First of all I should say that I feel like I'm going to puke right now. Maybe I just won't send this. Yea, maybe. I'll right it and read it and just delete it.
No one's pushing me to tell this now, just my head feels so full of constantly analysing and going over and over everything. Can I delete it if I don't like it? Later, I mean. Can I come back and erase it if I feel like I've just gutted myself in front of you all? Everyone just gathered around with a disgusted look on their face, pinching their noses and looking down at the gross wiggly slime covered things I've been carrying around inside of me for almost 4 decades now. Things that have been eating me from the inside.
The thing is that I was open about the abuse when I was younger. I'm in my 40s now. In college I spoke several times on survivor panels (where we were invited to share our stories and sometimes asked followup questions). I was involved in 3 different performances of Eve Ensler's "The Vagina Monologues." I worked as an advocate at the campus women's center. I was a member of our campus GSA (gay/straight alliance). I was openly a survivor and willing to talk about it and told my story to a lot of people. But then something changed.
I moved back to a small town to help someone in my family and have had to basically shove it all under the rug again. This family member has never shared their story of childhood domestic and emotional violence. It's a tiny town of maybe just over 1000 people. Everybody knows everbody, so it's not like I can share this part of my life with a new friend and trust that the rest of the people here wouldn't find out. And then they will either assume my siblings were abused too, or assume I'm lying because my 3 siblings do not talk about such things. So back into the closet I go.
Basically I'm scared of sharing because I can't share in real life and I don't want to be pitied online either. And I'm scared of not sharing, because that's like lying to myself. When I think about what's stressing me out it's because I don't know if I can trust people not to pity me. It's because sometimes ordinary things trigger me and I can't really talk about why I'm having a PTSD moment. Can't talk about why I'm having a panic attack.
"Oh you poor thing." Is I think the most demeaning sentence in the English language. It makes my stomach hurt. It dehumanizes me. It makes me think that they don't really care about the pain, they're just thanking their lucky stars it wasn't them who went through it.
Enough for now,
Maybe I'll delete this in the morning.