Where does that leave me?

Tonight I told a friend a piece of my story.  She sort of knew what I'd been through.  I told her a bit more.  She said it made her feel sick.  She meant it kindly, and I hold nothing against her.  It's sickening.  It makes me feel sick.  It should probably make any sane, rational person feel sick.

But it's also who I am.  It's years of my life.  What the hell do I do with that?  The experiences of years of my life make any sane person want to vomit.  I know I'm not at fault for what happened.  I don't blame myself.  And yet I feel like I bring horrific negativity into the world just by existing and just by holding my story.  I do't want to be ashamed of where I've been.  I want it to be just a part of me like anything else.  I hate that things inside me are so disgusting.  I hate that though I did nothing to cause it, I have become the personification of so much of what is wrong in the world.  I know people are disgusted by those that did it, not by me, but it's still me and it's what I have no choice but to carry with me.

I know people mean well when they talk about the things I went through as horrible and that it makes them sad and hurt and angry and sick and everything else.  But where does that leave me?  What do I do with that?  I hate being the bearer of so much evil.  And I don't have the luxury of turning the tv off or walking away from the news.  The images, the experience, will always be with me.

Not sure if I'm even making sense.  I should be sleeping but nightmares are keeping me from it.  The good news is, I didn't wake up afraid from the nightmares.  Just unbelievably pissed off.  I don't hate those who did it so much anymore.  I understand that they were sick people.  But I still hate what they did and hate that it happened.  I hate that I had to experience what I did.  And I hate that the child version of me had to experience so, so much.  I wish I could go back in time to stop them.  To save her.

Most Kids

When most kids cry, someone comes running to them to help.

Most kids have a mommy and/or daddy that comes to give them love and hugs and kisses.

Most kids have parents who protect them.

Most kids have parents who look out for them.

Most kids learn that home is the safest place they can be.

Most kids face kid problems, like who to play with at recess, and what toys they want.

Most kids don't know what it means to live in fear.

When most kids are sad, scared, angry, etc. their biggest relief is seeing a family member there, especially an adult.

Most kids cry for mommy, and for most kids mommy comes.

Most kids.

But I'm not most kids.

Never have been.

Not even close.

I learned early on not to cry for mommy because mommy didn't help.  Mommy looked on and laughed, and sometimes made it worse.  My cries for mommy made everyone laugh.

I learned soon after not to cry at all.  Any crying at all added more pain, so I kept quiet.

Then I learned the impossible game.  If I cried, I got punished more.  But they would never stop the pain until I cried.  There was no way out.

I learned fear.

I learned that home was not a safe haven.  Home held the very worst of places.

I learned that no one around me would or could protect me.  They couldn't even know.  If anyone else knew, it would only get worse for me.

I learned secret safe places: the back of my closet where I was hidden from view, or under the bed where no one could reach me.  There I would silently cry.  I would pray that no one would hear.  I would pray that no one would come running.

I learned to be alone.

I learned isolation and solitude.

I learned to be strong, but I also learned not to trust.

I learned that no comfort would ever rush to my cries.  There were no loving hugs and kisses.

I learned that I was not most kids.

I hid.  I cried.  I prayed.  And I tried to hope.

And I learned that I was alone.

No one was coming to comfort me.

No one to care.

Little girl.  Alone.