It’s a good thing someone doesn’t give me a hatchet. I’d split myself in two with the all self-blaming, judging, and hating I am doing lately.
I wake to go to the bathroom, and snuggle back under the covers, but my mind has become too active, and going back to sleep without taking something isn’t going to happen. I’m not taking anything. So I’m awake with the stand-up comics on a Friday night at 3 am.
There’s improvement this morning, but as I lie there my self-bashing begins again in earnest. I’m a pro, and most often, since so used to doing it, don’t even know I’m doing it. Bash, bash, bang, bang… I ought to be bleeding, a bloody mess, standing in a pool of it, a river of it, a lake, a sea, an ocean. Who will love me when I won’t?
It is an impossibility to take the hit of childhood sexual abuse, and then be the one to contain it, and cover it up too. A child learns how to be on her own because she is, not because she wants to be. And that is where I am, all on my own. Oh yes, I have my husband and sons, and one friend I can turn to when she’s not too busy. She is always busy.
But the buck stops here. Here is home. Here is where I want to be, but lately just want to escape. Where else can I be? You look good. I wish I were you. I could pointing at an ant and be saying that. Or my cat curled up on the bed in a ray of sun. I want to escape this skin, this mind that always beats me down. I need relief.