When I wrote my third entry to Never Be Afraid to Tell the Truth, it was late the night before I actually posted. My husband was away at work, my baby in bed. I figured it was the perfect opportunity to explore the memory of "The Night I Gave Up" in the most detail I could muster. I was fully aware of what might happen if I chose to dig deep into that seed of shame, yet I ignored the consequences.
I was in no place mentally or emotionally when I sat down with my journal to expel the darkness on to paper. You see, prior to the written exposure of that scene, I had experienced a week brimming with my self-blame I work so hard to put to rest. On top of that, blogging about how I was failed as a child, just propelled me into my little girl mentality. I didn't feel safe, and multiple times I said, "It isn't worth the fight." I was knife-to-my-skin close to breaking my eight weeks without cutting, and without the persistence of a good friend, and my therapist, I believe I would have given in.
Even after dropping the knife, the cloud of insecurity still followed me until the night I sat on the couch with my journal resting hot on my legs. While nervously chewing on my nails, I noticed my chest was even tighter than it had been all week, and I attempted to breath. No dice, so I just opened up my journal and took the dive into that pool of indignation.
I could not feel my hand writing, not even the pen in my hand. My adult persona was floating above my body and gazing down at my little girl soul with sad eyes as the narrative of that night bled on to the paper in thick, exasperated, black ink. Eventually, the pen stopped, and was projected along with my journal to the floor.
I opened my laptop and began writing my post. When I started to read the account of "The Night I Gave Up," I regretted my solitary evening immediately. The cloud that had followed me all week grew dark and pungent, my insides started to twist, and I feared for my eight-year-old self. My go to friend was sleeping, my husband was unavailable at work, and it was too late to call anyone else.
My description at the end of the post yesterday was entirely accurate of what I actually did. The acid in my gut was so profuse, it was burning a hole through my abdomen, and regardless of expelling my entire day into the toilet, the singed remains settled inside my ribcage. They remained there through scrubbing myself raw of my shame, and through my short slumber. If it wasn't for my therapy session yesterday morning, I am convinced, I would have broken my sobriety and/or cut.
What my therapist pointed out to me is that I had been living in my victim role all week, something I tend not to do. While it is important to let the victim have her voice, she can not be in control. I was positive that no one cared about me, just as I did eighteen years ago. I was afraid for my life, just as I was eighteen years ago. I didn't care what happened to me, just as I did eighteen years ago, "The Night I Gave Up." She reminded me I was a baby then, and adult now, and I didn't have the same resources available.
My eight-year-old self was not physically able to attack him, was not wise with experience, could not choose who was in her house, could not choose who she talked to, was forced to seek approval from people she didn't want to, could not say, "no" and have it mean something, didn't have a cellphone or a husband for security, could not choose who she surrounded herself with.
She said to me, "Today, you have all of those things."
No longer will I fear his whisper in my ear, because I refuse to let his indoctrination overcome my bravery. Today, I choose to fight back.
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