******-Angry girl took over last night. She is explosive with rage and it is fierce and uncontrolled. She physically and verbally abuses the little girl inside of me, and although she is not a threat to anyone but us, she does like to verbally abuse Dear Therapist, via email. Sometimes a few months will go by without her taking over, sometimes only a few weeks, but she has been present since Monday, relentlessly torturing the rest of us. She wants to die. She cannot handle the pain, the past is overwhelming and she knows of no other way out. She strongly believes that Dear Therapist manipulated the 5 year old into trusting him, and then once he declared victory of getting the untrustable to trust, he decided he could just take off and not be there for her. And Angry Girl HATES Dear Therapist for that! Because after all these years of independence and never relying on anyone to help or “be there”, now the baby who cries for Dear Therapist’s help at night, drives us f#%king crazy!

Not only did ******-Angry girl cut me last night, she sent some emails to Dear Therapist. Emails that were discovered today when I checked my sent file. ******-Angry Girl wants to cut the whiny baby out of my body. She hates her. She wants Dear Therapist to go away. She hates him too.

Below is an excerpt from the emails sent to Dear Therapist. It’s ******-Angry Girl’s anger that scares me. She will **** me…it’s only a matter of time. She won’t stop until it happens. She has no will to live she wants only to escape the endless pain.

Angry ****** Girl: I am not fearful of death. ******* welcome it! Hope u enjoyed ur vacation! Thanks for caring and taking my "fear" seriously" (huge amounts of dripping poisonous sarcasm!) Ur so great and I'm so nothing! So I shouldn't be missed! and I guess ur "best" doesn't include calling me bk n 24 hrs- does it? For future reference, get a ******* back-up! There will be times when the "crazy" clients can't wait for a week to ******* deal w/a "non-existent" fear!!! **** u and ur ******* rose colored glasses! I'm not afraid of ******* dying! Dying will be a ******* relief!!! **** that man! **** that sorry man who calls himself Dad! He ******* Ruined all of it! ******* hate u! I ******* hate u and ur ******* "stay present"! U ******* stay present in my body every ******* nite! I ******* told u it was bad! But as usual, u blew me off "it’s only 3 emails" no big deal" **** u!!! It may not be a big deal to u, but it was a huge ******* deal to me!!! But **** it! Obviously that wasn't impt to u! Becuz I don't matter! Nothing here that can hurt me right now!?!?U go ahead and believe that - w/ur rose colored glasses on, dear therapist- becuz he will **** me. And when he does, don't ******* preach "theresz nothing that can hurt u right now, Nita" nothing. Ur so ******* wrong about that! In fact, I'm offended tht u even said it! How contradictory of u! "ur fear is real to u- I've nvr said it isn’t" Really? That's not what ur ******* saying now!? I hope when I'm dead u don't preach that **** to someone else. I hope if someone else comes to u and tells u he's going to **** her u ******* think about me and what happened to me- and ******* believe it! Becuz it IS real right the **** now!!!! It is ******* real!!! This could not have worked out better! ******* ***** is aware that u don't hear her now- so she won't tell anything! We are done- I can cut her out of her misery! Finally!!!

It will never stop. There is no way it will ever stop. I am discouraged and hurting. There is no escape. There are no answers. There is nothing but this endless pain. And he doesn’t care. I tried to tell him, but he doesn’t listen. It’s worse when he’s gone. And he can kiss my *** with his “Put it in a safe container” – HELLO!!!! There’s no way to contain it! It’s like trying to put pour rain back into a cloud! Why the hell can’t he see that? There’s no way to ‘check’ the pain at the door when I ******* leave his office! It’s ******* Hotel California! There is no escape! I cannot leave.

Dear Diary, can you see me?
Can you feel the pain I feel?
Can you feel the pain through my words?
Will my heart and soul ever heal?
Dear Diary, can you tell me,
Why I feel so sad?
Why my father did this?
Destroyed all I had.
Dear Diary, can you help me?
Can you erase my life?
Can you make me happy?
Erase all my strife?
Dear Diary, are you there?
Can you set my spirit free?
Can you **** me, Dear Diary?
Can you make it ok to 'be'?
Dear Diary, can you help me?

As a child I did not know whether it was the act itself or the knowledge that I was the receptacle for malevolence and cruelty that made me so vulnerable. At first I thought it was God's punishment for something I had done. I took an inventory, desperately seeking the deed that triggered the retribution. But I could not identify a single act. Even my accumulated errors, transgressions and unkindness’s did not exact the cost. Then I understood: if I could not isolate a deed, or pattern of deeds, commanding the punishment, it must be me. It is not what I did. It is who I was...a fundamentally, intrinsically and irredeemably bad little girl. I negotiated my adolescence and early adulthood with the mathematical symbol for "less than" (<) attached.

I would like to be able to write that I am no longer negotiating my adulthood with the same mathematical symbol attached. But that would be a lie. It is pervasive. It is formidable. And if I do not keep it contained, I am so afraid it will be debilitating….I've been down that road a time or two. At times it has enveloped me, penetrating my pores and drowning everything essential and vital inside.

Undisturbed, it is docile, sated. But aroused by even the slightest hint of beauty or strength or grace it is a painful reminder that I am...somehow...contemptible...that I am still fundamentally, intrinsically and incorrigibly...what? Flawed, imperfect & bad? You may say, "But we are all flawed and imperfect. And our flaws and imperfections make us more interesting...more truly beautiful...more human." And perhaps you are right, but this inexorable deprivation makes me somehow subhuman... less than human...permanently broken. I am a receptacle for malice.

I skillfully deflect praise directed my way, an effort to soothe the inescapable conflict inside. Moderate praise induces a subtle twinge of embarrassment; more effusive praise incites the consuming and agonizing feeling that I am irreparably damaged, hopelessly broken. It has contaminated, compromised and diminished every accomplishment, soiled every success. People sometimes tell me that I am humble and that it is an admirable trait. But the modesty and humility they identify helps me to mask the mortification stirring inside. I have gotten so good at hiding it from others that I have nearly learned to conceal it even from myself.

At least that is what it feels like...right now.