You are not her ~ She is not you ~ You do not have to live it...until I did, again, again, & again

Growing up I understood that my parents were not devoted to parenthood, but rather the destruction of my *being* ~ not to be confused with my ‘well-being’ ~ I mean *me*, all that is me, my very essence, my very existence. I lived in a world of shame and fear. I feared his hands, his black leather belt with the silver buckle. I lived in fear of his arms that would grip my shoulders and force me to look him straight in the eyes.
Stop making him mad, Grace. You’d better be careful, Grace. You’re the most willful child on the planet, Grace. Just a bad child. And I knew it, when I looked him in the eyes. I was evil. Of course I was and I could admit it.
But no one would ever know…because if someone knew, surely they would see me as unworthy, evil, dirty. But I told myself, “You are not her. She is not you…you do not have to live it.” And I left that place and I didn’t go back. Until that fateful day I walked by the den.
And it all came back when I saw them there…fucking like dogs in my house. And as I stood there, watching them, I could feel him again, even though he was not with me in that moment, it felt like it. I could feel him exploding though my body, in my mouth. And it's never gone away.  It complicates things for me now because I have no words to describe how much it affects in my present life.  The therapist tells me it is like the tide, the waves ebb in and then they flow back out and she is teaching me how to ride the waves.  And I know she is right, but what I try to communicate back to her is that there are times when something now will trigger a panic inside of me that denies all reason and the waves then crash into me like a hurricane and there is no way to ride them. 
Let me give you an example from today.  The fam decided to run some after Christmas errands and since I hadn't been out of the house since Tuesday, I thought maybe it was a good idea.  "Errands" included lunch out and I've no idea how it came up, the waitress mentioned something her mother used to cook for dinner, "Shit on a Shingle", she said (it was a real classy joint...).  She went on to say that she always knew it was right before payday because they would have Shit on a Shingle  (chipped beef gravy on toast... the SF cooked that in a cast iron skillet all the time) and I couldn't eat.  And when we left, my face was flushed and I was choking back vomit...literally, until I choked and had to puke in the parking lot.  That's the part I cannot control~ the 'external' environment...and staying in the house forever is obviously not an option.
And although I consider myself a fairly intelligent person, and when I can think logically, I understand that what he did was not my fault; many nights I am unable to find rationale and logic and on those nights I lack understanding.  I find no logic in the deep, dark, murky water.  And its during those times when I want to throw myself on the floor like a child and beg the therapist to keep me safe from him...to please make him stop hurting me.  It's during those times when I cannot form the words because if I were to form them, speak them aloud, then I would have to admit the truth of the sins I have committed.