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I’d buried all the memories for a long time. Now that I’m trying to get help and talking about it more often, they’ve all been dredged up again. It doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing. I can be sitting on the bus or eating breakfast and bang - right back to being seven years old and powerless.
It makes my skin crawl. It makes me feel dirty and ashamed all over again. But I haven’t broken down in public, or in front of my mother since she started in with the ‘he’s ruined you’ talk, so I guess I’m doing fairly well. In short:
what if krogans sleep in a lump. kroglump. like their legs tuck under and their crest goes under their back shell.
I spent a long time believing that it was my fault, that I must have done something to provoke it or ‘wanted it.’ It took me even longer to convince myself that the blame rests squarely with my abuser.
Being asked ‘why did you keep going back?’ over and over brings all of the shame and self-loathing flooding back. I spent almost twenty years concealing this and determined I was going to take it to my grave. Hearing all of this makes me think I should have done exactly that.
Sometimes I think being out to my family might be better. Then I remember what happened after my mum’s initial supportive response when I told her about the abuse.
'He's ruined you!' ad infinitum.
'You would have been more like me if that hadn't happened!'
'Why didn't you tell me?'
I did. I said I didn’t want to go back to the house and told her why. All I got was emotional manipulation. ‘Your grandma is sad because you don’t want to visit her anymore. She thinks you don’t love her.’
I was seven or eight, but I remember it perfectly. She doesn’t, apparently. After that I decided there wasn’t much point talking to her about it. Nothing changed. Nothing stopped until I got too old to appeal to him any more.
I don’t think I want to deal with her response to me coming out. Some days I regret telling her about the abuse in the first place.
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