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I shall name today, reflective bull shit Tuesday. 

I have always felt pretty ok, kinda ok, about my abuse. It’s not always been a huge monstrous problem for me. I’ve not always dwelled on it and have often gone months without even thinking too much about it, I felt like till now i’ve coped pretty ok. It was always there, just as my thoughts about what snacks i might eat later that day might be. That kind of ‘just’ there.

 Ive gone on, had some jobs, had boyfriends, been a rebellious sexually explorative teen, and drank myself stupid and maybe partaken in some drug taking (sorry fam bam), followed by teen pregnancy and then later, a husband and more kids and a dog and a little picket white fence. (we don’t have a fence).

I’m realising now, I have pushed it down, i haven’t been ok, i’ve joked and messed my way around this issue. I’ve been blowing it off like i’m a fucking super hero, i’ve been too busy all my life to actually heal, because healing is confronting and scary and takes so much emotional energy that sometimes i want to throw my hands in the air and say ‘Fuck it”. Then wave them around like i just don’t care. The truth i’m discovering now is, I’m 30, i’ve spent years trying to act as if this doesn’t effect me the way it should, like i’m braver and bigger and way sexier than anyone else in my sexual abuse boat that’s a bit more like a goddamn sexual abuse cruise liner. Seriously common you, you’ve ignored the elephant in the room long enough and in doing so, you’ve given yourself Anxiety, Panic attacks, depression and PTSD. Derp.

Earlier i took the laptop and sat at Maccas and was looking all cool with my purple hair and mysteriousness while the kids played with other snot faced pushy little brats. I was chatting online with a good friend of mine whom we will call “Hipster Pete” who like me has been searching for his purpose, his goal in life and what his story means, hes pretty good at it. He understands what it is like to feel lost because he too lost things on his spiritual journey to adulthood, hes probably the man version of me. He had good questions for me, ones that he has learnt from, and most of them i have no answers for yet and some i didn’t understand, because i’m not as far in my journey yet as he’s heaps smarter than me and has alllllll the answers.

My favorite question being, ‘If i were a work of art, what would i be?’

Then my Phone on a private number rings while i’m contemplating this,

Me: -“Hello?”

Him:“Hello? Is this Heaps cool rad girl?” (not my real name)

Me- “yes, yes, it is” 

Him:  “are you aware you have not payed your Telstra bill?” 

Of course i am since they text me every day to tell me….

Seriously? Does he not know what deep reflective shit im thinking about right now. Like what kind of artwork i would be? Fucking magical. That’s what i would be. That’s what i want to say. I was totally aware we haven’t paid it, i’m a really good adult and never pay bills on time. So i just said. “i’ll call you later and arrange payment”… Things are way too deep over here at the maccas play ground.

I know exactly what kind of artwork i am. Right now. I’m this painted black huge canvas, so many different strokes and thicknesses, in all different directions with a few different shades of grey even not the naughty kind. To look at, it’s quite beautiful, mesmerising and you stand in the gallery looking at it and have to just sit on those fancy seats they have in galleries and you just watch it, trying to find meaning in it for yourself. You can’t though because you can really never be inside the mind of the artist, you can never know the true meaning and it’s all just guessing and you’ll probably just be wrong, but you love it all the same. Until years later, when the artist shows up in a fancy hat and suspenders with a tutu attached and scratches parts of  the black away to reveal this array of magical shimmery rainbow colours underneath. That’s the piece of artwork ill be at the end.

Imagine your head, inside it, what colours do you find there?. What does it look like? what symbols come in. Close your eyes and look, don’t think. Mine is black scribble like a huge ball of twine twisted and knotted. Its often dark. My job begins now. Untangling that fuck off ball of twine is how i’ll heal. It’ll be kinked and it might re-tangle at times but i have complete trust in myself that at some point i’ll be comfortable with what i see in there. Because i have to. Because i want to.

I want to be truthful to my story. I honestly don’t know how i will move on, or heal or know what i am seeking. Not yet anyway. I have a long ride ahead of me with way too many speed bumps, i need to research. I need and want to know more and i want to understand my feelings more than trying to understand the Villain because in truth, he really doesn’t matter, what he did matters but HE does not. I was groomed, i was molested for too many years and much too frequently, i was betrayed more than any child could ever really understand, i was hurt too much , i was changed and i had something stolen from me, something beautiful, someone brave and wide eyed and innocent. Life without her has made me question myself, my memory, my person, my spirit and will continue to do so. Till i understand her again.

Mysterious girl.

I am destined for large and beautiful things. I think have so much to offer, i just have to find it. Ill roll that ball of tangled twine around and around, pull and heave. Till i have done what i can.

All with a little help from my friends.

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