What kind of intimacy and trust would it take totalk about such things?

Thursday night I left several messages for the therspaist.  I say 'I' but i've no idea what I said, I only know what thw phone records told me the next morning.  The therapist returned my call on Friday, but I didn't answer, or call her back.  It was ,over, by then, and the 5 year old and all her fear and physical and emotional pain had retreated.

A part of me still yearns for the care she still offers me and yet I cannot remove the barrier between us.  I sit and hold a pillow in front of my face, I look past her thought the window, as I try to hide myself.  I will not let her look inside of me.  I refuse her, as she refused the 5 year old.  Even though I know she is trying to give us another chance I refuse her and then after I leave her office parts of me sob and ache for refusing her. She asks me how I am I tell her I'm fine; I lie to her just as I lie to everyone else IRL.  Even though parts of me beg and plead to tell the truth.  What would the truth even sound like? What kind of intimacy would it take to make it possible to speak of such shame and pain?  What kind of trust would it take to believe she would listen and care and be able to emotionally stay with me?  Is there such a language?  No one can answer my questions- why did he do that to me?  Why didn't my family love me?
So the pain is still here.  And the child Grace uses her childlike logic of wanting to ask for help but not wanting to admit I need help- and not believing that I would get the help if I did ask.  That childish logic feeds my thought process and conscious conclusion that my desperate longg to reach out for her help is ridiculous and wrong.
and anyway, who could possibly tell me that having experienced what I have, having lost what I have, that I could possibly be healed.
she helped me get through the trip 2 years ago when I went back home to see my grandma.  And although at times I can still feel the tenderness of her care and concern, I still won't admit that it makes me squirm and wish I didn't feel like I need her help.  I do know enough to know that I could not go back there without her help and yet a strong part of me would not ask for her help to get through it.  The constraint between us feels absolute.
I remember 2 year s ago when I felt intense fear and panic overtake me and I reached for her in childlike grief- yearning to just fold myself into a tiny little ball and just listen to her voice as I lay safely at her feet. And she would let me, welcome 'all' of me then.
But then I remember the after, when I didn't feel welcome, when acceptance turned into: don't reach out knowing you will be abandoned, Grace.  Make a different choice.    To me that means never reach out...then you expect nothing so there can be no disappointment.
I feel I've been exiled from her care, unworthy, whether by my own doing, or by her, or maybe both.  I can't do it alone and I can't reach out.
I would like nothing more tonight as I'm wverwhelmed with guilt and pain then to reach out to the therapist, to run to the safety of her care...but I don't feel secure now.
It hurts.

Oops! I did it again...

I was up all night last night pacing, puking, crying.  Is it possible to panic at the thought of panicking?
The hus finally got up around 330am, saw what a mess I was and let out this huge sigh...oops, I did it again.
The reality is he gets tired of my panicky overwhelming emotions...and he has no idea how bad it truly is right now.  I may have had myhead in the tiolet but at least I wasn't covered in blood. I can't go back there.  I am officially a selfish bitch- but being a high status frequent flyer has perks- like no fee transfers.  The hus has never been to Vegas or Cali and West/South feels safer than East.  And I can just send some flowers to my gramma with a card that says,'In the face of expected abandonment...make a different choice.  Becuz I am the worlds worst granddtr...esp knowing how much you gave up to keep us all together...and I love you and I'm so sorry...Grace'
I feel a terminal weariness, an intimation of death.  I feel haunted and I imagine this is much how my gramma must feel @ 95- seen it all and no longer has a reason to live.
I feel 'old'- very old. And small and hidden.  And yes, a coward who is still unable to face her past...

“How shameful and absurd it is for the spirit to surrender when the body is able to fight on ”

An ancient Rome Emperor said, “How shameful and absurd it is for the spirit to surrender when the body is able to fight on.”

His words resonate through me tonight, like many nights before…I am borrowing the Emporer’s words tonight to express how I feel. I feel like my soul was murdered a long time ago. My body is here – as f’d up as it is – my heart still beats – but my body is empty, void of a soul.

I have no fight left in me now.  My heart is still beating ~ but I'm no longer here. 

"We gave up everything for you kids..."

"Grandpa and I gave up everything for *you kids*."…my grandmother repeated this phrase to me from childhood to well into my adult life. Yes, we were instilled... well, I shouldn't speak for my brothers, so I should say "I" came pre-programmed with feelings of culpability and inadequacy. Not only was I born to a  mother who had nothing but regret for my very existence, my grandparents gave up everything so my brothers and I could *live*…and I suppose I can never repay them for that.

My grandmother was not able to have children. She had 5 miscarriages before she and my grandfather adopted my mother. My mother was 8 years old when they adopted her. My grandma told me that due to their ‘advanced’ age (she was in her early 30s!), they were not able to adopt a baby and they were on a waiting list to adopt a child around age 3, but then they met my mother.

My mother’s biological father left her and her 6 siblings with her alcoholic mother, and she was unable to provide for them, so they were all taken to the orphanage (not foster care, it was actually called, “The Francis Comfort Home for Orphans and Destitute Children”.)  My mother was in the orphanage for nearly a year before being adopted by my middle-class, hard-working, Christian grandparents.

My grandpa was an electrician and he worked nights at the University in town where we grew up, my grandmother was an elementary school teacher. They worked hard to provide for my mother, who now had to adjust from being in an alcoholic, abusive home to an orphanage and now to live the rest of her childhood in a middle-class, religious home where not a drop of alcohol passed the lips of her new parents. My mother has never talked about her childhood, the 8 years before she was adopted, not to me, but then again, my mother and I have actually never had a real ‘conversation’….ever.

Grandma claims that my mother was 15 years old when she started dragging her out of the local taverns. And after my younger brother was born, grandma got a court order to have my mother sterilized so she could no longer procreate. The way grandma tells the story is the judge said, “Do you know what you’re doing to your daughter.” And grandma replied, “Yes, I am paying for the 3 children she has now.”

My mother met my step-father when my younger brother was 6 weeks old. My grandma told me that my brother was in the hospital with pneumonia and grandma would drop her off at the hospital every morning on her way to school to stay with my brother. Grandma said she gave my mother money for lunch, and instead of staying with her infant son, mother would leave every day with my step-father and drink until my grandma picked her up again.

My grandparents never liked the man whore...they knew he beat my mother, and us...they knew he was a worthless bum.  My mother only had one job that I can remember, and the man whore had a few, but nothing permanent.  I remember he was a janitor at a local Catholic church and was fired for drinking the communion wine.  He was a bum...a worthless, disgusting, child-fucking bum! 

My grandparents supported us. They were not 'wealthy' but they paid for a roof over our heads...and the neccessary things to keep us alive.  They supported us; my mother, her 3 children, and the man whore.  They paid for the dingy white trailor with green trim...the trailor where my step-father made me his whore.  They paid for the apartment in the trashy area of town that came after the trailor, the apartment on Pigeon Hill where he beat my mother, and my brothers...where he beat, raped and sodomized me.  They paid for my mother's multitude of rehab treatments. They paid for all of it. 

One Christmas, when I was about 10, my older brother got into a physical fight with the step-father.  My mother was passed out drunk and my 11 year old brother decided we were leaving and going to grandma's house.  So we left the trailor and walked 2 miles in the snow to a 7-11, where he called a cab to drive us to grandma's house.  I remember the look of surprise on her face when we pulled up into the driveway.  And I remember she had to dig into her tea-kettle to find the cash to pay for the taxi.  Yes, she paid for that too.

Yes...grandma gave up everything so we we could live...and I gave up everything to just survive the hell we lived in, the one she paid for...a fact she reminded me of whenever she could.

I paid too.  I gave up everything too.  I still do. 

I will leave this life...

Tonight I have been overcome by the weary darkening of overwhelming feelings. They pulsate through my veins, taking control... I fight all the frantic thoughts and I'm not sure what's becoming of me.
At times I don't care; I just want to be empty and so I push everyone away and close the doors around me.

I have lost my way. I've been dropped on a desert island and it's just me here, alone with my thoughts. My head has become a war zone

You see it doesn't matter how you try to escape it, doesn't matter how hard you try to run you'll never run fast enough. For it has no features or feelings, it is flat and lifeless yet it hates me and seeks to ruin me more than anything else could. If I were to die  would it be gone to? Its only reason for existence is to wreck me.  There's nowhere to go from here.  I will leave this life...

I will leave this life... by GracefullyGrowing featuring Yves Saint Laurent bags

To most I seem so strong ~ but I cry myself to sleep every night

Tuesday night, after everyone was safely tucked into bed, alone in the quiet darkness, I cried from the overwhelming feelings of what I can only describe as hoplessness.

Not the "oh, that's so sad I could cry" kind of hopelessness...it was open the floodgates the dam has broken SOBBING...tears pouring out of me, nose running, eyes swollen and bloodshot. And once it started it did not stop for hours. 

Today in addition to the swollen and bloodshot eyes I have had a nauseating migraine from all the crying last night and I feel drained and empty. 

Today I feel angry for the 6 month old left in an apartment to die.

Today I feel terribly sad for that little girl who did nothing wrong but was beaten and raped and broken.

Today I feel so much rage for that angry teenager who will not allow her to reach out or feel any sort of comfort.

Today I feel despondent for the girl who has continued to hurt herself and repeat what was done to her because she cannot find another way. 

Today I feel rage for the girl who cannot live in her body because it doesn't feel right or safe.

Today I feel sad for the woman who is overwhelmed with feelings of shame and unable to express her feelings because she cannot trust.

Today I feel sorry for the woman who tried to outrun the pain, the memories, the shame because she couldn't.

Today I feel sorrow for the woman who continues to feel tormented by her past to the point of hoplessness....and I feel angry because she can't escape her own prison of fear and she cannot allow anyone else in to help.

I don't feel well tonight...I am freezing cold, my head is throbbing and it continues to make me nauseous.  I am not doing well...and I'm sure a lot of it has to do with the upcoming 'vacation'.  I cannot have another night like last night...it was bad. 

I know..wwwaaaahhhh!  Break out the violins, Grace!  Get a Grip Girl! Ain't no one going to do it for you, or even co-pilot! 

I am afraid....

I am Afraid by GracefullyGrowing on Polyvore.com