Part of the trauma of childhood sexual abuse is the silence. Be quiet. Keep all that in on tiny shoulders. Love the ones who attack you. I think it is more traumatizing that the attacks themselves, each one an attack on my little body taking a bit of me each time. Though after a while it became a part of my daily life, it mattered, each taking away a piece of me until little was left but a shell.
I hoped to finally share the truth of my life. I cannot. I have to continue to act a certain way because if I don’t an edge comes into the voice of a brother I thought I loved. Don’t you dare. I’ll abandon you, intimidate you, and silence you with a mean voice and hard edged eyes. And each of three does this in their own way, and has perfected ways to silence me. One uses protests of poverty then takes a cruise to Alaska. I am easily manipulated.
Is that love? Is it love when pressured to play a part, act as if the very fact that I experienced traumas is something I have to continue to be silent about for your comfort, shielding you from?
This is ingrained into a child at the time. Be quiet, take it in as yours, and the only thing that matters is the comfort of others. I’m 63 and still feel I need to keep quiet to brothers because they do not want to hear or know what their other brothers did. Each want to continue to interact with the only one left, Tom, as if he did not do what he did. Don’t interfere with that.
I feel victimized and ostracized, muzzled and afraid. I have every right to scream out my pain, but I still keep it in because they don’t and won’t hear. I lack whatever it is that allows honesty and quietly stating my own truths. Each has a way of acting nasty which scares me if I dare even hint at any of my pain and past tragedies when a child
In November while hospitalized for 4 days I thought it was the end. My husband, and sons were there for me. No one else. And I was OK with that. I realized during that time that the three out of seven who did not touch me sexually, who I considered ‘family’, are not. They are not there for me, not really. Or only if I pretend because talking about my real life is not allowed.
Their rules, not mine. And I live by them, or did until I let the link out for my book. I began regretting that I did that. I’ve lived quite peacefully since publishing SHATTERED and with a full life. But now I feel bad and small, just as I always used to.
I wait for someone to step up and apologize with true sorrow. That’s what I wait for but it never comes. Not from any of them. Yet I keep in contact with each one, playing the part.