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.