I have always thought that there was really no saving me. Because secretly in my black heart I knew a secret: I’m a liar. None of the shit I have described had ever happened. Even though the flashbacks are so vivid and specific and repetitive. Even though family members correlate some of my stories. Even though I have scars all over my body. Even though I have had to have several surgeries to correct damage–damage during times I flash back to. Mom said I was a liar, so. I must be way fucked in the head to come up with these horrid images–what thew hell is wrong with me?
It hit me the other day. I have heard more times than I count that this is a very common phenomenom for survivors of child abuse, but never applied it to myself. Because I was lying, I am lying.
It’s just another level of acceptance. That shit could not have happened to me, I won’t let it be so. The odds that I would survive it all, well pretty big against it. It just cannot be.
So I’m sitting here writing this drivel, thinking to myself maybe. You know it’s all true. There is just too much collaboration, too many medical issues too many scars. You remember just too much.
Am I just a sick fuck liar? Or did it all happen to me? Yes, no, yes, no. No, it just could not have been. But I don’t lie about anything else. It’s one of the key behaviors in my religion for Christ’s sake. Speak rightly, truthfully. Right Speech.
Oh god. I have such self-hatred around this. I can actually see the walls of hate that surround me. Very thick, inpenetrable.
If it’s true there’s no reason for me to despise myself like this, which means I have no idea of who I am. Not a clue.
But God. I keep trying to think it happened to you, you know that all of it did. You know it. And each time I end up rejecting what I know to be true for the convenient song, liar liar liar.
Because if I am not some fucked up monster just coming up with shit, then any sense I have had of control is gone. I somehow got through it, yes. Time after time after time. But I had no control. No wonder I gave up any sense of power when I was six. On a bad Christmas Eve.
No control? No clue of who I am? Oh man. Lost. I think I will go away for awhile, at least until C gets back into town. Because this realization is killing me.