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  1. I've felt really gross and contaminated since yesterday. I've been going back and forth between complete denial and overwhelming disgust. Thinking about what my grandfather did to me makes me feel physically sick. I was diagnosed with bipolar this week. My brain is twisting this in ugly ways. Like, "Maybe the bipolar gene never would have been activated if the CSA didn't happen. Maybe you shouldn't have let him do those things to you. Maybe you shouldn't have been born at all if this is how it's going to be." I'm starting to acknowledge that my relationship with my mom probably
  2. Its been awhile- things have been good overall but that doesn't mean it hasn't been tough. I've been doing a lot of work in therapy lately with EMDR. Usually, after sessions I feel a lot of things and I find the best way for me to process them is through writing.
  3. Well i know its been since last year since i wrote so much has happened. since my brothers suicide i couldnt handle it any more and came really close to the edge of SH and so i went into inpatient to get some help to deal with the feeling surrounding it and also got my meds regulated at the same time. i am in no means "better". im searching for the light right now. im searching for hope. i try to see the good in things but right now even though i did go inpatient i still hurt. i hurt because he left me that is why im searching for hope. he was my hope my light at the end of the tunnel. my hear
  4. I’m not a jealous person, but occasionally, it consumes me. It only happens in very specific scenarios. It’s whenever I see someone run well in a race. Jealously may not be the best word- that’s what my abuser told me it was. However, when I really sit with the feelings, I see it’s so much more than that. It took me years to admit to myself that he negatively affected my life and that I would have been better off without him… but it’s the truth. I feel sad. I mourn something that I could have been, but that he took from me. For years, when I would run, I would black out. My body wa
  5. Haze_D

    Four wishes

    I wish your words cut like knives. Tearing open my innocent flesh, So that I could see you were a monster. I would have stood a chance. I wish your touch left bruises. My battered body could have matched my broken soul. Skin painted black and purple means run. But I stayed. I wish your kisses were daggers, I would not have mistaken it for love It was a dark, dark hellish force, With the smile of a saint. I wish it was “bad”. The shame wouldn’t live in my body, The guilt wouldn’t eat me alive. But it’s never “bad” enough, is it?
  6. I was never taught how to cook or bake growing up, but I was taught at a very young age that my voice didn't matter. The first 10 years of my life I was silenced. Now at 32 years of age (22 years after speaking out against my abuser) I still feel the ramifications of that silence. I still am that little girl struggling to find my voice. My place. They say that there is a secret formula to life. That the events that take place always have a response. Which in turn ultimately lead to the outcome. It is in our response to those events which can create a positive or negative outcome. I
  7. My hypersexuality is a sneaky, hidden trait. To most people I come across as very modest and sex averse. I'm afraid of wearing anything that shows skin because I'm insecure about my body and don't want people to pay attention to it. I have the body language of someone who is ashamed to exist. It's rare for me to talk about sex. But privately, I'm obsessed with sex. Or at least obsessed with performing sexual behaviors to control the feelings I have from being raped. I've been compulsively masturbating 3-4 times per day. Sometimes more. I don't really want to. It's to the point
  8. Well, yesterday was my first Thanksgiving without my brother. As ive written he took his life a couple of months ago. so thus leaving this my first holiday without him. we went through csa together so pretty much everything in my mind and logic should be a peace of cake after that. Boy was i way off track and wrong. i thought i would be able to handle it with style and grace. after all i had his ashes so in a way he was there in "presence". also along that line he was there in spirit that should have been enough for me or anyone i guess. well it wasnt for me. i was so used to even if we weren
  9. hopefully this isn't too much info, i just needed to get it off my chest. hi everyone, i'm new here and super nervous about this. when i was 3 i was sexually assaulted by my brother who was 5. this means i struggle with the blame and everything, because i don't know if he knew better or not. and i blame myself because i was too young to say no. i repressed this memory and didn't remember it until i was about 14 (i'm 18 now). i'm trying to work through it but struggling, and i think i just really need to find people in the same situation as me so i feel less alone.
  10. Well, I've been trying to think of how to write this entry and even more on what to title it, still not sure the title is correct, but I am trying. Since, my brother, who i when through child sexual abuse, physical mental and emotional abuse with took his life the nightmares have come back. they seem to be of the abuse that we went through together. they went away for so long. i dont understand why they have come back now. i have been dealing with the abuse in therapy, well until now because of the stop in progress due to the suicide. i havent self harmed in over a year, i now use a rubber ban
  11. I am not new to this community. I have tried to do a blog before but failed at it. Recent events have brought me back here and I feel that it is important for me to do this. My therapist said a blog is kind of like a journal entry and you can write whatever, so I think I will share the recent events that have brought me to do the blog and a bit about my background. At the age of 4 I began to be sexually abused along with my brother by our babysitter, mother and her many boyfriends. Growing up in foster care from the age 6-10 some of the abuse continued for me and at times with him as well
  12. I just got home from dropping my child off at daycare and I cried on the way home. BUT they were good, healing tears. So hang in there with the story…it does have a good ending. Rewind to yesterday morning. I’m getting ready to go out the door amidst the mad rush of getting shoes on, backpacks ready, thermoses filled, coats on, the approximately 1,000,000 things that all need to be done when getting a 3 and 4 year-old out the door. My youngest child says in a scared voice, Is T going to be at school today? This is the first time I have heard her mention this name, so my ears perk up and m
  13. Hello, all. Did you all enjoy NOT hearing about my schoolwork? I hope so, because I HAVE enjoyed not bitching about certain classes and papers that I really didn't want to write. Of course, these were for the 'required' classes not pertaining to my social work major and it would only be natural for me to complain about those. I will say though, that when I return to campus in a couple weeks, I'll be TRYING to refrain from giving my (former) Government professor a glare for giving me the only B grade of my last semester - it was a damned B-PLUS, he couldn't have let me have the A-minus
  14. Writing out these thoughts has been tough, not just because I'm finally coming to terms with a part of my childhood I forso long hoped would just disappear, but I'm having trouble putting it down in words. And I know that at some future date when I am comfortable with the idea of sharing this blog's contents with Ls and Lb, I don't want to hurt them more. Even now, all these years later, I'm trying to shield them from the pain my csa may cause them. I know I'm not responsible for it. I cannot continue to play the roll of preschooler RR, taking care of everyone else's feelings like my own don't
  15. I've been writing this blog for a while now and I have a few observations. Some were expected, others surprising. Occasionally (either while I'm just thinking about what to write or, much less often, while I'm actually writing,) when something happens that reminds me of mychildhood - a smell, a sound, etc) I burst into tears, reminded of how I felt as a kid. It's been happening several times a week. This usually only lasts a few minutes. I feel profoundly sad for the young RR. It's like I'm feeling all this now because I'm allowed to feel this now. Sometimes I don't know what the myste
  16. I'm eighteen. I've already moved out. At this point I'm living in my bf's grandma's house. I come to visit my mom because she says she has something important to tell me. So I drive a half hour over to the house and we talk. She's nervous. We walk casually out to the garden. It's only a few yards from her horse's fenced in pasture. Crescent comes over near the fence to say hi. It's been a few months and I've missed him. His chores used to be my responsibility. I'd bring him home my apple cores or banana peels from lunch at school. My mom stops the small talk and abruptly I understand why she i
  17. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately and have come to the conclusion that my mother wasn't just merely neglectful, did not just simply "fail to protect me." She actively sexually abused me. I have a knot in my stomach as I write this. Today was the first time I've ever said that out loud. I said it to my T. I've always thought about it in terms of her being mean and rough and slapping me around. For some reason I've never seen it like that before. I've been thinking and thinking about it and can't really call it anything else. There's a word for it. A heavy two word term. I
  18. It is a good day. My husb and I are in town at Walmart shopping. I remember we were in a good mood, flirting with each other. Unsuspecting, we casually walk down the deodorant aisle. Like bees we sample some of the offerings, slightly opening the lids just a crack, enough to smell the contents, sharing the ones we liked, then jamming the sticks back in those springloaded deodorant holder thingys. "Do I want to smell like this?" "How about this one?" "Do you want me to smell like this or this? Which one is better?" "I don't know...which do you like better?" I lik
  19. The worst lies I was ever told were the ones I told myself. They were the lies my shame told me - the goal of this lying was to protect myself, to make the situation seem "not so bad." If it was my fault, I could have prevented it, right? I could have stopped it. If I can minimize the awfulness, then it's not so bad. If it's not so bad then really, did it happen? Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe my pain doesn't matter. Some of these lies I stopped believing a long time ago, some versions of them I held for longer and only recently set these false beliefs free. Here
  20. I'm a mom collector. It took me a long time to realize that. I'm super good at collecting sweet caring attentive mother-in-laws. At adopting mother-figures and grandmother-figures. I've been married twice, divorced twice, and have had awesome in-laws both times. I still am very close to both of them. Whenever I talk about my childhood, I give all the credit for raising me to my Gram. I feel like my mom shouldn't get any credit, since almost none of the positive things I've learned have been because she taught me. I learned how to be loving and protective despite her best efforts, not beca
  21. When we still lived in the city I broke my foot. Well, actually, what happened was I pushed my sister off of my dad's lap. He was sitting on a chair in the living room. As punishment he threw me across the room and I hit the wall. I landed and my left foot felt like it was on fire. Mom told me that I needed to stop crying cuz I wasn't a baby. I couldn't stand up. I missed dinner because my mom said "I'm not going to put your plate on the floor like a dog." I remember I couldn't walk on it. I crawled. They thought I was faking it. It took them two days to decide to finally bring me in to have a
  22. My whole life there has been a safety net underneath me put there by mostly well-intentioned people. The thing is that my whole life the safety net has had some major flaws in it. Holes big enough for me to fall through. One of the tenants of good touch/bad touch education is to empower kids to not keep the secret of csa to themselves. A major problem with this is that some "bad touch" was ok. How do you explain in a clear way that an exam by a doctor is different than the "tickling secret" you have with your creepy uncle? Again, we are back to spanking-yes, Rubbing-no. How do you empower
  23. When I was little, I think about first or second grade, I came home from school and asked my mom and Gram what an ox was. Gram said "it's like a cow, but bigger." Hmmmm... Mom asked "where did you hear that?" "At school. There was a play." "Was it Little House on the Prairie?" "No, they're saying about good touch and bad touch and don't let nobody touch your privates and stuff like that." "What does that have to do with an ox?" "They said your privates is what's covered by your swimsuit. So they said to tell somebody if someone touches your privates or your
  24. Ok so I posted a tiny bit and I didn't die. So far. My anxiety has been high, so my body definitely thinks it's going to die, but it's a false alarm. I haven't been sleeping well at all. Even with an as needed anxiety med, and a sleeping pill, and some bedtime tea, and some CBD oil. Don't worry, I didn't overdo it. Just one of each. I just want to pass the fuck out and turn my brain off for a while. Writing what I did made me remember a few things, like the glass pudding dishes. Like how I knew the taste of my mother's fury when I was so very little. It tasted like a penny in my mouth. Th
  25. So, before I jump into this I should ask you, the reader, if you'd like to respond, to please just sit next to me. I'm actively afraid of sharing my story and being belittled or pitied. Please remember that I survived. My earliest memory is lying next to my dad in bed. I am three years old We are in our apartment in the city. My little sister is in a room we share down the hall. I'm pretty sure that my mom is heavily pregnant at this point with my soon to be little brother. She is in bed too, sleeping, I think, on the other side of him. I am curious about my dad's body. He sleeps nak
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