The truth is I read, I read the words of the women who write and I can *feel* their pain, I can feel the pain of what they have lived through, what they continue to struggle with and it breaks my heart. The pain of what you may have lived through, and the strength you have to get through it…I often feel I am not worthy to be in your presence.
And when I write a post, or a comment, I write from my heart, from the innermost part of my being that comes forth and expresses a pain that is so real to me, and yet IRL this pain remains unspoken. But I feel it…every minute of every day, I feel it. And when I receive comments and words of care they blanket me in warmth, and I am touched by the words that are freely given to me by others….I can almost feel the enthusiasm, care and love in the words of those who leave comments. And it humbles me. Because I know that these words are meant to comfort me, and are spoken to me from the heart of someone who may be in need of soothing and reassurance, and yet she instead chooses to reach out, and find that comfort in the loving words left to relieve the pain of someone else.
Often, I read the words of women who bare their hearts and souls and I wonder what I can possibly say to them in the midst of their turmoil, their unending pain, when in my heart, I don’t know how it will turn out, or if they will survive the aftermath. Because truly, “surviving’ doesn’t mean we’re ‘whole’. We may continue to ‘exist’, to breathe, but perhaps we’re not ‘surviving’. We are enduring… Enduring what? Hell? I don’t know most days.
And the truth is that life isn’t fair– it isn’t, but “you do the best you can” – at least that’s what I’ve been told.
The truth is I don’t even know which one of ‘me’ is *real* and I’m scared of the many times I leave my body and can no longer communicate, it makes me feel unsafe..and the truth is it happens every single night.
The truth is I’m scared all the time because at any minute I could change into someone else and bad things can happen.
The truth is every single night my body aches with sharp and persistent pain, and I cannot rest, or find comfort. And the truth is I prefer not to be present when the pain becomes unbearable.
The truth is I feel overwhelmed with the chaos inside my head and the pain in my body – and the truth is I know that no one will be there, so why would I even ‘write’ how it *feels* anymore?
The truth is DT has no idea what happens now because the truth I don’t think she really wants to know and she wants to believe that because I don’t ‘email’ her or leave her a ‘voicemail’ that I must be doing better. *Good Job, Grace, you are doing such a great job *navigating* through the pain, in a much “healthier” way. But the truth is she doesn’t knows nothing about my “nightly navigation”.
The truth is no one wanted to know the TRUTH then, and no one wants to know it now. No one wants to see, or hear, about a man fucking a kid. Because the “TRUTH” is that it’s disgusting and revolting, and horrifying…and the thought really turns the stomach of anyone who hears it. And the truth is, if it makes you feel that way to hear it, then imagine how disgusting it feels to be a kid who was fucked.
The truth is we’re scared as hell that one of ‘us’ will hurt or kill ourselves. Because the truth is that *we* do tend to hurt and kill ourselves, and if ‘one’ of us does it – the rest of us are scared as hell that it will happen to another survivor!
The truth – the truth is a journey into madness…and you can’t handle my ‘truth’. Because your truth and my truth are WAY to different…
The truth is I’m not that scarred when I’m covered up – and the truth is no one wants to see those scars because it’s uncomfortable and perhaps a reality check that the world really is fucked up – and adults really do fuck kids – and people like me really do hurt themselves and kill themselves.
The truth is everyone ignores what isn’t “spoken” and the truth is everyone is shocked as hell when the *unspeakable* happens.
The truth is “I” am not the one with the blinders on. And the truth is you don’t see me now because you don’t want to see me. Because you WANT to believe that I’m doing “better” as a result of your “boundaries” and “limits” (what a good doctor you are!- pure genius…she finally ‘accepts’ the limitations –and as a result *huge sigh* she’s doing so much better) – but the truth is you don’t know because you don’t ask, and you don’t ask because you don’t want to know- because it’s not pretty and it certainly isn’t something you see in a showroom window.
And the truth is you don’t know what my *reality* is because you don’t want to know, you don’t want to see. Because my *reality* is covered up with a stylish haircut, make-up and lipstick, expensive clothing, eyes that hide the truth, the ability to use humor to hide even the most painful feelings, and a bright smile full of veneers.
And that’s okay – but really….your truth and my truth are as far apart as Earth and Venus.
*Smile Pretty for the Camera, Grace* ...that's "perfect"