Each night I have laid looking at the white pasty ceiling wondering if I had the guts to tell my mother. Then I started wondering, Why do I care so much? Why is it so important for me to tell them it has never meant anything before? I’ve lied to them for years about the situation why suddenly is it important to spill my guts to my mother?
Because for those years, I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want help and I couldn’t and wouldn’t admit it happened to me. I mean molestation sounds so… intense. I think of CSI shows and such of girls going insane and freaking out and that wasn’t me. I went on living my life to the best of my ability. Perhaps it is my strength that always told me I had to keep living compared to the strength of the average human. Perhaps I was just so well at living because I was in denial.
As it seems there is so much more than just accepting it happened and forgiving him. It turns out my main relationships are badly damaged. I feel extreme strain toward my mother and I feel as if she’s only looking at the broken half of a woman instead of looking at a whole. My relationship with society is broken because I neither want to trust nor open up to anyone. Lastly my relationship with myself is badly damaged if not broken.
I do not find myself attractive. I still place too much blame on myself for the entire situation. I have been waiting for ever for someone to pick me up and fix me because I feel too broken to do it by myself. I not only carry blame, shame, and hurt. Since then I’ve carried the worst self esteem ever. It’s not like I’m even overweight, I’m average, I’m not too flat chested, I’m pretty blessed, I’m pretty when I smile. It just seems like such a rarity. When can everything get fixed? Am I ever going to be able to sleep?
I guess there was more than just the simple problem.