During every stage of life
I am a failure
Stupid,stuttering child
Always messing up
Probably never going to succeed
Pointless to try anymore
Over life as it is
In a dark place
Never anybody's first choice
Totally incompetent
Miserable
Exiting stage left
Nobody cares
Time to quit.

Really? Well, don’t be, because it doesn’t help to be sorry. Sorry doesn’t change it. Sorry doesn’t make it go away. Sorry doesn’t “undo” what’s already been done. Sorry doesn’t erase my memory. Sorry doesn’t take away the searing pain in my chest. Sorry *****! I don't want your pity or to hear that no child should ever have to endure what I did. Because **** happens. It happened to me …it happens to millions of other kids. Shoulda…woulda…coulda…

You’re right – I do have so much going for me. I have an education, a career, financial security – the beautiful house w/the picket fence, the 2 kids and the dogs. And it’s all a huge sham! You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl. And that’s what I’m to be commended for??? That doesn’t make me special. I should be commended because I have an education? Things could sure be a lot worse, huh? I could be a crack ***** living on the street with 10 kids in foster care, unable to afford therapy even if I wanted to go. I could be like “them”.

Wow! I’m so awesome. Yay for me! Kudos to the smart chick that spent years being molested by her father and ACTUALLY made something of her life. It’s a miracle!

It’s all such a sham – a dog and pony show. Smoke and Mirrors, my dear! Put on a stylish outfit, and  paste on a cheerful smile, and everyone thinks you have it all together….. No one would ever know different. You wouldn’t have known. If I’d have kept my big fat mouth shut!!!!! I should have known better….I should have sat down and weighed the risks, possible opportunities, the roadblocks the problems, and definitely a cost analysis of plan A – trying to work through the ******* of the past, B – continue to live in denial, C – **** myself. …. That’s what a smart business woman would have done. And after all, I’m super smart, huh? A real genius!

I have been doing a lot of work with my feelings lately.  I have avoided them for most of my life because, well the bad ones outweigh the good ones.  

The rest of them were f@#ked or beaten out of me.

I have always believed that my feelings only led to trouble and pain.  A simple feeling stated as a child sent me tumbling down a rabbit hole of horrific pain.  An innocent smile was interpreted to be nothing but filthy desire.  A frown was nothing but blatant rebellion that had to be dealt with.

My thinking is extremely black and white.  Good or bad.  Right or wrong.  But what I'm learning is that feelings don't fall easily into any of those categories.  The classifications that I have used to reason my life into some semblance of order do not work for feelings.

So walking in this grey area is very difficult for me.  I cannot make much sense of what I allow myself to feel and if I do, I get stuck.  The detachment I have felt to my memories is slowly being bridged by the missing feelings.  And that is terrifying.

I have always been able to share, matter of factly, the details I have chosen to disclose.  And I'm very afraid that those details were the easy ones; the ones I could disconnect from and push the feelings onto someone else.

Remember those rabbit holes?  When I find the feelings associated with that pain it's like falling down that hole bound, gagged, and blindfolded.  My logic was my only means of control and I've lost it amongst the feelings.  The only way to climb out of that hole?  

Literally feel my way out.

It is mine and mine alone...to fight…talk…cry…scream…hate…hold...and hopefully someday face and accept. How could I have possibly believed that someone else could understand...

I feel like I am so many different people disconnected from each other wrapped tightly inside this lost little body with no escape.

                                              I am a mother
                                              I am a wife
                                              I am a friend
                                              I am a professional
                                              I am so much more…
I am an ****** survivor…she is the part that is wholly separate from the rest of ‘Nita’.

I have never faced her, accepted her or anything that happened to her, she was not me…now she has grown into this big all-consuming monster growing inside of me. And the bigger she gets, the louder she is, the faster I have tried to bury her and push her away. But she is now way too big and I am way too old to bury her anymore. And I have to figure out a way to be okay with her being a part of me.

Why do I continue to run and fight who I used to be and who I am? Why am I so scared and so ashamed? Why do I continue to live in doubt and hopelessness? Why can’t I trust anyone? Why can I not understand and accept her? If this is what I so desperately wish for, what I have worked so hard for the past 5 years, why can I not just DO it? Why? Why can’t I be okay with ALL of me?

I am rambling tonight because I do not feel well and I am afraid to keep all of this inside of my head for fear that tonight could end with the unaccepted being punished. And there is no ‘support system’ in place right now to help me with that. There is just ‘me’, logical adult Nita, trying desperately to remain in charge. I catch myself not breathing, and it feels like I have to talk myself through a few breaths before it becomes subconscious again. And yet even when I concentrate on my breathing, I cannot breathe deeply, I cannot let all the air out of my lungs. Why? Is that because I am afraid and untrusting that air will fill my lungs in the next breath? Not only can I not trust another human being, I cannot trust my own body to breathe?  

I am not crazy. I am not weak. I am alive and I am lucky. I am alive…so now what? Is this where I say, “Yes, I am an ****** survivor~ time to move on.” And then I walk away? I keep trying that. I am an ****** survivor. I am an ****** survivor. (I suppose that is a step forward, I still can’t say the words out loud, but I can write them now.)


               I SURVIVED THE ABUSE ~ IT IS TIME TO MOVE ON…

But I need help with the second part. I mean, I have moved on, I am an adult, I am not helpless. I can function in society, and the majority of the people in my life probably think I am a product of a normal childhood. But it has affected so many parts of me, parts of me I am possibly not even aware of yet. That is the only way to explain the nightmares and the triggers and the strange reactions to what most people consider normal situations. I try to keep track of these moments, events, feelings, and I think I am doing better, right now…and yet I also feel like I am waiting for fate to stomp on me and squash me like an ant.  

I wish I could talk to people in my real life and trust that they won’t look at me in shame, embarrassment, or worse, pity…but I cannot. Nope – my past is mine…and I am left here alone now – to fight with it, talk to it, hate it, deal with it, cry with it – and maybe someday accept it.

And I will do it alone because it is my past…no one else’s.
How I could I have possibly thought that someone else could understand.

She went to bed scared last night, instead of spending hours hiding, she went to bed scared last night. She surrounded herself with pillows and blankets but it did not help. She woke up from nightmares huddled in the very top corner of the bed, shaking and scared, hugging her knees tight to her chest. She remembers the nightmares but she will not talk about them. She is too scared so she will not talk now. Everything has been too scary, overwhelming and now she will not talk to anybody. She will not and she is not allowed. But she is too scared to sleep tonight. She will hide instead, alone, huddled in a blue blanket, shaking and scared.

Trust =  faith, belief, hope, conviction, confidence, expectation, reliance

The sordid talk of “trust”…

A recent email communication has inspired me to research and clarify the word “TRUST”. What does trust mean to you? When you set your alarm at night, do you ‘trust’ that it will wake you up in the morning? What happens if one day, it doesn’t? Would you then ‘distrust’ your alarm clock? How many chances would the alarm clock have to fail you before you shopped for a new, more reliable one?

Do you ‘trust’ that someone received something you left for them, or do you follow up to ensure receipt?

The Doctor-Patient relationship is based on “TRUST”

I don't remember a time I 'trusted', truly trusted, anyone. That is until I began working with dear therapist. I was thinking about how it takes a lifetime to gain trust and only a moment to lose it....sadly.... And I was reviewing the times the word 'trust' has been written or spoken by DT in the past 5 years. I dare say he has written, or said, the "T" word more in the last five years than I've ever said in my entire life!

Examples: (as you can see, I'm all about the 'evidence' big grin)

DT said: it took you over a year to develop the  trust  to let me know some things directly from your words....
DT said: Give ME your hate - because I am not making the pain go away. I won't go anywhere if you do.  Trust  me.
DT said: I ask that you try to  trust  what I am saying here and continue to commit to this our work together.
DT said: I  trust  in you and the strength of our working relationship.
DT said: you can  trust  that I and others will be there to help and support.
DT said: You will continue to challenge my concern and trustworthiness because this is what you have needed to do to protect the fragile self that has over learned self-reliance.
DT said: I will not abandon you because you are only going to lean into "trust  and need" to the extent that you are not collapsing.
DT said: You are slowly growing in your capacity to tolerate these feelings in the presence of another  trusted  person - NOT AN EASY TASK!
DT said: I understand is a long process and  trust  /fear/shame is involved.
DT said: Building  trust  with others and within yourself takes a long time.....given your starting position.
DT said: I insist that we have the  trust  and honesty about how you are doing and what you need.
DT said: There is so much learning, relearning,  trusting,  questioning, testing that you are doing. I  trust  that you will give it your best and your best will be good enough
DT said: Rest your head and  trust  that you are safe in your space right now., no one is going to hurt you and you are wrapped in your blue blanket with my faith enclosed.
DT said: I accept your anger at me for this (not that I like it…) and I  trust  that we will continue to work through new challenges honestly.
DT said: As you learn to  trust  and open up with the shame and fears and we keep you fully in your body during these times
DT said: Fundamental  trust  in the therapy relationship can take years and you are getting there slowly and slowly is necessary…
DT said: make arrangements with 'best friend' or someone else you  trust  to take your meds and give you only enough for 2 days at a time.
DT said: I  trust  that you will bring your fears, needs and whatever else shows up.
DT said: you are in the middle of a giant, long term test of me and others on whom you might have some  trust.
DT said: If I gave that impression, then that was my own "stuff" getting in the way of  trusting  you in knowing what is best for you.
DT said: The nature of your  trust,  distrust, anger, perceived loss of me is a major "therapeutic" aspect of your healing and our work together.
DT said: you can  trust  that I and others will be there to help and support.

Wow! That's a WHOLE lotta "TRUST" to push and push and push....and then to shatter into a million pieces in only a moment....

Did DT teach me to "trust"? Yes, he did.

...but more importantly, he taught me that it isn't safe to trust anyone. Not even a therapist who extended a 'life-line' to you every single night for 2 years.

I "trust" that he isn't "here" tonight.

I trust that he discarded me and left me here alone to try to put back the shattered pieces of my life...by myself!!!

Just as he trusts I will make the best decision for myself. (that sounds to me like he has thrown the proverbial 'trust' ball back into my court)

Dear Therapist, I see your "trust" and I raise you a "discarded, shattered, afraid, little girl"...who, after 5 years and thousands of dollars working with you....is back to trusting no one. And more deeply wounded than ever. I trust that the knife in my back will hurt for years to come. And I trust that the bad taste in my mouth will remain after a few bottles of wine.

Trust....my new 'drinking' game...I will drink 1 glass of wine every time I hear, or read, the word 'trust'…I should be sufficiently drunk, or at least buzzed, the majority of the time!


**Trust....trust - no - one!

******-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.

I didn't have a lot of choices growing up.
Not unless you count the way I wanted him.  

Painful or excruciating.

I didn't have much power either.  
No amount of prayers, wishing, hoping, begging would change his mind.  

Not to say that I didn't try though.

I have a difficult time conveying just how strong my memories and flashbacks are.  I appear calm and collected to the passerby.  I have to.  But peer into my soul and you will see the claw marks of my pain. Scraping their way down into a collective pool of boundless grief and torment log jammed by the planks of fear and shame.

I long to turn myself inside out and bare my rotting scars.  To have someone besides myself witness what bubbles to the surface just long enough to be squelched again.  Power and a choice.  That is what I beg to find within those murky waters.

A choice to change.  
A choice to pull the planks and let the stagnant flow.

The power to persevere.  
The power to put them in their rightful place.  
Forever.

Today I feel defeated. I feel like a small fish in the big ocean. Everything I do fails and at the moment my head is going full speed with "pictures" from my past. I call them pictures because that is what it looks like in my head. Like a slideshow. I think these pictures are eating me alive. It feels like there's a hole where my heart is supposed to be.

When I close my eyes I see darkness. A dark room. In this room is a crib, and in that crib there I lay. The crib bars surround me. I am crying. I cry because I am hungry or because I'm wet or lonely or maybe because I want my mother. I cry for all of the millions of reasons that babies cry. Until my door opens and the sound of his boots walking closer and closer to my crib gives me something else to cry about.

When I was born darkness cast its shadows over me. The devil himself kissed me on the cheek. That devil was my father.

I do not know how old I was the night that my father left my room but I know I was younger then two. This is the first memory I have of my life. I also remember his smell and his hands and that when he left I felt broken, hurt,shattered, exposed and confused. I do not know what he did to me exactly. This I cannot see. Maybe I am not ready to see it. But I know this incident changed who I was supposed to become.

This makes me angry! That my father the one who was supposed to love and guide me through life is the one who could hurt me in this way. When I see other girls with their dads, girls who complain about how "daddy won't give me money" or "my dad is so annoying" It literally makes me sick to my stomach. They have no idea what they have. I grew up with a dad who had two faces. He was charming and handsome and loving and made me want to be his daughter. Then night came and he was evil. Thinking of nighttime daddy makes my skin crawl. He played his game well and everyone was fooled. I was just a tiny bug caught in his web of lies. Only now 40 years old can I start to realize that what he did was wrong and was not my fault.

How could he look at me a small child and see anything ******? Babies are warmness, smiles, laughs, and play. What kind of person would want to destroy that? I guess no one can ever answer these questions for me. I have to accept this. Anyways explanations will not solve or fix what has already been done. Nothing will. I am a victim of ******. THERE I SAID IT. Acknowledging it makes it real. But that does not heal me. I am a broken bird with tattered wings.

How do I fix my heart with these huge gaping holes in it? Do I pretend I am okay and patch them up with fake smiles and laughter? What if the patches fall off and I am left feeling defeated again? Do I spend thousands of dollars talking to therapists about all of my many problems hoping that 10 years later I will somehow be "normal" whatever that is? I will go with the first option for now. Pretending I'm fine and putting a smile on my face. If I smile I seem happy and then no one will know the pain inside me. Some know what happened but think I am "healed" so they do not ask questions and smiles do not lie right?

Sometimes I wish that someone would see past it and try to save me. Take me into their arms and let me cry and give me what I crave so much. Human contact. The right kind of contact that reassures and tells you your safe and loved. I feel alone and without purpose. What I know is today I feel defeated. Today I feel alone. Today I remember things that I did not remember yesterday. Today I have flashbacks where I feel like a little girl again. Where I feel like his hands are rolling over my body now. His eyes creeping up on me now. But it is not happening now. It is not real. This is what happens today. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be better.

I am trying to heal. I am trying to move on. This is a slow moving hard process.

What I want is to be a little girl who is loved
          instead of abused
A little girl who laughs
          instead of cries in the dark because she is afraid
A little girl who knows she is a princess because her daddy is the King of Kings
          instead of the man who visits each night to ******
A little girl who lives with a family that is kind,
          and has dinners together and plays together

But that is just a dream, because that little girl is no where to be found...
          instead I am fighting moving forward in my healing because I just  
         want to go back and change all the ugly memories I have.
To make things right.

                                     **But I can't...and it hurts!!!!!!!

What do you need right now, Nita?*

Shelter from the storm...that’s what I would like right now, that’s what I need right now, dear therapist. Shelter from the storm.

I don’t doubt my determination to survive and yet here I am crying again. Crying and wishing for some GD shelter from the storm…the therapist does not question my commitment or desire to continue to work through this and someday come out on the other side. At least I don’t think he does.

I can’t find my safe place now…it was such a fragile structure to begin with, made of straw and easily blown away in a storm. But it did exist two years ago. It did. And for the first time in my life I felt understood, safe, ‘real’. My safe place was a place I could be angry and sad, and hopeless. A place I could ask for guidance in the midst of confusion; a place of encouragement and comfort. A place where I could find shelter from the storm.

But I can’t find it now! I feel like I am on the edge of tumbling into oblivion due to my own intransigence and inability to let the therapist back in.(or anybody) And I desperately need him tonight…shelter from the rain, stability in the wind, comfort in the thunder and lightning that is threatening me now.

And what is maddening to me is if the therapist walked up to me right now, with a stadium sized umbrella and said, “Nita, come in and I will give you shelter from the storm.” I still stand in the rain, wind and thunderstorm and decline his umbrella because of my fear he would just wrench it away before the storm was over.

So, here I sit, like a frightened child, on my own little island, surrounded by the storm, crying my eyes out over loss and betrayal…on an endless search for shelter from the storm.

Here I sit arguing with myself!

"Nita, you can't do it alone.  He wants to help you - take the **** umbrella!"  
"No!  I won't take it!  I don't need his **** umbrella!"  
"Fine! You stupid baby! Suffer by yourself then ~ stubborn little *****!"  
"I said take the umbrella!"

Messed up?  That does not even begin to cover it.

I haven’t been sleeping well for over a week…Nightmares, tossing, turning – it comes in waves I can sleep for a few nights – then it starts again. The tossing and turning – I can’t lie on my side because my hips & chest hurt, so I try to lie on my back – but then I feel like something is crushing me and I can’t breathe…and I toss and turn back and forth – for hours.

Sometimes I cry and try to talk to myself, tell myself that it’s okay to cry, that it will pass, and I’ll be okay – I try to forget the pain in my hips and my chest- remind myself where I am, repeat my address...I’m a grown up now. This is my house, and I’m okay.

Sometimes I lie down in the guest room and open the window to feel the cool air on my body and listen to the sounds outside. Other times I lie on the floor in the bathroom, feel the cool tile on my face.

Sometimes I fall asleep but then I wake up, startled, from a dream…sometimes I can remember the dreams, sometimes not. But it’s been a really long week, and I’m really tired. I am sooooo tired. And nothing is working now. I’m so tired. And I can’t sleep.

And the lack of sleep exacerbates everything else. The anxiety, the anger, the panic and fear. And there’s no relief…no help. My problem, I get it – at night when everything happens it’s just me here – by myself. No one else. My problem. My issues…all mine – I own it. Me. No one else’s problem – why bother even talking anymore.

I don't even bother calling DT for help anymore - because really - it doesn't matter. It just "is" and nothing can be done about it. And maybe I'll get a "good" night soon - a night where I actually sleep...a night with no body memories or nightmares, no panic attacks or anxiety, no voices, no SI...and then maybe that will be enough to get through another few nights of hell. Maybe - Maybe not.

Just "riding the waves" as you say, DT - I won't call - I won't ask for an "extra" session or bother you on your weekend off. Because it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter anymore. I've ridden the waves for 40 years now! BY MYSELF! Has it gotten any less turbulent? Um, no - so again, I have to ask the question: Why ******* bother? I sure don't have an answer to that question, do you?

And I wish I had the courage to STOP all of it. But I don't today...and even if I had the courage - I don't have the energy.

When I am told things like,
“The adult part of you needs to step it up and return …This has to happen NOW!”
                                                                      - it feels like everything that’s going on inside of me…
                                                                                   the pain,
                                                                                        the nightmares,
                                                                                             the helplessness,
                                                                                                 the hopelessness,
                                                                                                      the anger,
                                                                                                            the sadness,
                                                                                                                  the fear…
                                                                                                                                    isn’t even real.
It makes me feel like I’m so inadequate and a failure and over-dramatic. It makes me feel like you think it’s all in my head and I have the power to just stop all of it and if I would just “step up” and use that power – I’d be HEALED! Yea Me! And I wonder why I don’t feel that way – why I still feel so much pain. Because of your invalidation I doubt my feelings, what happens to me, because I “choose” this because I want to feel this way. I must be a stubborn ridiculous drama because I can’t just “summon” the adult to take over when ****** chick’s in charge. "Just figure it out, Nita! You’re such a whiny baby…come on! Get over it! Deal with it…” That’s what it sounds like. AGAIN! I’ve told you that there are times when I CAN do it – but there are just as many times I can’t!

I am not asking you to ‘understand’ it – or say you ‘understand’ it – that’s not possible. But it isn’t that easy to just “summon the internal ‘rational’ Nita”– and it’s overwhelming and it feels like a boulder has fallen on top of me and there’s no strength to lift it off. And I don’t want to die – but I fear every night that the ****** angry Nita is going to **** me… that one night, she is going to be in charge, and the ‘tools’ I have presently are not going to work, nobody is going to be ‘available’ and it’s going to be the wrong night…and it’s going to be my last night. That’s real to me. Let me say this again. I DON’T WANT TO DIE! ME! I DON’T WANT TO DIE! But she does – because it doesn’t stop. And she can’t make it go away nor will she relinquish control. Not right now. Let me say this again, too: I do NOT expect you to understand how horrific it really is those nights.

                                           You couldn’t possibly because :
                                                         1. You aren’t ‘living/experiencing’ it.
                                                         2. If you did understand, you wouldn’t tell me to “step it up
                                                            and take charge” because you would understand that it isn’t
                                                            even possible to do that.

I know that you have tolerated my pain for a long, long, very long time. And I am immeasurably grateful. I do feel the love and acceptance in your compassion and hope and commitment to our friendship. However, at the same time I feel so disconnected from you and unsure how to respond to such feelings. I wish I knew why and how to fix that. And I know that all the ‘pain and fear’ is not going to let up any time soon and I am so exhausted I don’t know how much more I can survive, or if I even want to. It’s so depressing that some days I cannot even move and I want to die just to get some relief!

Tonight the pain in my head is excruciating – it travels down the back of my neck into my abdomen – and nothing touches it. I desperately want to hurt myself tonight. It will make it stop – at least temporarily. I bite the inside of my lip until blood flows – trying not to do further damage.
There are voices all talking at once now, and at this moment, I don’t know if I will be here tomorrow, or if I am what state of mind I will be in.

I am so lost right now. I have tried to believe that it won’t always be this way but I feel so depleted and hopeless. I cannot take care of myself right now. I want to be alone but when I’m alone, with no one to distract me, or talk to me, the piercing truth of my reality cuts into my heart and burns through my soul. I am so drained I cannot even think straight. My heart aches….this is the roughest patch I’ve hit and I can’t believe I’m still alive.

The pain I feel is unexplainable. I’m so tired and frustrated and I feel like it’s all just too complex to deal with. Too multifarious for me to understand…and the therapist would say, “It’s not, it’s so common and understandable, and you can do this…just keep on keeping on.” But he’s wrong. Clearly he doesn't understand…I can assure you…I am dying more every day.

Oh, wait, I’m a “survivor”, right? I forgot. I have tried to collaborate my shattered thinking to form some rational simplicity from my emotional intricacy. I’ve tried to understand. But my mouth forms words my brain is unable to process. What I do understand is that the human mind and body shields a child from the horrible truth so the child can survive. She can survive but not realize how she has been shaped, altered, wounded, until she grows up to become a woman and it gets so bad that she feels like she’s nothing, nobody, worthless. I understand that because I had no idea how much he really shaped who I am today. I feel nameless, fragmented, unlovable because I cannot love myself. He cut me into pieces…so many pieces I don’t know which pieces belong to “me” and which belong to “him”. I cannot sort through them.

See, now I am afraid that the only way I see this working for me is to shut down completely. I really do not know how else to do it, the “feelings” are just too big and overwhelming for me right now. I barely make it week to week, day to day, really. I do not have a good support system in place right now. So much is happening inside of me and I don’t want to rely others, I don’t want to “count on” others for support…

I’m struck by how little my life has become. I am afraid and I can’t even tell anyone. Afraid and overwhelmed by what goes on inside my head and my body. So big, so real, so much stronger than what is outside of me. So sharp…I feel it, cutting me, stabbing me, with its serrated razor-sharp pieces. It’s painful…

You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

Like it or lump it.

The only constant is change.

Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!

Life isn’t fair!

If life gives you lemons…make lemonade.

I feel trapped. Trapped in this life I don’t want to be in, trapped inside my head, inside this messed up, used up body. Trapped by the conflicting voices that argue and debate constantly…never a minute of peace and quiet! Trapped!!!

I continue to live inside this chaotic crazy world of confusion and I don’t know which way is up anymore. I cancel appointments, I lash out at DT, tell him he isn't helping me and I hate him. I dissociate, to **** the pain, I abuse the drugs that have been prescribed, SI to try to get the bad out of me, I don’t sleep, most weekends I don’t even have the energy to go out of the house…but none of it matters….because “it’s all part of the process”…perhaps DT could provide me with a bullet point of the ‘process’ so I can see where I am now, and how many more bullet points there are to go…so I’ll have all the evidence and be able to make an ‘informed’ decision of whether I have the stamina to do it. Isn’t that part of the ‘discovery’ process?

Nothing gets processed, it never gets better. I don’t think I even understand the concept anymore. I mean I’ve read so much about it…treatment approaches; behavioral, psychodynamic, cognitive, eclectic, holistic, existential, person focused, CBT, DBT, and more! I’ve researched and studied trauma symptoms and what to expect, how to handle them. I’ve read about the long-term effects of childhood abuse…the fear of abandonment, inability to trust or feel safe, inability to self-soothe or regulate emotions, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, self injury, suicide ideation, the tendency to ‘repeat the trauma’.… oh, I “understand” it well, from an educational perspective. I have good insight. I can explain it to someone else…but emotionally, and physically…personally, I don’t comprehend it, I can’t apply it to me. It’s all just words, I have no personal connection to them. Just like the terms: mom, dad, safety, trust, intimacy…all words in a dictionary. I understand them, I know the ‘meaning’ of the words but I have no real human connection to them, they have no personal meaning to me. Like reading a physics book…all words and terms and models and notions and things…I sit and observe externally, but none of it is part of my internal world.

That’s my problem right now…(well, one of) is no one listens! *NO ONE HEARS ME!!! Everyone just shoves information at me – techniques, tools, lists, print outs, videos, cds, diary cards, words…and I see them, and hell, I’m pretty sure I could teach them all to anyone with an IQ over 50 – but how does it relate to me, to my life? The stupid exercises in DBT…”practice them” go to class, talk about them…
DBTC says, *“Don’t you feel better/happier/distracted/grounded/soothed now?” And I just pause and take an internal inventory and say, “NO!” I don’t because it doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do.
“Oh, well, then you must be doing something WRONG. You are a failure – you aren’t trying hard enough.” Yes, it’s my entire fault. I will try harder. And I try harder, and it doesn’t work, and then I become more frustrated, like a 1 year old trying to fit a round toy into a square hole. It doesn’t fit! And I try it over and over and over, and it still doesn’t fit. And I become more and more frustrated and feel more and more worthless and stupid…and no one listens because it’s my fault. I’m not trying hard enough! I should be able to do this! I should be able to ‘soothe’ myself and ‘ground’ myself and ‘feel safe’ and make him go away when he comes to me at night, and be happy when I’m sad…and pretend, pretend, pretend, fake it. Shut up and behave yourself, young lady, so everyone can see how much better you're doing...another DBT success story!

Nothing is shifting and I’m still stuck. Read it, live it, apply it, love it! I read the material like it’s a prerequisite class in college. I study it, I learn it, I recite it, I ace the exam, I can tutor others on the material…but like finite math – I’ll never use it, I don’t apply it in my own life. I don’t incorporate it on a personal level – it’s just a class I have to pass to graduate.

Nothing is stable, nothing is safe, there’s nowhere to turn, no one to turn too. There’s no one here – no one listens – no one cares about what I say is working or isn’t working. The echoes of my screams just resonate through the cavernous canyon. I look around for the Verizon network and there’s nothing – no one. No one HEARS ME! DT used to hear me, but not anymore because now you don’t have time. “Sure I do,” says Dear Therapist, “I have a whole hour.” And you can call me until 10pm each and every night, if you need too, and if I’m available and not (enter: in session,  at the hospital working, running…or just plain not wanting to answer the phone) I will listen. In other words, if everything else falls through, then 'maybe'. Gee, I should jump on that.

Truly, I should take it, run with it, put it in the blender with some water, and make lemonade for EVERYONE!

Yes, my world today is so much different now than it was then. The only difference is the scenery.

Everything is still there: the fear, the lack of trust, the lack of safety, the ED, the SI, SIB, the pieces of me, the unfamiliar woman in the mirror looking back at me.

There's no where to run to… no where to hide....from myself. That's what it comes down to in the end, I can't hide from myself, and I can't seem to help myself either.

I have fears – they are very real to me. But contrary to what the some may think, my greatest fears are not rejection and abandonment.

My greatest fear is that everyone will continue to turn their heads while victims are screaming.

My greatest fear is that survivors will express exactly how they feel, whether verbally, or acting out, and they will continue to be invalidated by being told they need medication and therapy in order to control their behavior, thereby reinforcing what they learned as children.

My greatest fear is that victims will continue to be silenced by therapy, or numbed from medication, and the clinicians, the researchers, will continue to ‘theorize’ and develop treatment that, in the long-run, is not helpful because they, themselves were NOT abused and have no idea what really should be done.

My greatest fear is that survivors will continue to be lab rats in the development of treatment that is not helpful, they will continue to drop out, time after time, and they will continue to self-harm, ‘repeat the trauma’, and possibly commit suicide because they believe no one cares.

My greatest fear is that the statistics will grow and no one will do anything about it because they do not know what to do. These are the facts:
             A report of child abuse is made every ten seconds
             More than five children die every day as a result of child abuse.
             Approximately 80% of children that die from abuse are under the age of 4.
             It is estimated that between 50-60% of child fatalities due to maltreatment are not recorded as
             such on death certificates.
             More than 90% of juvenile ****** abuse victims know their perpetrator in some way.
             Child abuse occurs at every socioeconomic level, across ethnic and cultural lines, within all
             religions and at all levels of education.
            About 30% of abused and neglected children will later abuse their own children, continuing
            the horrible cycle of abuse.
            About 80% of 21 year olds that were abused as children met criteria for at least one
            psychological disorder.

And this reflects only what is reported. Imagine what that percentage would be if all of the unreported cases were included.

And of the millions of children that survive the abuse, many grow up to be adults who are able to put it behind them, succeed and present themselves as an acceptable member of society, and many of them do not. But what are we DOING about it? When will people stop turning their heads? When will we finally stop, look and listen to these children being abused and to the adults who were abused as children?

When will we, society, decide that child abuse, and ****, and ****** assault are important, and affect millions of lives every year, and that it can be just as deadly as cancer. When will we finally stop whispering and turning our heads and actually face it and do something to stop it, and effectively treat those who ‘survived’?

I hope it happens in my lifetime, and I hope I can make a difference!

The truth is that life isn’t fair– it isn’t, but “you do the best you can” – at least that’s what I’ve been told.

The truth is I don’t even know which one of ‘me’ is real and I’m scared of the many times I leave my body and can no longer communicate, it makes me feel unsafe and the truth is it happens every single night.

The truth is I’m scared all the time because at any minute I could change into someone else and bad things can happen.

The truth is every single night my body aches with sharp and persistent pain, and I cannot rest, or find comfort. And the truth is I prefer not to be present when the pain becomes unbearable.

The truth is I feel overwhelmed with the chaos inside my head and the pain in my body – and the truth is I know that no one will be there, so why would I even ‘write’ how it feels anymore?

The truth is DT has no idea what happens now because the truth I don’t think he really wants to know and he wants to believe that because I don’t ‘email’ him or leave him a ‘voicemail’ that I must be doing better. Good Job, Nita, you are doing such a great job navigating through the pain, in a much “healthier” way. But the truth is he doesn’t know anything about my “nightly navigation”.

The truth is no one wanted to know the TRUTH then, and no one wants to know it now. No one wants to see, or hear, about a man fu@#ing a kid. Because the TRUTH is that it’s disgusting and revolting, and horrifying…and the thought really turns the stomach of anyone who hears it. And the truth is, if it makes you feel that way to hear it, then imagine how disgusting it feels to be a kid who was fu@#ed.

The truth is I scared as hell that one day I will seriously hurt or **** myself. Because the truth is that we do tend to hurt and **** ourselves, and if ‘one’ of us does it – the rest of us are scared as hell that it will happen to another survivor!

The truth – the truth is a journey into madness…and you can’t handle my ‘truth’. Because your truth and my truth are WAY to different…

The truth is I’m not that scarred when I’m covered up – and the truth is no one wants to see those scars because it’s uncomfortable and perhaps a reality check that the world really is fu@#ed up – and adults really do f@#k kids – and people like me really do hurt themselves and **** themselves.

The truth is everyone ignores what isn’t “spoken” and the truth is everyone is shocked as hell when the unspeakable happens.

The truth is “I” am not the one with the blinders on. And the truth is you don’t see me now because you don’t want to see me. Because you WANT to believe that I’m doing “better” as a result of your “boundaries” and “limits” (what a good doctor you are!- pure genius…she finally ‘accepts’ the limitations –and as a result huge sigh she’s doing so much better) – but the truth is you don’t know because you don’t ask, and you don’t ask because you don’t want to know- because it’s not pretty and it certainly isn’t something you see in a showroom window.

And the truth is you don’t know what my reality is because you don’t want to know, you don’t want to see. Because my reality is covered up with clothing, eyes that hide the truth, the ability to use humor to hide even the most painful feelings, and a bright smile.

And that’s okay – but really….your truth and my truth are as far apart as Earth and Venus.

Smile Pretty for the Camera, Nita ...that's "perfect."

Come and walk with me!
I take your hand and allow you to push open the heavy, creaking door to my thoughts.
Together we pause at the vast emptiness before us, creaking dreams beneath our feet, memories and beliefs casting shadows on the vast walls.

We move cautiously inside the entrance, tread carefully on my forgotten memories and dreams, their hold on me lost through time.
Please ignore the twitching corpses and further explore darkened, hidden, cobwebbed corners.

Gliding through the room, I pull you down, ducking as another thought flies through the air hitting the opposite wall with a loud splat then landing in the pile of screaming thoughts below, where they stay, awaiting the inevitable time when they will either be dismissed or built upon.

Allow me to guide you through the room, dodging the memories best forgotten, notice the shame and fear apparent on my face as we view them together.

Take a moment to scan the dark room, breathe in the fresh hopes and dreams; their bright bodies hung carefully on the sun drenched walls, waiting for the eventual time when they will be realized or floored.

Their hopes shimmer in vivid brilliance to the limited few who are trusted enough to view them. Laugh as you catch glimpses of the insane images before you, cry at those of more morbid times. Feel yourself being dragged into the moment, your sleeve being tugged at by a crying child.
And in the blink of an eye that same child scrambles over to you.
Pull yourself back into the present, realizing the child before you is me.

Explore the room further, try to avoid the tear filled pool, where all tears are recorded and verified at being shed…wept through time.

Stop and hover at the shrine of the memories of my life.

Images and clips are projected throughout me and are now available for your viewing.
Notice how the salty pool of tears deepens while you witness me recounting the losses, the pain.

As we walk further into the room, journeying through time, moving closer and closer to the present…remember to observe the moments and memories of time, suspended in mid-air, burning in a golden light.

Now witness the smugness…the only part of my mind visible now, its golden beauty being cast throughout my body, washing me in an aura-like glow.

The warmth of the complacency keeps me sane, urging thoughts to be formed, its magnetism pulling words from the neglected pile and painting them into pictures, parading them in the room until they are given attention and brought to life.

As we move toward the door, look over your shoulder at what you have witnessed the room now a hub of excitement, never before viewed by anyone.

The air thick with scents of raw emotion, its nakedness daunting and yet liberating.
Its shadow and mediocre existence no longer locked away but instead camouflaged in an attitude and personality of an unexpected level.

Pursued by many, their relentless banging, wasted energy, their persistence jamming the door further, while the rusted lock twists tighter and tighter, until the eventual breaking of the lock, shattering all ties with the pursuer.

We step over the threshold, out of the house and into the sun.

I close the heavy doors to my thoughts, and replace the rusted lock on my soul.
I glance over at you and you catch my gaze.
You nod your head at me and reach out your hand.

I am unable to reach for you… I don't believe in myself, I don't love myself.

But I hope that eventually I will find peace from the inner turmoil that has me vice grip, tightening with each passing day.

I look at you with desperation in my eyes, longing to believe the wisdom you speak is "truth".

So many years ago, I packed away my childhood, each year was placed neatly in a box, labeled and sealed shut with packing tape. And I took those boxes full of memories; memories full of pain, fear, sadness, abuse…and I placed them in the far back corner of the attic of my mind. I made the boxes diminutive and negligible, they were nothing special and I tried to forget they were there. I did this so I could get through each day without the painful reminder of who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me. I did this so I could live.

I knew the boxes were there, and I would go into the attic and check on the boxes…just to make sure the packing tape that held all the contents, all the filth and the same, was still secure, that nothing I was unable to face could escape. At times the tape would peal back, allowing the contents of the boxes to peak through the cracks, and I could see things so horrible I would be physically sick. The contents in the boxes would taunt me, beg me to look inside, to admit that they existed, and I would have to hurry and close the door to resist them. I resisted the temptation so I could live. So I could protect myself, and those I loved, from who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.

I knew that eventually I would have to unpack those boxes, and put them away, where they belonged. And at times I tried to do it – but the contents were so rotten, so ***** and shameful, I couldn’t put them out for anyone to see. And I denied that they belonged to me. I denied them so I could live. So I could protect myself, and those I loved, from who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.

Panic grew inside of me as the pain leaked out of the aged boxes, pain that was always there, but like the sound of my own heart beating, I no longer noticed it. It just was. And then the pain became overwhelming, loud and intrusive, I could hear screaming and crying, and noises that did not sound human , an animal in pain, I thought. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears but the screaming didn’t stop. It would not stop. I could no longer deny them. I could no longer protect myself. I could no longer deny who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.

Now, today, all these years later…these boxes that represent ME. And as I look around me, at the pain, and the shame, and the sadness, I not only see what these boxes held, I feel it…I hear it…I taste it…I breathe it. My vision is blurred from my tears…spilling over, some streaming down cheeks; others poised on the edges of my eyelashes, awaiting their turn to fall...right into the content of those boxes filled with my pain. Her pain. The pain of a little girl, abused and broken, unloved and unheard…

I can hear her screaming and crying. I can feel her pain…it is real. And I can feel it, and I can hear it, and I can taste it…I breathe it.

And I can no longer deny who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.

There are words that we say or hear in life; and once we say them, everything changes.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Will you marry me?”
“You got the job!”
“He didn’t make it…”
“I don’t love you.”
If we’re lucky, we only hear the good ones.
The ones that change our lives for the better.
But for most of us, it’s the tragic phrases that stay with us forever.
I’ve heard my fair share.
“I wish you had never been born.”
“We’re getting divorced.”
“We’re moving to Ohio.”
But it’s the words that I have had to say that have been the hardest.
These words are ones that I still trip over when I say them now, almost 30 years later. They’re words that make society as a whole take a step back and cringe.
They’re the words you never think you’ll say.
“I was sexually molested by my father.”
Even typing it feels wrong.
It still feels messy and forced.
I remember the first time I said it.
I did not want to say it.
When I said these words, I was dead inside.
Rotted from the inside out, like a tree that finally gives out after years of being gnawed on by bugs.
I also knew, however, that the second I said these words my entire life would change – even though I never could have prepared myself for the changes that would follow that day.
I remember being numb.
I think a part of me thought that because I said it, it was over.
I don’t know exactly what I was thinking in those moments.
But, those words made their way up my chest, into my throat, and finally out of my mouth.
And that meant that everything was different.
I remember explaining to the female police officer what my father had been doing to me.
I was angry that my mother had betrayed me by calling the police.
I knew that my life was over. I was exploding on the inside.
But I was also dead. On the inside, and seemingly on the outside.
I told her what had happened. Mostly because I wanted her to leave.
She nodded and took notes while I said those words that I never wanted to say.
And then she told me that I had to go to the hospital.
More words I could not understand.
I was not sure why – it had been happening for years. I tried to protest, but she insisted.
My words didn’t matter.
She asked me to get dressed, and said that she’d wait downstairs.
I don’t remember getting dressed.
The next thing I remember was walking downstairs and seeing my grandfather there.
He stood in the doorway, and I froze when I saw him.
I could see a police car in the driveway.
“Nita Girl, your father has been touching you?”
More words that I could not comprehend.
I could not believe that these words were coming out of his mouth.
I just nodded.
My mother drove me to the hospital. I don’t remember the words we said in the car. I can’t imagine what words we would have had to say to each other in those moments.
They put me in a triage room with just a curtain, in the middle of the E.R.
I remember thinking to myself that people were probably wondering why I was there, with two police officers.
And I didn’t even look sick.
They left us in that room for a long time.
Forever. Just my mom and I.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, a nurse came in. I don’t remember much, except being handed a cup and ushered into the bathroom to give a ***** sample.
They were going to check my ***** for STDs.
STDs.
I was only 10.
I had never even thought of STDs.
Words like “***”
What the hell were these words? How could they ever apply to me?
Then they took vials of blood. I remember watching when they stuck the needle inside my arm, and I felt nothing. My mother told me to look away. She offered her hand for me to hold. I just kept looking at my arm, watching someone else’s blood rush into the containers.
It couldn’t be my blood. It couldn’t be my body.
This couldn’t actually be happening. I was a zombie who was still breathing somehow.
I kept up that persona during the exam. It’s a blur.
I remember having to repeat the words to every nurse and doctor who came to examine me.
They weren’t even words anymore.
Just a monologue that I had become too familiar with.
The next thing I remember was finally crying.
It was after I had been examined, and every fluid my body produced had been taken for testing.
It was after we told the police officers that we would be at the station first thing in the morning for a formal statement.
We walked through the doors of the hospital, and my legs gave out from under me.
I remember thinking that my life was actually over.
And looking back on it, I guess it was.
That part of my life was over.
Things would never be the same.
They’re still not the same.
There were so many words after that.
Words that became routine.
Words that as a 10 year-old, I had never said in front of my mother. Or to an adult.
Words like “*****.”
And “*****.”
And “*******.”
Words like “*****.”
And “drunk.”
And “oral ***.”
I didn’t even know the words for some of the things that had happened.
But I learned them.
In interview rooms.
With police officers recording my words.
Writing down my words.
I remember the words my mother said when they finally charged him.
I remember what he finally got sentenced to.
“****** assault therapy.”
And I remember all the words I did not say.
I remember living in my bed for weeks.
I remember the fits of rage.
I remember my mother.
Who had been torn open from the inside out.
I remember words like “I want to die.”
And “What am I going to do now?”
Even now these words make my stomach turn.
These words that seem to belong to someone else.
Someone weaker. And more naïve.
Not me.
My words are different now.
Words like “Friends.”
And there are still words that I struggle with.
Words like “Love.”
“Past.”
“Forgiveness.”
Words like *“Survivor.”

The measure of a man, or woman in my case, comes down to one brief moment: the moment that would determine whether or not I would, or even could, swallow the pills I had counted out. To take them or not to take them was in my court, and even though I held the ball, I was quickly losing the game.

A remnant of a dream I once had when I was a little girl briefly fluttered through my disassociated mind. I was once a child with dreams and aspirations; I wasn’t always this hopeless woman who had lost faith in everything, including those in the helping profession. This is help? This was what they had to offer me? This is the treatment plan? A therapist who seemed to no longer care, one psychiatrist who diagnosed me with an ‘anxiety disorder’ and prescribed tranquilizers (for which, at this moment, I was grateful as I was about the take them all), another doctor who had no idea how to treat me, and changed my medication 10 times, causing unbearable side effects, but never able to find a combination of meds that ‘worked’ for me. Never finding a medication that would take away the intrusive memories, the thoughts, the nightmares, the voices inside my head that would not stop the nightly mantra of:* “you’re bad”, “you don’t deserve help”, “you don’t even deserve to live”. I had evidence of the days when I felt competent, sane, and level-headed. And yet, here I was, forced with the choice of taking all of these pills, or continuing to live in the unbearable turmoil that had now become my life. Surely somewhere inside this girl, this woman with the heart of a child, was a person that craved so much more than this, deserved so much more than to find herself standing alone in an empty house with a bottle of ***** and a combination of tranquilizers and sleeping pills neatly organized on the kitchen counter. And yet, in the chaos of my mind, the internal voices continued to try and convince me otherwise.

It had been a bad day, a really bad day, but then again, it had been a really bad year, and I had finally acknowledged that my reality now was too much for me to emotionally accept. After all, women are expected to stay strong in the midst of any crisis, even if they have to ‘fake’ it. I had become such a great actress, trained by many years of abuse, that I was an expert at wearing masks and pretending everything was wonderful in my life. The thoughts I didn’t want to have, I would gently push out of my mind, and become so busy that I didn’t have time to stop and think. But now things had changed and I had lost the power of pushing the thoughts out of my head; they had taken over and now I, the reasonable, sane, one had been pushed out. But I was not allowed to fall apart under the pressures of life when there are children to feed and bills to pay, laundry to do, a house that needed to be Martha Stewart clean, a husband who expected to be taken care of, and the never ending politics and pressure of my work environment.

And let me not forget to add ***, and having to live up to the expectation that every man alive believes every other man is getting it at least twice as much as they are, and well, they shouldn’t be expected to settle for a woman who had ‘let herself go’ and was no longer the same woman he married. And, of course we are expected to have our legs shaved, our hair stylish, our make-up perfect, and our body in comparable form to what society had become accustomed to, which is the air brushed women in beauty magazines. And don’t forget to smile… frowning and acting depressed shows lack of confidence and weakness; both very unattractive traits. Of course now I realize my mind was taking a road trip, and these expectations had nothing to do with my husband, but were the expectations of the condescending voice in my head that continued to tell me that I would never be the woman he, and everyone else, expected me to be.

How would this play out, how does one do this, what are the ‘rules’ for this game? If I take them all at once, I may just drop to the floor, so that didn’t seem like a viable option. Maybe taking a few at a time would work better….consensus from the group of voices now living inside of my mind? I picked up 5 pills and held them in my hand. They were small, white, pills…taking 5 at a time is definitely an option. My reason mind would make brief appearances and ask questions like, “How long after I take the 5 should I wait before taking 5 more?” And then as quickly as reason appeared it was pushed away. I was too far gone, I had no control over me and I no longer cared. At this point, nothing could penetrate the voices or convince me that I did have something to live for. Dear therapist and a few close friends knew that I was teetering on the edge of life and death, and told me many times, “What about your children?” I had really just become more of a burden to my husband and children, they would be better off without me.

I closed my eyes and I saw a small little girl, she was about 6 years old and she was wearing a tattered white dress. She was barefoot and her feet were *****, her knees scraped. She had tears in her eyes, a look of worry and fear on her face. She pleaded with me, begged me not to do it, “Please don’t **** us, I fought so hard all those years just to stay alive, to survive, to become you. Please don’t do it. I want to live, please just let us live. You can do this; you can fight harder now, just like I did then.” I didn’t really care about my own life at this point, but this little girl was obviously in a state of panic, desperate to save me, although I had no idea why. I wasn’t feeling panicky, and I told her to calm down; there was no reason to panic. But although I felt calm and surreal, she was obviously afraid and in turmoil over my decision.

The rebelliousness and willfulness inside me grew weary and began to empathize with the little girl’s panic, my plight for calmness and silence defeated, I submitted to her request. I put the pills away, fell to the floor and sobbed for what seemed like hours.

Ironically, my lifetime of people pleasing and striving for perfection, and the overwhelming feelings of failure that had led me to this attempt to end my own life, were also the traits that saved my life. My need to please that little girl, to stop her from crying and meet HER needs because she was counting on me, saved my life.

*But for many months after that day, the voices continued and my soul remained empty and void of meaning.