Injured Being

mosaic by Patricia

My path includes remembering that self-esteem and anxiety are issues that need working on, and are here to stay.  When experiencing some success at either, the thought is that the work is done. The work continues, some days more than others. Who I was at age eight is a shadow arising time to time with a memory of what was, who ‘she’ was, and could be.

All that changed with the first attack, and severed almost completely as each brother came and went, my true self going further and further away until she hardly exists. She because I could never become her, she because she is there, a misty ghost of who I could have been. And I mourn her.

Who I am now is not her, though wisps remain. What I have instead is anxiety in every day because of the trauma’s, but more so, because family and society insists not to hear. These traumas still going on at a deadly rate need airing. And it seems to be coming to the light, though more sensational ones; coaches, priests, teachers… but what about the brother, father, uncle?

The anxiety is here to stay. It must be faced every day. The damage internally broke my being. It takes my life to put back the pieces, shards that sometimes cut, smoothing them together anyway to make a whole— bumpy, solid and beautiful.

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Sadness

photo by Patricia

A deep sadness has invaded along with the usual chronic tiredness. A sadness of how I am and why. The deepening sadness makes movement cumbersome. Present issues mimic the manipulations of abusers, and the rest of the family. During and after the sexual attacks 60 years ago they all stood in solidarity against me to shun me into submission and silence.  

Wanting their cleanliness meant washing off what was done to me as if it hadn’t been done… manufacturing a little girl mute. A shell of girl whose body grew, but all other components were left behind.

A child born lighthearted, speaking outright about injustice, made voiceless. No rights. Nothing. A body separated from my mind, from emotions, and most life threatening, my very own spirit or soul. It is a tenuous workload just hanging on.

I no longer existed. I am trying so hard to put the pieces together, but nothing fits, each part sliding away from the other as if sliced in half, more so shattered.

A life spent picking up the pieces…