A Story

I want to tell you story. It's a story about a little girl who survived so very much. But it's also a story about a little girl who is still learning to acknowledge her own survival.

I want to tell the story neatly. In chronological order, with explanations for why each horrible episode occurred. I want to package it in a way that will make you understand her pain and silence and fear. I want you to know that it wasn't her fault. That it is true, and that I am telling it because I have to tell.

But I can't do most of that. 

I can't tell the story neatly, because it's a messy story. It's full of anger and fear and confusion. It's full of really bad people doing really terrible things.

I can't tell it in chronological order because memory doesn't work that way, especially traumatic memory. I think that if I could organize it and get it in order, then I would be able to understand it. But that's a fallacy. Just like I'll never be able to explain why it started, or what triggered each episode of abuse, or what would make anyone do such terrible things to another person, especially to a child.

I can try and explain the pain, silence, and fear, but it's likely you won't fully understand it unless you've been there yourself. And I really hope you haven't.

Another flashback a few weeks ago in the middle of what was supposed to be a relaxing massage. A place on my body touched by the masseuse sent me reeling back to an episode of pain and terror. So much pain and terror that in trying to talk about it later, I found myself recoiling from hands extended to help. I was convinced again that I would die, and so I curled myself in and tried to get away. But it was only the memory of the pain and fear. And yet it was so palpable, so visceral. 

How do I tell that story? Who wants to read that story? Why do I want to tell that story? These are all questions that race through my mind, along with thoughts of worthlessness, and the words of abusers telling me that no one will believe me -- of a family member accusing me of "upping the ante". 

A little girl stands in a barn with one end of a wire wrapped around her wrist. The wire pulls her arm up behind her back, and the other end of the wire is wrapped around her neck. Which is worse -- to have the arm pulled from its socket, or to be strangled? Which is worse -- to endure that torment, or to withstand the sadistic, sexual assault while held in that trap? 

I know I survived it, because I'm sitting here typing these words. I'm glad I survived it. I just don't know how to feel (trust) that anyone out there believes me.

linking up with Write at the Merge and imperfect prose on thursday