I am stuck in this place of begging for someone to listen to me and denying my own desires to talk

It is still here – the longing to cry with someone – but it is impossible now. It’s been impossible for so long I don’t know why I even bother with any of it. I don’t know to help her…no one knows how to help her.

It doesn’t matter if you feel like a victim or a survivor, or at times, both…it still happened. It was me. It was me lying there – it was my body. I am no longer that little girl but it was undeniably me. I was hurt, I cried, I yielded all of my power to him. Me. It was me. No one helped me. I can’t make that any different. I can’t change that….not through my writing, not by speaking, not inside my mind. I can’t undo it.

I want to bury this hurt in an airtight coffin until it suffocates and can no longer damage me. I want to smash the pain with a boulder until it is crushed and no longer alive in me. I am stuck in this place of begging for someone to listen to me and denying my own desires to talk. It all comes back to the forbidden words of trust and need and I’m having a difficult time trying to shift and reposition myself in a positive, healing way.

It’s difficult to get the words out without the tears and emotions. And I won’t cry in front of anyone…and that list now includes the therapist. There are times when I am aching with the desire to talk about difficult things and I hold back. Why? Multifaceted…complicated question and an equally complicated answer. First, there is a part of me that does not trust her, or even want to trust her. A part of me is embarrassed at the Grace she sees when the tears start. It is not the me that everyone knows…it’s the miserable, self-indulgent, childish, hopeless me. And I cannot risk being seen like that. And there’s a third reason…it feels incredibly undignified to cry in front her when she just sits there…silent and unmoving. And in the past few months I have become much more conscious of the fact that she is really, in some respects, a stranger to me, especially when the dramatic shift from ‘caring’ to ‘symptom’ management occurred. Late at night, when it is overwhelming and relentless, I don’t reach for the therapist because I know it is not her ‘job’ to be here, but I ache for someone to talk to about this pain, someone who loves me, not someone who is paid to listen.

Recently I had an opportunity to visit with an old friend I had not seen in 4 years ~ and she told me I needed to tell my mother to go to hell, once and for all, and asked me if I thought that would help.  I told her maybe.  There are many nights I want to call her and tell her to go straight to hell! It's probably a good thing I don't have her phone number ~ and definately a good thing the bitch doesn't have email ~ because PAG would certainly be burning up the phone lines and cyberspace...because she has a lot to say to the host body.

Dearest Host Body ~ Fuck you! Go have your fucking mental breakdown! Drink and pass out! Go lock yourself in the bathroom and OD and try to kill yourself while your alcoholic husband rapes me! Go ahead and wallow in self pity while that monster hunts me like prey, and skins and kills me when he catches me…over and over and over again! 
I am broken! I am so full of infection…pain and rage and disgust – I can’t find joy in the “gift of life” you so graciously gave me! There is darkness inside of me and inside that darkness is nothing - void of all humanism. Tell me mother ~ was I born this way? Was I born defective and broken?
Fuck your problems! Fuck your anger about having the responsibility to take care of your kids – which you never did anyway! Fuck your sadness about your life! Screw you! Fuck your misery! You can’t even take care of yourself! You never could! You could have helped me but you didn’t! So fuck you, mother!
You never loved me, you never showed me how to love!  But you taught me how to hate, mother - and I hate you!   Grace