This is me, Ugly crying, minus Batmans cape.
This is me, Ugly crying, minus Batmans cape.

Im sitting here in the half dark of my blue kmart lamp, listening to my huge puppy snore like shes a 90 year old man, shes not a man, she’s a girl and a puppy and she should probably start acting like one. Tonight I was chatting to my great and wonderful friend on the book of faces who we’ll call ‘Caramel’  and i had told her that i wasn’t feeling great tonight and she suggested i write and i was like ‘UMMM NO, dickhead’ or something like that, yet here i am, writing because as soon as we stopped talking the urge to write came.

Netflix is on but i’ve not watched any of the lame show i decided to have on for white noise. Batman is out at band practice and all the kids are asleep. These times are the hardest. Alone with my thoughts. I want to try and be uplifting but it’s just not in me tonight. Last night i felt strong and powerful. Tonight, meek.

The first time i decided to go to the police i was 21, i was in a pretty all over the shop, anxious depressive selfish state, and in a break up all the time relationship and was a single but not that great mother. But for whatever reason that day, i hopped in my car with a take away cappuccino even though i didn’t drink coffee then but i assumed it was like smoking and all the cool kids did it, and i was on this high (probably the coffee) and I did it, i went in there and told them what had happened to me.

And….. then… a few weeks later, i dropped it. I was too scared.

2014 comes around, and i’m feeling strong again (must have had a real coffee addiction by then being 29 and all). My husband and i decided it’s time i go through with it; with his, Birdy’s and the rest of my family 100% behind me.

But It fails, it fails real good. Dead ended because i haven’t got enough physical evidence (see this post ->Here!). After months of phone calls, and talks and notes and paperwork and tears and stress and hugs and tears? The best they can do for me is to keep it on record. Historical cases very rarely hold up well and my detective couldn’t get it to court. He wanted to because he 100% believed me but couldn’t.
I took it well, i probably only ugly cried a few times onto Batmans cape.

When i told Birdy for the first time i was 21, she called him up, and blasted him down the phone, his words to her were “That was years ago, get OVER it”.. She ended up going over there and slapping him around a bit cos that’s what mum does. (no she doesn’t really, well she might).

My mum, Birdy, has been really great. She’s been through a HUGE amount of things herself. But she also blames herself for the things that happened to me. I probably would blame myself if i was in that half sunk boat too. My birdy often was in the same house that the abuse took place other than a handful of times that i was in his care alone, he almost always came in the late of the night when everyone was asleep and on occasion if she did wake up she would say “what are you doing?” and he would say i was upset from a nightmare or i wanted a drink, normal stuff. She had no idea it was happening, he manipulated her as he did me, and that’s how they do it so easily and for so long. Birdy had addiction problems with drugs and alcohol that she used to block years of emotional and sometimes physical abuse herself and that’s just how she dealt. So her perception was altered and i think in my opinion taken advantage of. Birdy might seem like a tough piece of cake? cheese? jerky? melon? I can’t think of a good word. Cookie? But she’s just as fragile as i am. She’s come from dark places and come out on top and has become one of the most brave, interestingly forgetful, and sweet people i know. I have some very interesting memories that i’ll never get out of my head though, Thanks mum 🙂

I was talking about how i might feel when he dies one day. What that might be like? And no, it won’t be my fault.

Will i feel relief? Or will i not feel any relief because he never understood what he did to my mind. We discussed dancing on his grave and other not at all appropriate things. I feel like i just would stand by somewhere behind a tree on the day of his funeral and throw rocks.

I don’t want him to be dead, i actually don’t even want him to feel pain, i would like him to be in jail eating slops and getting a sore back from bad mattresses and also away from hurting others but i in no way feel the need for him to feel pain or torture, i would however really benefit from him some how being able to feel what it is like to be in my head, or in any head of the ‘victims’ that have suffered as i have. If they could only see. and feel. and understand.

Yet i sit here and think. Hes a person. Just like me right? He has people that love him? He eats? has feelings? So much to process. They are Humans. Human beings.

Perhaps me doing this, all of these words will be enough ‘justice’ for me.

I made the decision to heal myself. I did that and it feels good most of the time. It doesn’t really matter what he’s doing.

I wonder if this is helping?

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5 thoughts

  1. Healing is different for all people. Some never report but heal. Some talk and talk to therapists and friends and heal, some blank it out. It’s an individual process and you have to find what works for you. But nothing will be easy. Some days harder than others. Some you try logical processing, some you are a slave to emotions, some you are reliving the trauma, some are angry and some are lost in despair. Some you feel confident then take a knock. But writing and talking – I want and have to believe is the way forward. And taking each day as it comes. No pressure, no expectations. People make it through. I believe our time will come x

    Liked by 1 person

      1. To be free? To live in a world with a clear divide between past and present? Not be so exhausted from the internal battles? Other people have achieved it, there’s no reason we can’t x

        Liked by 1 person

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