.

I am always in search of what it means to be a supporter.

I have wondered about people such as myself who have found themselves intertwined with the life of a survivor. My partner was reticent. Perhaps due to the personal information he had that I did not.  Abuse creates many fears and one of them is allowing oneself to be close to another person. Closeness implies trust, trust implies faith and faith implies that the relationship that begins as a seed will continue to grow as it progresses.

There was no reason for my survivor to have any faith that anything would go further than the words that were spoken. A thought or a wish was better left in that place; in his mind. Why should he put himself in a place to be hurt? He had a lifetime of it already. Why ask for more?

Yet, as time passed, the layers began to be peeled away and I found myself in a relationship with an abuse survivor. He was more than a man; he was many pieces to a 30-plus year puzzle and his pieces did not always fit. Some carried over from the past while others were like new discoveries; things he remembered that had long been buried.

The only thing I really understood was that he had been sexually abused by both of his parents. I had never known anyone in my life that was this close to me who had lived this sort of childhood and frankly, I had no idea what to expect. The road was rocky and on it traveled triggers, PTSD, DID, self harm and OCD. Some days were up while others were down and it wasn’t until my partner began to seek therapy that the full understanding  of what it would mean to be in a relationship with him truly was.

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.

Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.

I have a picture of a man, laid in bed with his baby son sleeping on his chest. He is reading the paper. I look at it, and I wonder what happened to make that man hurt that child.

My abuser – My father.

I hate to call him that. I hate to label him.

He is my dad. The person that helped to create me. The person whose genes I carry. Whose reflection stares out at me whenever I look in the mirror.

Yet he is the one who took from me. The one that beat me. Starved me. Committed countless assaults on me for over a decade. Sold me. The one who broke me. The one that made me a mess and left me with all these shattered pieces to pick up.

I should walk away but I can’t. I think maybe that is hard for people to understand. Perhaps those that are fortunate enough to have real parents. We see child abuse in the paper, on the television. Hear about it on the radio and each time often peoples thoughts and even my own sometimes. Is why didn’t someone take the child away and do something?

Why didn’t the child leave?

Why do I still keep my father in my life?

I was asked once by a teacher if everything was okay. She had put up with me for months coming into the classroom and sitting at my desk and just crying. Of course I tried to hide it, but I could never stop it. It would just happen. I don’t really know why. Maybe it was because I was safe and I could.

I’d cry because I was hungry, because I had a new bruise or it hurt just to move.  I’d cry because I was tired and hadn’t slept or I was sick because my mother had given me more medicine and still I wasn’t good enough. Sometimes I’d cry because I was alone in my world. I was ten.

My teacher saw me crying again one morning and took my hand. She walked me down to the library. Gave me a drink and a tissue and sat with me. She held me when I cried and then she asked me ‘is something bad happening at home?’

I froze. I stared. I stuttered. I had no idea what to say because I realised in that moment I had given it away. I had shown my secrets.

I lied to her. I said no. She asked me why I cried and I lied and told her that I was upset because my brother had more toys than me and didn’t share. It was partly true, but a lame ten year olds reason.

I lied because I didn’t want my mum and dad to get into trouble. I didn’t want them to go to prison. I didn’t want to be taken away. I didn’t want to live somewhere safe. I just wanted my mum and dad to stop what they did to me and love me like they did my brother. It was that simple for me.

After that day I never let what was going on at home show to the outside world. I had to protect my parents. People wouldn’t understand. People would think they were bad. They would think they were evil and they weren’t.  People didn’t know my parents like I did.

I realise that I still hold that same hope. That’s what keeps me from walking away. Nothing has changed. He called me a week ago, and within twenty minutes had sunk me. Not with anything malicious, just the gentle hints of manipulation that remind me I am nothing to him. I am nothing more than the scrapings of a child he helped to make.

Yesterday he called me again. He was happy and excited. He talked to me about his grandchildren like a real father and grandfather. He gave me a glimpse of the dad I wish I had.  I held onto that. I fed it to my guilt. I told myself I was wrong for being upset with him. I was wrong for even having Dear Teddy out. It was saying bad things about him and he doesn’t know of its existence. I felt so guilty for the way I have treated him. The no father’s day card. Everything bad that I had done towards him came crashing down in my mind, because for a few minutes he gave me hope.

A friend of mine whom I talked to. She told me to look at it. See it for what it is, because if he was the father I was wishing for. The one I was waiting for then he would show remorse too. He would apologise. He would feel bad for the things he did.

He doesn’t.

Maybe the wolf dressed as the sheep and I believed it.