If you’ve been following my blog, you know that I was the victim of sexual abuse. Calling myself a “victim” is something that I am having a tremendously rough time dealing with. It’s not something I ever wanted to be or be viewed as. Who wants to be a victim? I can’t even wrap my head around the fact that for four years, that was my life, let alone the implications of what it means with regard to me on a personal level.
Victim. Weak. Manipulated. Naive. Afraid. Betrayed. Used.
Typing these words is just as hard as saying them aloud. How could this have been me? I was smart. I was strong. I was supposed to meet a wonderful guy and have a family. But I didn’t. I fell prey to someone who knew exactly how to take advantage of my weaknesses and use them to break me down in every way possible.
Some days I feel perfectly fine. I’m happy. And overall, I am happy and pleased with my life. But since I’ve began to confront my past, I also have days that all I can do when I lie in bed at night is cry until I can’t cry anymore. I have moments where I just get lost and stare into space. There are times where it is easier to become numb than feel the anger and the pain. I just shove everything down like I have become accustomed to doing over the years.
After I published the last of the three blogs I wrote, I’ll admit, I fell apart emotionally. While I was writing, I felt alive. It was like years of secrets and lies escaping at once and freeing me from their weight. Once I began receiving messages from readers, I panicked. It was finally real. It wasn’t a skeleton hiding in my closet. I put it out in the open because I believed it would be theraputic and would solve everything. What actually happened was I took the first step in healing. It couldn’t happen with just one click of the mouse. It’s going to take time.
Since I have written about my experience, quite a few people have come to me and told me that they had similar experiences or were abused by a domestic partner in some way. Most recently, a very good friend of mine confided in me that she shared my experience.
I don’t like hearing that I’m “not alone.” I don’t want to hear it. It doesn’t make me feel better. It doesn’t make it easier to know that I’m not the only one. It absolutely breaks my heart, especially knowing that several of my closest friends from over the years have been victimized in some way.
I’d rather be alone than know that the people I love and care about have hurt the way I did.
The damnedest part of it all is that I’m living a paradox. I need to know. I need to know that I’m not alone because I can help someone else get through what they have experienced. I need to know because it keeps me fighting. I don’t want my friend to hurt the way I do or to have to feel what I feel as I work through my issues. Knowing her personally though, maybe we can help each other.
My friends that know have been amazingly supportive since I put this out for the world to see. The people I consider my best friends have been patient and understanding as I start the healing process. I appreciate every day that I have them available to listen when I need to talk. Having someone I know intimately though to talk to that has also survived abuse will help me in so many other ways.
I’d like to say that since August and September that I’ve gotten better, but the truth is, I don’t know if I’m better. A lot of days I feel worse, but I know that it is because I’m forcing myself to stop ignoring and start letting it out. I’ve ripped off the bandaid and now I have to find a way to survive the consequences of doing that.
I’d rather be alone, but it’s painfully ironically lucky that I am not.