Parental Advisory.. or something.
The computer is going to die. I don't care. I'm exhausted. I don't care. I just want to write. Even if no one is reading this, I want to write. Actually, really, I want to roll over and cry. I just don't see the point. I'm laying on the couch at my MIL's house. It's cooler outside than in, and that's hard to do in here in the subtropics. I'm ready to go home. I know I just posted, bear with me.

I finally broke down and cried a bit ago. It lasted all of a minute, but it got some of the pent up insanity out. I can't sort through my thoughts. I don't know what I'm feeling. I don't know why I'm writing, or who would even be interested in reading it.

I just hurt. I was so okay today. But I was distracted. Now it's quiet, and there are no distractions. I can feel the memories wash over me, the weight of it bogging me down. I want to curl up in a dark cold place and stay there. I can feel the breeze coming in through the window now. I know He's with me. I can feel it. I think it's the only way I'm surviving. I feel it, and it makes me want to cry. I know He's here and He's taking care of me, and I just want to cry. I said that, didn't I? I know. I drove into town today, and my stomach went to knots. It was like... that point of no return. Nothing had changed, not really. Every where I turned I had a memory. Or a hundred. Or a thousand. You get the point. It's a small town. Everything holds a piece of my childhood. And as I drove that small road through that small town it felt as if every place was throwing those memories back at me.

'Remember the time...?' Yes, yes I do. I remember it all, and most of it hurts in one way or another. There are a few good memories, but the bad ones outweigh those by far.

I feel right now more broken than ever. Maybe not outwardly. But on the inside, I'm that little girl. My God I'm broken and falling apart. Walking those streets. Sitting in those rooms. Hearing the sounds and smelling the scents. It's all the same and it's all overwhelming. I am torn in two. I want to be here with my family, well, with some of them, any how. And I want to turn and ran as far and as fast as I can. I want nothing to do with this because it hurts so much. That house. My God that house. I don't Even want to get within blocks of it. I don't want to think those things but everything brings back a memory of that time. Like the Burger King. I remember when he moved out, I moved into his bed room. Don't ask me why, bc that's where all the horror was, but it was bigger, and somehow I felt like I had control while he was gone. I remember the day I moved in to his room i went to BK and ordered the exact same thing that he ALWAYS ordered, and ate it on the floor in his room.

The blue walls. Oh those walls. If those walls could talk.. I'm so glad they can't. I'm sure they remember much more than I do, more than I ever care to. I knew this was going to be hard. I passed my high school today and remembered eighth grade, arguably the worst year of my life. I remember that at the end of seventh grade I was very popular, but had started to withdraw. I was so depressed. I didn't know why. I remember why, now. I was 12. That was the first time he actually raped me. I remember how horrible the kids were to me. Kids can be so mean. So horridly nasty. I remember the first time I got drunk. We had a school dance and 'he' bought alcohol and put it in the trunk of my boyfriends car. I was 15. I remember the transition... I didn't mention the transition, did I?

When he quit, I started dating. I didn't sleep with my first real boyfriend. I came close, but I was still convinced I was a good girl and I wasn't going to do that. A few months later I had a new boyfriend. 'He' was still around, and he watched as my boyfriend relentlessly begged me over and over to have sex with him one night. Yes, 'he' was there, and no 'he' didn't say a word when my 'no's' turned to silence and my boyfriend got what he wanted. He didn't say anything for the next six months, either, as it continued. I'm terrified that particular boyfriend will be at the wedding.

I remember all those things, and so many more worse things that I don't want in my head. But it doesn't matter because everything I see triggers another memory that I don't want. A memory that shouldn't be real. A memory that shouldn't exist in any one's mind.

Tomorrow I have to go to the next town over. That's where it all started. I'll pass the place we lived when I was nine, when 'he' shared me with a friend. The place where all my innocence flew out the window. I can't take these memories any more. I can't take this hurt. I don't want this. I don't want this. I can't take this. How do you survive this? Should you even have to? I don't want to. I just don't have a choice. I know that this post has been bad. I should probably put a parental advisory or something on this thing, huh? I just want to cry. And to top it all off, my ipod is dead and I have no music.

I don't want to be a survivor. I don't want this to be my life. I don't want this. The hurt is tearing a hole in my chest. The tears are burning my cheeks. I can't handle any more hurt. It's amazing how okay I was today. And I'm sure I'll be okay tomorrow. It's the night time, when it's quiet and I process, that the hurt takes me over.

If you're the praying type, they're coveted.
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  • I'm a wife. I'm a mom. I'm a photographer. I'm a lover of Jesus. My house is a mess, my kids are dirty, we eat take out more often than not. My life is loud, busy and crazy. And that's okay with me.
    This is Eric, the man you've been praying for. He's a paramedic. He quilts in his spare time. No, I couldn't make that up :) He has NASH (a form of liver disease, non-alcoholic) and diabetes, but those things don't define him. He's a man of God, an insanely wonderful husband, and the best daddy in the world.. Just ask these guys..
    Our daughter Ali, she's 9. She's fiercely opinionated and strong willed. She's a Daddy's girl, but the umbilical cord hasn't but cut from me, either. She's a gymnast, and proud of it. She spends more time upside down or turning flips than she does walking. She's crazy smart, and absolutely sure of it. She is my insufferable little know it all.
    Our son Dylan, 7. We lovingly refer to him as Chubs. Or Chubby. Or fat boy. Ahem. He is all boy, as you can see by his crazy wild energy. He has the highest pain tolerance of any child I have ever met. He plays soccer and does gymnastics, but truly he is a gamer, a nerd. He is an avid reader and loves to climb. Not to be outdone by his sister, he's a drama king, but to him, I'm the best mommy in the world.