I woke up yesterday morning and did what needed to be done. The boys transition back to school this week could not have gone more smoothly, and considering I have barely been able to leave my room for the prior 2 weeks, I patted myself on the back for having been able to do things right.
Yesterday morning was my appointment with my Dr, I have been having regular appointments with him since Dad died. Look I know the last couple of weeks have been rough with the flashbacks and all, but just having to briefly tell him about it was excruciating. It has brought some really ugly sexual abuse memories to the surface. Why am I writing about it in my blog and exposing myself like this, and believe me I feel exposed, naked even. Because the very nature of sexual abusers is to make their victims feel as though they have to be ashamed and that it is their fault. As a 43 year old woman I know that none of it was my fault, and I know that my parents could and should have protected me from this monster. But inside me, the shame lives on, and whilst I have never been afraid to say that I was sexually abused, the details remain something that only my husband and a therapist I went to years ago know about. Why is this? Because I still feel the shame, even after all these years. My abuse began when I was 5 and I think it ended around 12, but I can't be sure. I might ad that the reason it ended was because my Grandfather got testicle cancer and was no longer able to abuse me.
Why didn't I tell? I have been asked that question before and the answer is simple. He told me that if I told anyone I would be sent away to live in a home away from my family and they would never be allowed to speak to me again. He began telling me this at aged 5, there was not an occasion that I was abused that he did not drum this into my head. I never told, so great was my fear. I wanted to tell an adult so badly, a teacher, a minister, some adult who would save me, but, I was just too scared. I'd work up the courage, then when I was about to say it, his voice would ring in my ear and my fear of loosing my Mum and family combined with the sick feeling in my stomach would lock my lips. The first time I said the words out loud where to my husband after we had been dating a couple of months, that was hard because I thought he would think I was damaged goods and leave me. He didn't!
So why has all this come up again, I've done the counselling, in fact, I've done everything ever suggested to me so that I could just go on and live a normal life. I don't know the answer, other than, what happened with Mum a few weeks ago was enough to stir it all up and make it float to the surface like some ugly swamp creature.
I have written this blog entry today, not so that anyone will feel sorry for me, I don't want sympathy, I want to expose the ugliness of my swamp creature so that I don't have to feel the shame. I want people to understand what these monsters do to their victims, not just physically, but worse than the physical aspects of sexual abuse is the emotional abuse that never leaves you.
Yesterday morning was my appointment with my Dr, I have been having regular appointments with him since Dad died. Look I know the last couple of weeks have been rough with the flashbacks and all, but just having to briefly tell him about it was excruciating. It has brought some really ugly sexual abuse memories to the surface. Why am I writing about it in my blog and exposing myself like this, and believe me I feel exposed, naked even. Because the very nature of sexual abusers is to make their victims feel as though they have to be ashamed and that it is their fault. As a 43 year old woman I know that none of it was my fault, and I know that my parents could and should have protected me from this monster. But inside me, the shame lives on, and whilst I have never been afraid to say that I was sexually abused, the details remain something that only my husband and a therapist I went to years ago know about. Why is this? Because I still feel the shame, even after all these years. My abuse began when I was 5 and I think it ended around 12, but I can't be sure. I might ad that the reason it ended was because my Grandfather got testicle cancer and was no longer able to abuse me.
Why didn't I tell? I have been asked that question before and the answer is simple. He told me that if I told anyone I would be sent away to live in a home away from my family and they would never be allowed to speak to me again. He began telling me this at aged 5, there was not an occasion that I was abused that he did not drum this into my head. I never told, so great was my fear. I wanted to tell an adult so badly, a teacher, a minister, some adult who would save me, but, I was just too scared. I'd work up the courage, then when I was about to say it, his voice would ring in my ear and my fear of loosing my Mum and family combined with the sick feeling in my stomach would lock my lips. The first time I said the words out loud where to my husband after we had been dating a couple of months, that was hard because I thought he would think I was damaged goods and leave me. He didn't!
So why has all this come up again, I've done the counselling, in fact, I've done everything ever suggested to me so that I could just go on and live a normal life. I don't know the answer, other than, what happened with Mum a few weeks ago was enough to stir it all up and make it float to the surface like some ugly swamp creature.
I have written this blog entry today, not so that anyone will feel sorry for me, I don't want sympathy, I want to expose the ugliness of my swamp creature so that I don't have to feel the shame. I want people to understand what these monsters do to their victims, not just physically, but worse than the physical aspects of sexual abuse is the emotional abuse that never leaves you.
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