I think I’m done being angry now, I don’t want to be angry anymore. My anger for the situation has never changed. I am one single woman in this massive sea of other peoples bodies, our pain radiates from us, crushing us, uniting us and consuming us all at once. Each and every day becomes a struggle so much so that you feel like you have to mark the good days in your diary. And each day you mark as a good day becomes this small victory, that you just dream will never leave.
But I don’t know how to stop feeling this anger toward him.
My hands are tied when it comes to having him put in jail, my hands are tied when it comes to punishing him myself, my hands are just tied and my mind is tired and the only time my hands aren’t tied is when it comes to my own healing, and all I have is myself to rely on for that.
Robin placed his filthy hands on me, he irreparably changed changed my life when he laid his hands on me. I wonder if he sits in his mothers house, in the same gross short navy blue bathrobe with the white piping trim, stinking of the 50 cigarettes he’s already smoked that morning and ponders upon the damage he has caused me. I wonder if he has any remorse and I wonder that even if he did, would I even care?
This wasn’t something I asked for, this wasn’t because of something I did, it was something that someone felt compelled to do to me, a child, I am the child he abused for the better part of a childhood, and I live with that every day.
I still remember how it feels when I heard him walking to my room, the creaking of the floor, the door opening ever so quietly, his footsteps, and the click of his knee as he knelt down, I still feel that same anxiety he caused me then when I go back to that place in my mind.
I still know the intense fear I endured when yet again my attempts to stop him getting in my room failed with toys strewn on the floor, things pushed up against doors, clothes, chairs and stuffed teddies wedged under the gap of the door; he of course pushed through them and as an adult I wonder if this only excited him more.
I still remember the disappointment in my chest when I would wake to him kneeling beside my bed one hand already fondling me, one hand somewhere I never dared to look.
I remember the feeling of anger, of guilt and disgust when I had tried to squirm away from his rough needy hands when I really had had enough, when I became too sore to take it any longer, when it became rougher and more needed by him, him chasing some kind of finish to an event that I could have never have understood.
I will never forget the feeling of his hands seeking me out under the quilt when I would lie on my stomach as close to the wall as I could possibly get with my hands curled under my body so he couldn’t place his penis in to my small curled hand; I hid them in hopes it would deter him. Sometimes when I wake now, my hands are still balled into fists so tightly that they ache in the mornings.
I still remember the confusion and the intense mind blowing shame I felt when I was barely even 10 and I hit puberty, when my body began to naturally responded to the awful things he did. The shame became unbearable and I knew that because of that I could never tell anyone because this was my fault, because my body seemed to almost participate in the sensations that were being forced upon it, when once at a time I had felt nothing; but as I grew my body did things I begged it not to even when inside I was screaming for him to die.
That part of me is still ashamed, I still feel uncomfortable in myself knowing that I couldn’t respond the way I wanted, at that time in life when I had no control over what was being done to me and the way my body responded, regardless that I tell myself constantly: “it wasn’t my fault”.
I remember the feeling of despair and defeat when I had finally given up on there being an end to it, when I finally stopped my many attempts to stop him.
I remember it all, every single day.
He did this, night after night for years and every time the anxiety would build and I stayed permanently silent, a perfect child but he never knew how he left me, how he left a child to fall asleep. Her heart and her head, her soul completely and utterly screaming for someone to notice, for someone to tell me “I know” and to hold me, to change something.
To tell me that this complete and utter betrayal of parental trust was not my fault.
It has all mostly come back to me now and it has taken many years from my childhood, many happy years from my adult hood and has filled me with anxiety and depression too many times over the years. I have grieved and I have lost, I have searched,found and I have cried. I have wanted to end it all more times than I can count. I have experienced many things as a result but one thing I have always wanted was to feel better, to heal, to know what thats like. And I am making my way there, despite the memories, despite the complications it causes me in my life, despite the fact he got away with it all…. I just don’t want to keep being mad, being mad won’t help me, it wont change anything he’s done, it won’t magically have him jailed, it won’t make him feel bad for me or for what he did.
My hands are no longer tied when it comes to my healing and If I stay mad at him, the only person that is actually hurting is me.
How do I change a pattern of a behaviour no one expects me to change?
How do I change a feeling I have felt for 26 years straight?
How do I do something that no one can tell me how to do?
How do I stop a feeling that I am allowed to feel, that I am entitled to feel?
The only person holding me back now, is me; and it really wasn’t my fault.