One last post today – who knows what tonight will bring – which will do something to explain myself today. Before I got out of bed, I read this. ElsaDaughter was asleep beside me, as is her habit to come in for a half hour snuggle in the morning. I need to ban technology from the bedroom, I might sleep instead of read or write.
So at six am I was forced to confront this:
It didn’t have a trigger warning. I don’t know what to make of those.
As I read, I couldn’t hold back scorching tears and putrid bile. How is it possible that nobody has told me I would feel like this and it’s ok to have these irrational doubts and fears? I’m so angry that other women (and men) have gone through the same questions in their minds in some sort of PTSD sequence, not knowing, like me, it was to be expected:
Did it really happen?
Did I imagine it?
Did I, God forbid, make it up?
Does he know what he did?
Does he remember it?
Does he even remember me?
Nobody would believe me.
It would cause so much drama.
It would be my fault again.
It was my fault in the first place.
I can’t use the word either. A handful of times I’ve called it what is was.
The Thing That Happened.
Passive. Depersonalising. Detaching.
I try to demean it so that I’m not offending women who went through a more violent experience.
Even now, as I write, I think I have no right.
I just want to throw this article out there with my initial reaction in the mix. I’m afraid to re-read it properly. It was a shipping container full of wet grass, dirty knickers and broad shoulders hitting me in the gut this morning.
Why has nobody told me this?
Why did I doubt myself?
I wish I could remember it all. The missing section is gone. The main, the worst section. There’s a sensation of sharp cold slime but nothing tangible for me to rage against.
I thought I was over the worst but part of me thinks the main root is only coming to the surface now.
Why now, after seventeen years? Why now?