Things have been going good for me. My
moods have been in order, I reconnected with my father (more on that
later), work is picking up, and everything is good. Not perfect or
ungodly wonderful, just good. Then in comes the nightmares.
I never had nightmares before, well I
did. Thing is my nightmares have never been normal. Scary things like
murderous teddy bears and vampires I have never classified as
nightmares. To me they are simply a new creative idea to write about.
They don't scare or frighten. What does effect me is the normal
stuff, the bad dreams that awaken old wounds. They reach deep within
and pull out the terrified child I once was—warped and distorted by
sorrow and tragedy—and bring her to the surface. These nightmares
play on my darkest fears of returning to become an abused slave to my
family. Nothing stalls my heart more.
Last night I suffered from one of those
dreams, and every time it happens I'm amazed at the effect they have
on me. A simple fantasy movie playing outside in my head has the
ability to alter my mood—shift my perspective on the world, and
bring me down into the deepest depths of my own personal hell. It's
not fair, but then life often isn't.
Usually, when something like this
happens I spend a day trying to avoid it. Tired as all hell, I busy
myself with silly tasks like cleaning, dishes, projects that I
shouldn't be working on. Anything that takes actual mental power I
avoid. I'm simply too tired to do it. After a day of being blah, I
then finally start to tell my husband what my dream was about—what
caused me to sleep without resting. I downplay the events per-usual.
He hugs me, I continue to feel like shit for a few more days before
the memories fade from my mind.
Today, I'm going to try something
different. Today I'm posting about my nightmare—facing the events.
Maybe that will shorten the length of my suffering. I doubt it will,
but I'm stepping out into new territory. As I write this I'm debating
erasing it and going back to house cleaning, but I refuse to run
away.
Last night I dreamed I was being
molested by family members while I slept. This has actually happened
to me. Waking up and finding yourself in a sexual position with
another person is one of the most. . . well, there is no words to
clearly express how horrifying it is. Paralyzing, is a good way to
put it. You freeze and wonder what you did to urge this person on to
touch you in that way while you're most vulnerable. Knowing you're
not safe while you're sleeping in your own bed. I wish that on no
one.
That wasn't the worst part of the
dream, nope. It gets so much worse.
When I went to my mom to tell her about
what happened, she blamed me for corrupting the people that were
touching me—for making them a sexual deviants. Then, she told me to
get over it and grow up, it wasn't like I was raped. Just touched.
Saddest part is. . . My mother has
actually said those things to me. I feel guilt over my own emotions
because I haven't actually been raped by most of my abusers—it's
like being half a victim. Not enough for people to give a full shit
about. The middle ground is an awful place to be.
The dream went on from there with me
trying to get out of my mom's house—trying to break free and having
no where to go. Knowing I had no money, little to no real friends,
and no one that could help me. . . I'm all alone in a horror
movie—trapped by the people that are suppose to love and protect
me—told my emotions—my pain, doesn't matter. It shatters the
soul.
That's where I am today, shattered.
Cast against the rough shores of life,
bloody, broken, and hurting in places no one can see. I'm in anguish.
While I can have good days, far more than I used to, there are always
these awful ones. The nightmares that plague me while I sleep, making
me a victim all over again. I will continue to relive my past for as
long as I live, but it's the hope and memory of better days that
keeps me going. That makes it a battle worth fighting, even when I'm
broken.
#SexualAbuseVictim #Fighting
~Jax~
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