THE SOUND OF SILENCE

(This post was written on the spur of the moment, completely unpolished).

the sound of silence

I’ve gone and done it again! Just when I thought I couldn’t make things any worse; just when I thought I was getting it right…NOOOOO, I’ve fucked up again!

I’ve told – shhh – I should’ve kept quiet – just like before – just like all the times before – I’ve gone and hurt someone I love; the person who probably means the most to me in all the world – my Mum. I told – I told – I should have kept it to myself. I’m a grown woman, not a young child – I ought to know better – I ought to have known better. It’s too late now. I’ve said it – there – it’s said – Oh! The shame!

I told my Mum about my recent assault – I’d left it two weeks before I told her for fear of upsetting her, but now it seems that I have done more damage than good by leaving it that long. It’s just like before – just like all those other times – I shouldn’t have told her. What is the matter with me? Am I totally stupid, or what? Yes, apparently, it seems that I am.

I felt I had to hide it. I felt I had to hide the shame – like all those times before when I got abused. Now, I’m a grown-up, I should know better. She can’t understand why I didn’t tell her before. I couldn’t – I just couldn’t. It’s been ingrained into my brain, ‘not to tell’. When I told her of my child abuse as an adult many years ago, she didn’t believe me and perhaps didn’t want to believe me. Maybe, it hurt too much to admit it to herself, particularly as it was my father.

She’s so hurt that I kept it from her whilst ‘pretending’ and appearing to be alright and okay on the outside. I wasn’t okay – truly – I was not okay. I was screaming in the silence. I’ve hurt my Mum and I was trying to protect her. How do I ever apologise enough for the pain I’ve caused her? I’m so sorry, Mum; I’m truly sorry. How can I undo the damage I have caused? How can sorry ever be enough?

I should have stayed silent – the sound of silence is infinitely better than the sound of betrayal of trust – my own Mother can no longer trust me to be truthful with her; to be honest. How can I ever put that one right? I could weep tears for the damage I’ve done it now and there’s nothing I can do to turn back the hands of time to do it all differently. I should have kept quiet. I prefer the sound of silence to the sound of pain. Forgive me, my Mother, forgive me, please. I’ve fucked up again.

shame

(Image courtesy of Henry Fuseli)

YOU RAISE ME UP

THANK YOU, MY TRUE FATHER IN HEAVEN

for getting me through the tough times.

PRAISE YOU!

I love You, Lord, from Your child, Ellie xxx

❤ ❤ ❤

(YouTube film taken from The Passion of the Christ)

(Also, thanks to Mj and Meghan for being there for me too, recently (you know who you are). God Bless xxx)

SKELETONS FROM THE CLOSET

happiness1

I’ve been offered a new course at college – it’s called ‘Telling Your Story’. At first I was keen….I wanted my story to be one of finding some positives from so many negatives in my life. The idea behind the course is that I would look back on where I’ve been (mentally and emotionally), through various ages and stages of my life and then work out what helped me to move on from the darkest places (where I still find myself on bad days) to the better place that I am in now, in general that is. I’m not saying that all my worries and gremlins from the past have disappeared, far from it. They will always be there. My past will always be a big part of my life…my past will always be my past – it’s just that I don’t choose to live there on a permanent basis anymore. I am in good therapy and that is where I deal with any gremlins and Grinches when they do arise. I don’t want to carry them round with me like a great big sack of potatoes.

grinch

I’ve thought carefully about doing this course and have spoken to my college tutor about it at some length. There is something about it that I find strangely attractive and yet, if I am honest with myself and after speaking with my therapist today, I have found myself thinking, do I really want to drag that old pile of skeletons out of the closet again? Do I really want to dig through all that sh*t again? Is it worth risking how far I’ve come just to prove something to others and to myself? And…..I think the conclusion that I have come to is no. There is just too much at stake.

Having said that, there is something to be said for making a neat little (or large in my case) package from my not very neat life, ‘telling my story‘ and sharing my feelings. Equally, there is also something to be said for not recounting my story or doing anything with it for that matter, other than letting sleeping dogs lie.

However, I am still very affected by what happened to me, mostly as a child or as a direct result of that, and I still have awful memories, flashbacks, nightmares, thoughts, reminders, triggers that I’d obviously rather not have. But I am a human being and that is just reality. Then, on talking with my Support Worker, we struck upon the idea of a black memory box. Sound strange?! It did to me at first but then the more I thought about it, the more things I thought of that I’d like to box up and put in there.

black box

Things like the first book I had published which I dedicated to my first therapist who turned out to be very dangerous and has since been ‘struck off’ the accredited list of counsellors in this country. I won’t go into detail about the content of this book other than to say it is morbid to the extreme. There are books and gifts she bought me at the time which are still kicking about my house. The song lyrics to REM’s ‘Everybody Hurts’ which I used to play over and over on repeat which just drove me further into my despair. A photo of my father who abused me for all of my childhood. A piece of classical music that reminds of my further abuse, an empty bottle of alcohol from my drinking days, a razor blade from when I used to self-harm (not that long ago) etc…..all things that I’d let to literally and metaphorically shove somewhere where they can’t hurt me anymore. I’d pack it up and put it somewhere like the attic or the back of the garage where it wasn’t on constant view. I just don’t want to live in that place any more. I want and intend to move on.

A NOTE TO MY BLOGGING FRIENDS

In two days time, it will be the second anniversary of my father’s death…the father who sexually, emotionally and mentally abused me all through my childhood. This anniversary throws up so many connotations as i remember the last time i saw and spoke to him on his death-bed. only three hours before he died. I was the last one to see him before he died. Ironically, i could have said anything to hi during that last couple of hours and always thought that i would have ‘my say’ at last. But instead, i found myself holding his hands; the very hands that had abused me and ripped my virginity away at the tender age of four. I whispered “I forgive you, dad“, despite being alone with him and having the liberty to say whatever i wanted; in fact, all the words i’d always imagined i would say to him when he lay there so helpless. But no; i had to tell him i’d forgiven him as much for my own sake as his;  so i could finally let go of all the hurt and pain caused by him, and move on.

But , if only life was that simple. I am still haunted by nightmares and flashbacks, day in, day out, so why, what was the point?

 

I am feeling so vulnerable with the vivid memories of him abusing me flashing through my mind; this combined with memories of laying a red rose on his coffin as we all did, at his funeral and crying for the loss of another chance at life with him, ever, ever again.

Image

I was not mourning the loss of my father in the normal sense but rather mourning the loss of the father i always wanted but never had and mourning the loss of my entire childhood  which had consequences on every day of the rest of my life. Such loss. 

This is affecting me greatly right now so i wanted to apologize to all my blogging friends that if you don’t hear much from me in the next few days, be it posts, comments or likes etc., I am sorry but i will still be thinking of you all and will be back on here as soon a my head allows me to. I feel awful leaving you all in the lurch, knowing that many of you are going through such difficult times right now too and i am so sorry i can offer so little support over the next few days – i do hope you understand and forgive me.

Image

I love you all dearly and will be thinking of each one of you. Take great care of yourselves and stay safe till we next meet xxx ❤ 😦

 

ONE OF MY INSECURITIES

I’m wondering if i have the energy to blog tonight  after a sleepless night following my confrontation with X yesterday re blogging. “Should i be blogging at all?”, i ask myself! But I’ve not had a good day today.

 

I went to my regular Monday morning Art and Craft class which is usually a really good place to chill out and try and put my problems and worries aside for a couple of hours. But today, NO! I was sitting opposite a man in his seventies who always speaks his mind, often ‘puts his foot in it’ and ought to know better! Today…he decided to put the world to rights. He went on and on about the newspapers and the news on television and radio, the ‘rubbish’ they put in magazines today etc, etc. Then he decided to air his views on women wearing short skirts and how, if we do, we shouldn’t complain if we get abused or raped!!! My first reaction was anger but before that could develop into anything tangible, i was triggered into my world of flashbacks and disassociation.  

 

Suddenly, there i was. Back at age four, wearing a flimsy skirt that my mother had dressed me in that morning before she’d left to go shopping. I was left alone with my father who promptly sat me on his lap, lifted my skirt….I can’t go there right now and Chloe is screaming out at me, wanting to talk. I need to get away from here. I hastily made an excuse and left the class.

 

I can’t wear skirts, dresses or shorts. My legs are always well covered, night and day by jeans, leggings, pyjamas etc. Even tights are too exposing for me. I even sometimes put a blanket on my lap (making me look somewhat like an elderly lady, which i’m not) while i’m sitting in my wheelchair because i feel extra vulnerable, being unable to defend myself. Some people who don’t know my inner turmoil, make a joke of it, asking if i have any legs at all under there…ha ha (not).

 

Even before i became disabled, i would never wear skirts or dresses and would point-blank refuse (with some pathetic excuse), any invitations to cocktail parties, little black dress occasions and the like.

 

I can’t even bear to see little girls running about or playing in the park with their little dresses blowing in the wind. I want to scream out to their mothers, “can’t you see that you are putting your child at risk?” I look at the ‘dirty old man’ on the park bench, eyeing up the child and automatically assume the worse. (No offence to the majority of men). It makes me cringe; it triggers me back into my childhood; I’m losing touch with reality. Chloe is screaming louder no. I don’t want to be on my own…help!!

Somehow i got home but can remember nothing of my journey back from the class. An hour later,  I am exhausted from crying and reliving my childhood experiences and the memories of the pain i endured. Nevertheless, i am now angry at this bloody, insensitive and ignorant man in the class.

 

No-one should have the right to dictate to women (or men) what they should or shouldn’t wear, and people who come out with crass comments, like “she was asking for it, dressed like that!”, need their tongues cut out and castrating. Maybe that it is oversensitivity on my part but it does make me angry. I’m now more exhausted than i was previously and need to sleep, hoping i will be undisturbed by terrifying nightmares and haunting memories infiltrating my sleep. It’s times like this when i’m too frightened to close my eyes.

 

 

 

I’VE BEEN CRAWLING IN THE DARK

All of my life, i feel, has been an uphill struggle to survive. Ever since my last therapist walked out on me on the day of my father’s death (because i was crying), i have been crawling in the dark, trying to find my way out of this nightmare, Ok; i know my father sexually abused me through my entire childhood but i wasn’t crying for the loss of that monster but for the loss of the father i never had and for the loss of my childhood, left in tatters. I lost my therapist, the one i had depended on so much and loved so dearly, on the same day, just hours after my father’s death. I was absolutely devastated by both events.  

 

Since then, i have wanted to break free from my past. I want to stop crawling in the dark where my world is deepest black most of the time and feel the sunlight on my face, smell the flowers and to truly become a survivor rather than the victim i have always been.

(I don’t know if this video link will come into my blog as i’m not sure how to get this right) but please take the time to watch it.

http://youtu.be/dcCOJuDR5Mo

I’m going to fight to get out of this cold, dark tunnel and i won’t  give up until i have achieved this. I know the memories will never go away, the flashbacks and nightmares will still haunt me but i have to fight them with all the strength i can muster, with every bone in my body, every cell in my mind, Give it everything i have got!. I so want to be free.

 

My current therapist is encouraging and has hope in me; she reassures me that i can do this even at my lowest points. She says if i really, truly want it bad enough, that she will help me. I have endured eighteen years of unsuccessful therapy previously but maybe i just wasn’t ready to break free back then. I want to break free now; get out of that dark tunnel and learn to fly like a bird soaring over the treetops. I’ve been crawling in the dark for far too long. 

{Finally, i want you to bear in mind that i have Borderline Personality Disorder and today just happens to be a good and optimistic day. In an hour, a day, a week’s time i could well be back in that mud again. But i do hope not}.

Image