Unsure about starting this. Something about writing down everything seems dangerous. I used to do this all the time as a kid and teenager. Even in my early twenties this is what I did. Mostly in physical diaries- decorated with sequins, marked with felt tips and prit stick pasted magazine cuttings. By my twenties there was less daily horoscope and more unrecognised trauma. I’m not sure how I put it down on paper. The fear of it being found and read is almost as great as the fear of me admitting anything to myself. For sporadic periods I put it online but I never hid it like this. It was just there for anyone to see. My photos and name attached to the bad poetry and late night confessions. I think that was more about asking for help than understanding and processing. That’s what this is, I think. I want to understand and process, and just voice what happened. Maybe what is still happening because it might be over in a physical, literal sense but I don’t think there’s been a day where it wasn’t living in my head. Not since it started when I was just nineteen. There’s been quieter days and days it’s been so loud that it almost amazes me others can’t hear it too, but regardless of volume it lives. I’m scared it always will. I’m also scared it won’t.
Now I’m here. Thirty one and ready to be honest. As honest as I can be with fake names. There’s so much to cover. The rape being the big fish. Flapping and gasping for water as I let it thrash in an empty tank. I always fill it back up before draining and repeating. The narcissist abuse is louder than even the rape. That can’t be silenced here. Everything that led to the ptsd needs to be discussed honestly. And then the way I’ve reacted, maybe more so the way I’m still reacting. The house, the engagement, the inability to leave the house alone, the tiny lies that I spin each day despite my fear that people don’t believe me when I’m telling the truth. Here I’ll be honest. Everything here will be true. I sound like I’m trying to convince myself. Maybe I am. Why am I so terrified of the truth? The lies I spin are nothing in comparison to my truths. Are they protection when the truth has been so painful? I need to get back into therapy. Until then I guess I’ll be here.
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