My heart is an ***** that pumps blood through my veins…it is NOT a room for my "inner child" to live in. And no, I cannot see, or hear "Little Nita" talking or sitting beside me, and no – I will not comfort her or let her sit on my lap. I will not do those things because she is not here. "Little Nita" does not exist – I cannot see her, or hear her – she used to exist, but she grew up and became ME, "BIG Nita", "Adult Nita" – and honestly, I like the "Adult Nita" much better….big improvement. And "Little Nita" doesn't live in my heart.

If someone asks ME, "Adult Nita", I have no problem telling you about how unfair life can be sometimes. People do bad things –and I accept that. I guess my life will be filled with a perpetual struggle to find my voice. In essence, it all comes down to that. And perhaps rather than face the struggle in defensive move, always poised, on guard, ready to fight, I should embrace that ideology as one of comfort, something to look forward to. Maybe the difference between living and a life is found, not in the degree to which one succeeds in finding her voice and making it heard, but in having a voice to find in the first place. Without that constant, continual fight – you are silenced, and a spirit silenced begins to die (I know this to be true). And once this happens, one becomes empty, numb- a shadow or a shell of one's former self, with nothing constant to hold on to. My cutting – that was my "constant", my "comrade" – when everyone else walked away – I knew that I could depend on this. But perhaps I've been wrong about this too. It's not the cutting that's been the constant, but rather, my struggle to be heard. That struggle has never gone away. When everything else is stripped away, what is real will still remain. When you take away my cutting, my restricting, my past….the one thing that remains is ME, Nita, still trying to make my voice heard in a world that has never listened, never cared. And rather than fight for it, my voice, rather than embrace that struggle as one that lets me know I'm still alive, I have spent all this time fighting against it, keeping it quiet, never saying what I needed to say. Never expressing my feelings, or allowing myself to just "BE". Here – now – right in this moment. Instead, I spent my time acting out, or looking back, trying to make sense of things, or looking forward trying to get everything figured out. And I've missed the little things – the seemingly unimportant things. The "everyday stuff" that makes life what it is. Without it, life would be nothing more than a series of empty moment. And that emptiness would in turn, only fuel the hunger, the drive, the need to find one's voice…a never-ending circle. How do you find your voice and "BE" heard. A search for meaning hidden inside photographs, poems, turning thoughts into "written words"…. Searching for meaning….It's a universal struggle, regardless of the art form, I suppose….

No one cared about the 4 year old brought to the hospital with recurrent bladder infections and vaginal tears. That wasn't their job, their job was to "fix" the symptoms, not understand why they were there in the first place. When my father went to prison for what he had done and I was placed in therapy where I was required to "participate" – all I ever heard was, "you're very angry" – but no one took the time to "ask" why I was angry – because no one wanted to get involved. No one wanted to take the time. Why do you think that is? Why is that?

And all the latest "DBT" mantra, ranting, training, teaching, talking….all treatment focused on making me stop self-harming. I want to feel less depressed, I want to feel less anxious and less distressed, I want the memories and the nightmares and the compulsive thoughts to stop. And until they stop – I have no desire to stop cutting – because cutting makes them stop (at least for awhile). And it seems to ME as though no one wanted to deal with the depression and why I was depressed and self-harming…the focus seemed to ME, to be much like Pavlov's approach when he trained the dogs……it seemed to ME that you thought, "if I say MINDFULNESS, or DBT, or MEANING-MAKING, she will make the connection that she must stop cutting." Or perhaps the experiment of the rat who received a shock each time he displayed an unacceptable "behavior" – eventually, the rat will no longer do it. There was no longer an interest, or a care, about ME, but only interest and care in stopping the unacceptable behavior….so that the patient can go back to work, and function as a normal human being, in society. I no longer existed- and that confused ME – because I cut myself – I bleed – I see the blood – I must exist.

But you insisted that DBT was the answer! You no longer saw ME, you saw only the behavior, the behavior that needed to stop. Suddenly I am lost in a sea of "symptoms". And I exist no more.
And yet, I do exist – because here I am. Not the "trauma patient" the "cutter" the "ED" the "CSA Victim"~ not "the stubborn child" "the willful child" "the angry child" – but ME. The ME that somehow got lost in this process – ME – the intelligent, successful, caring woman who succeeded in spite of her childhood. The woman with a heart of gold, the woman whose smile could light up a room.. ME! ME! Nita – my favorite color is green, my favorite flower is a violet – my favorite food is tacos– I love the smell of clean laundry and rain when it just starts falling, I love the feel of a newborn baby’s head. I love to watch the sun set. I love to drink coffee out of the cup my daughters gave me 5 years ago that says, "Happy Mother's Day”. I love to make my husband dance to Air Supply even though he pretends he doesn't like it.

ME…Nita ~ I’ve known you for 3 years, but I don’t think we’ve ‘met’.

“My dear little one, what do you want? What do you need right now? Sweet little girl, what do you want?”* asks DT


I gently whisper my response, "I want to feel better."


“Okay, tell me more,” he softly inquires.


I take a deep breath and continue, “I want to be okay with all of my feelings and I don’t want to be afraid to share them. I want to believe that I am not my past, that my past is just a part of me. I want to be loved for who I am, and not what I have accomplished. I want to be authentic and real, and not be afraid to show the real me, all of me. I want to laugh more, that deep belly laugh, until tears of joy stream down my cheeks. And I want to cry less from that desperate, hopeless place I find myself in during the night. I want to be able to sleep without nightmares and no longer fear the darkness. I want to live without the voices in the shadows of my mind telling me I am bad, worthless, undeserving of care and love. I want to believe in myself, and I want to believe in others too. I want to trust. I want to understand, at the core of my being, that I am safe, and that I am going to be okay, no matter what happens.”


“Is there anything else?” DT asks me.


“I want to love myself for who I am. I want to recognize that I am working hard, that I will be okay. I want to love myself just because I am alive, and I am strong, and I deserve to find peace and happiness. I want to love all of me, even the parts I have not yet accepted and the parts that I do not like. I want to feel the love I have for myself every single day, even if only in some small way, even if only for a minute."


He answers my request in a soft confident voice,

*"You will have these things. I believe in you. You will be okay. You will live."

I'm giving up.

I hate the constant body aches! The headache in my left temple radiates down the back of my neck. It never goes away, not even with medication. It's this dull ache that is irritating and nauseating. My hip joint make it difficult to walk or sit with the burning pain. I feel like my entire pelvis is is bruised and aching.

I feel overwhelmed tonight. I can't leave my house because of the constant aches and nausea. The voice beckons me to grab my razor blade and make it stop. That voice will not stop until he gets his way.

It's too much now. All of it. The voices, the pain, the memories, the flashbacks. I have never said this out loud before, but it's almost enough for me to check myself into the hospital. And if it weren't for my own fears of lack of control and inability to trust, I may be there right now.

I feel hopeless and unheard now. I tried so hard to communicate this weekend. I can't make it stop, but no one hears me. So, instead, I write into cyberspace, hoping someone will hear me and tell me they've been here before, over and over again, and it get's better. God! I don't know what I need, or even what to ask.

I'm not even sure it matters anyway...not anymore.

I feel the smallest of small right now. I don't know how I even got to be an adult.

It’s nearly midnight…another night of pain. Another night of being overwhelmed by the voices inside my head….they are loud and I cannot tune them out. I have tried walking, reading, listening to music, exercising, relaxation, watching Netflix…but nothing is working tonight… It’s at night when it's his voice I hear. I struggle enough with being stupid, worthless, *****, disgusting – I hate his voice – but was he right? Is that why his voice keeps coming back into my mind over and over again? Was he right? Did he know that I am really worthless on the inside, and I am only pretending to be good on the outside? Did he know the real me?

I don't know how to explain the dark pain and ache I feel inside. I'm unable to describe the utter blackness I see when I close my eyes and try to remember a good time in my childhood. I can't explain the thoughts that are constantly running through my mind making me scared of even myself. I cannot begin to tell you of the emptiness inside of me every single day – when I have to pretend to be someone I am not. I don't know how to explain any of this.

Little Nita is so small and scared. She has been hurt so many times…and this is just too much for her. I have tried to console her, to talk to her, to pacify her – but I am at the point where I am losing what little patience I had and I'm getting angry at her. I can no longer be gentle.

I tell her over and over: *Nita, I know this is hard – and I know it hurts – but I don’t have time to ‘pacify’ and ‘soothe’ you at night when you are afraid. I know you can feel him, and taste him…smell him. I know you feel sick and I know you want to *****. Nita, I know you want her to be here for you, I know you need her to be here…but Nita, she’s gone. She has someone else now and he needs her so she no longer has time for you. I’m sorry, and I know that’s hard to face, but you’ll get through it. You have been through worse. I know you’re afraid. Hell – we’re all afraid. I want to scream out, “I AM AFRAID! PLEASE HELP ME…I am so afraid of who I am…I am so afraid.” So, it’s time now, little Nita…curl up in your blanket and close your eyes. Listen to the sound of your heart beating…

You know what ***** about distraction? When you stop distracting yourself all the crap you were distracting yourself from barges back in, uninvited, slamming the door behind it. It doesn’t really care that I didn’t extend an invitation, and now, once again, I have an unwanted houseguest. And of course it expects to be ‘entertained’, it can’t just sit quietly in a corner, in the farthest room of the house and read a book or something. No way! It’s always right in my face, under my feet, vying for my attention. It’s vile and ugly…I don’t want it here! I can’t stand to look at it, and when it forces me to stare into its craggy, decaying face, cracked and scarred skin.

It displays my past with sober horror as if it’s a cabaret, and I am the audience. I can feel the bile rising in my throat; there is ***** in the back of my mouth, threatening to come forward with powerful force.

It croaks and taunts me, “Come on Nita, let’s have another look at today’s lunch.”

I’m sick to my stomach just being in the same room with it and I know it is only a matter of time before I will be sick. It sits down next to me, I feel my breath quicken in apprehension of what is to come. It smells of liquor and stale cigarette smoke and I gag as I try to slow my breathing down, try to calm myself.

It inches closer to me, touches my thigh, whispers into my ear, “Mind if I sit down, have a glass of wine? I prefer red, but if you don’t have an open bottle, white’s fine. I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”

Yeah right! My leg feels like ice now, my skin crawling from his touch. I begin to shake as I try to move away from it, remove his hand from my upper leg. It won’t let me escape; it knows there is no way to break free. It knows once the film starts I will be unable to look away from the turmoil that is happening in front of me. And not only is the movie in 3-D, I can actually suffer with the star of the show, I feel what she feels, I see what she sees. When she bleeds, I bleed. When she cries, I wipe her tears from my face. I feel her fear and her angst.

As the film starts, it knows I’m unable to shelter myself from the motion picture and it flaunts it in front of me as though it is a screening fit for the Cannes movie festival. Incapable of looking away I see my own eyes looking back at me. I become her, the ******* the screen, I feel his hands on my body and I feel his breath on my skin.

I can feel the filth on my soul like it’s my own skin. I know my worth. I burned it into my existence. I am branded. I am unclean. I can’t wash him off of me. I have dry heaves now, there’s no more vomiting, there’s nothing left inside of me, except filth and shame. I can feel my heart beating in every single inch of my body. My face is hot and my cheeks feel bruised.

I scrub my skin until it’s read and raw but the filth cannot be removed. I ***** until my stomach convulses and there is nothing left but he is still inside of me. I cut my flesh in an effort to bleed him out of me. I watch the blood run down my pale skin and pool onto the floor but I still feel him, he’s still here.

I am nothing. He made me nothing. I am pathetic for struggling with this still, years later. Nita, get over it! Move on!

I realized something today:  I’ve lost hope.

I go through the “motions” of living, but I’ve lost hope. I have lost the support of someone I “thought” cared for me – and now I trust people even less. And I want to retreat inside myself even further. The part of me who was starting to feel hopeful – beginning to trust – she feels dead again.

I’m not sleeping and I’m exhausted – I am not the person I was before.

I have lost hope.

I am exhausted from constantly fighting. Who or what am I fighting? Myself? The girls inside me? No amount of excuses seem right – nothing can ease my guilt. I know that I am the one to blame. This is no game – no self-indulgent pity party. This is a bit of fear blooming into a swirl of rage. No amount of time will ease this pain. Pangs of guilt will always reverberate out of my empty, blood-drained heart.

**Tired and angry – angry and tired – it’s never ending.

Imagine you are a child, alone in the darkness, trying to scurry away from the monsters for if they saw you, they would hurt you. You stayed shut up inside yourself, ensuring you did not move, did not look them in the eyes. You pretended it was not painful by going someplace else. Pretenses and secrets were how you hid in the darkness, how you survived. When you were unable to hide, you would smile at others, be thankful and polite…but when others would leave your mind returned to the darkness, the only solitude you had.

Imagine you were invisible and silent, your mouth forced close by others. They did not want to hear you, they could not hear you, they would not allow themselves to see you. If they were to hear you, they would hear themselves stumbling along in the darkness. They would see themselves grasping at the walls to steady their pace. They could not see you, for if they saw you, they would see a reflection of themselves in you, so instead, they threw you into the darkness and they force you to remain there.

**Silent

Invisble

Unseen

Unheard

I know you are in pain. I can see it in your eyes, in your body. What can I do do comfort you? Come sit next to me, you can lay your head on my lap if you wish, and tell me what you need? You are safe here, I will not hurt you.

Cry if you need to~I won't ask you to stop. Sometimes crying helps get out the bad and makes room for the good. If you want to hold my hand, I will leave it out and open and ready for your grasp. If you don't want to hold my hand, that's okay, too, but I will leave it out just in case you decide you do want too.

Breathe, let it all out. Take long, deep breaths... you are safe here, no one will hurt you. You will be okay. You have so much strength and power to heal, it is within you, and I will help you find it.

If you want to be silent, I will wait with you and the beating of our hearts can be the only sound in the stillness. It is okay if you don't want to talk now. But if you do want to talk, I am right here, and I will listen to whatever you have to say. I accept you for who you are~you are safe with me.

You can relax and lean into me if you want too. I know you're tired, I know you are struggling~ I am here and you do not have to hold yourself up right now. You can rest and lean against me if you want too.

Get warm, feel cared for and loved. Do not be afraid~ You are safe here.
I am right here, and I am not leaving you. I will not leave you alone in the darkness. You have a long journey ahead of you, but I will be with you, help guide you, each step along the way.

Rest, now, little one.
You are safe now.

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!

Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is ask for help. I need help…gawd…I need help. And I desperately want to throw up my arms and have someone to make all of the decisions for me. I feel like I have lost so much already. I want someone to save me because I cannot save myself. Which sounds ridiculous and obviously is not possible since I am an adult and have to save myself.

The past few weeks, heck be honest this whole year has been dreadful. I am so depressed and dissociative that I barely know what to do with myself, on the rare occasions when I am myself. I am just drifting...

There is not much anyone can do for me. This morning when I become conscious of just how bad it had been last night I realized I should probably make a safety plan. And so I did. I reached out to a friend of mine and asked her to check on me at night. And that if I did not respond to wait 15 minutes and try again – and then if no response…well, that is where I get lost. Then what? Call DT? Call 911? Then what? I do not want to go to the hospital.

And I did not even call DT to tell him just how bad it is right now. Cause right now, at least in my crazy brain….he does not care, or will tell me to call someone else, or “grow up”…or anything of the sort – it will surely make things worse now….so I did not call him. Bad decision? Maybe – but I am famous for those lately.

I want to write….however I do not want to worry people who care about me. I know I have people who love me, who care about me greatly…and I love them in return. I do not know what is wrong with me – why cannot I FEEL it? Why is it not enough?  I surely do not know.  All I do know is that I am filled with depression and thoughts of death are being knocked around my head like a game of pool.  I am just waiting for the 8-ball to hit the corner pocket...and that will be it.

Where is the anchor that is supposed to tie me to this world?

I'm so scared! I need someone to hold my hand tonight...

I have so many things swirling around in my head right now – SO many feelings I cannot even begin to name. I feel safer writing than sitting and I am unable to talk about them. I am living in crippling fear…unable to sleep, unable to eat…and fighting with everything inside of me to get through each night. And it’s too much tonight…so much I want to talk, there’s so much to say…but she won’t let me talk. I’m scared. It’s overwhelming me tonight, I cannot breathe and I am poised and ready for flight now.

Nights like tonight…there have been a lot of them…I would reach out to DT and beg him to help me, just to get through this moment…and he would comfort me and tell me that I am okay…but I can’t hear him now. I know I should be able to do this. I am an adult…but I don’t feel like an adult. I feel like a scared little girl- living for others at the expense of my own needs.

I want someone  to hold my hand tonight because it is crushing me and I am afraid…

I need it to stop for awhile. I can throw it all in a bucket during the day and I can dazzle the world…so why does it have to hurt so bad at night? Why can’t I make it stop? It's like a pressure cooker...and I can 'contain' it and deflect, and divert attention, but it is bubbling over tonight and scalding me!

What happened? I just want to be okay…I just want it to stop.

Hi, I'm NitaAnn…
I know we have met....however, I can't really talk to you but I need to know if you can help me.

I am married with 2 children, both girls.  I'm a dog person.  My favorite color is green and I am a Leo (which should alert you to my tendency toward stubbornness).  I prefer down pillows and lots of 'em!  I am intelligent and creative...and very independent.  I tend to be overprotective of my children - my girls call it my 'worry meter', but they mean everything to me and I want to protect them.  I love to read.  I love to travel and enjoy new adventures on the road.  I love camping and being outdoors. I love the musical Phantom of the Opera and have seen it live... I hate onions and liver and right now my favorite food is anything Mexican.  I have a past, everyone does, right?  But I don't talk about anything that happened before age 10...and not really anything til after 22.

I've been in therapy before - many times before.  But I have this incredibly hard exterior that has never been penetrated by a 'professional'.  Not one.  Some therapists have told me I have a lot of anger...depression. One therapist told me after 3 sessions that I was fine and she didn't even know why I was there and that was after I told her I had seriously considered killing myself in the shower with a razor...I was 13.

I don't know why I'm here today.  Well, I do, but I can't talk about it.

I have major trust issues.  I'm hypervigilent and always on guard and I will search for reasons not to trust you.  If you hurt me I will pull away from you and I won't let you back in.  I would like to ask you if you can help me, but because I cannot trust you I can't really tell you anything right now...but I really need to know if you can help me...because if I can't find someone to help me I don't know what will happen to me but I do know that I can't do this alone anymore.  

But I can't tell you that.  Because I don't know you....I don't trust you...I will not let you see the weak and frightened Nita.  I cannot take the lid off of the box that contains the first 10 years of my life because it will all spill out and I am afraid I won't be able to put it back in...and it is scary, and ugly, and shameful, and bad.  It's very bad.  And I can't talk about it.  

But I really need to know if you can help me...

Innocence splintered in just one second.
Teardrops stained the bed of roses.
Cries screamed out from the ignorant.
Purity taken along with her voice.
Stripped down to just empty sighs.
Slammed against the walls of seclusion.
Trust disappears with ***** promised secrets.
Ripped apart until pieces are left.
Gathering up the broken life bits.
Together they make a complex puzzle.
They are still alone for now.
Jagged edges are hard to force.

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!!!!!!!

So 2014 has pretty much ****** 100% since it started. It's one of those things that I silently think to myself "It can't get any worse" but then catch myself because I know that's not true. Every few weeks it seems I am being dealt another situation to deal with in addition to the extreme burden I am already carrying around.

Life is so overwhelming right now I almost cannot even think about it all at once.  I do not want to trigger myself into having a panic attack. I am doing my best to take it day by day, sometimes even hour by hour. I do not even know which way to turn anymore or how to even start to cope.

I really have tried to trust others and rely on them for help and support but…honestly…maybe I do not know how to do that? Am I picking the wrong people or is it me??? Seems like I am there for everybody else but nobody is here for me now.

New symptoms, worrying about what it all means…dealing with ****** healthcare…doctors not as concerned as I am…seriously how much blood is normal to cough up before I can get a Dr to give a ****! Going on Day 3 of feeling like I have been hit by a semi-truck. I am physically and mentally exhausted.

I surrendered…

A part of me still yearns for openness and being able to share emotions and thoughts with others. Yet I cannot remove the barrier between us.  I sit and I am silent even though in my head I have volumes to share.  I try to hide myself.  I will not let anyone look inside of me.  Even though I know they all want to help, I refuse to let them in and then when I am alone, I sob and ache for refusing. You ask me how I am I tell you I'm fine; I lie to you just as I lie to everyone else.  Even though parts of me beg and plead to tell the truth.  

What would the truth even sound like?
What kind of intimacy would it take to make it possible to speak of such shame and pain?  
What kind of trust would it take to believe they would listen and care and be able to emotionally stay with me?  
Is there such a language?  
No one can answer my questions: Why did he do that to me?  Why didn't my family love me?

So the pain is still here.  And the child Nita uses her childlike logic of wanting to ask for help but not wanting to admit she needs help- and not believing that she would get the help even if she did ask.  That childish logic feeds my thought process and conscious conclusion that my desperate longing to reach out for help is ridiculous and wrong. And anyway, who could possibly tell me that having experienced what I have, having lost what I have, that I could possibly be healed.

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.

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.

I have chosen to write about my journey of healing, maybe through this it will bring more healing as I write out my thoughts and my feelings, and also bring insight and healing to those who have or may not have walked a similar journey that I am now just beginning.

Today as I walked out of my appointment, DT gives me a hug and tells me to protect my heart...

The thought that runs through my mind is how do I protect my heart??? If you ask me, that's what I have been doing for the last 30+ years of my life, protecting my heart, building walls so that no one would be able to hurt me again....

You see I grew up in what most people would call, a HIGHLY DYSFUNCTIONAL family. And I had to learn to protect myself at all costs...to survive no matter what happened....and along the way I built walls, and locked a lot of doors in my heart, and I threw away the key....I didn't just lock people out, I locked the little girl inside me in....

I didn't want people to hear or see that broken, wounded, bleeding little girl inside me....

And for many, many years I have hid her behind the title of being the Sweet Young Lady everyone wanted me to be...
                        At home I am the Mommy and doting Wife,
                        At work I am the dedicated Pharmacy Intern,
                        At School I am the overachieving Student....
but underneath those titles I am just a woman who loves the Lord,
but has never allowed Him into the locked rooms in her heart, never allowed Him to heal the broken little girl who still hides in the corner and cries at night.


So this is my journey...of taking off the masks and allowing God to walk me in a journey of healing. Some posts may be encouraging while others may be full of pain and raw truth....but I am taking a step to show the world the truth, the pain, the joy, and the journey of healing that I am only beginning...

I walk a dreadfully narrow & fragile tight rope and there often there is no safety net beneath me. And as such, a slight wind will often make me stumble and fall right back into the cavernous black hole that I spent a significant amount of time climbing out of. I used to be so thick skinned, but my skin seems to have been scoured into a transparent epidermis that now barely covers my flesh. And I do not know why words seem to rip right through that now clear layer of covering and sear through the sensitive tissue beneath. But they do, and just like that, I am back in a place where I feel like I must punish myself. And I want to feel the pain externally on my body because the interpretations of the verbal words I hear resonate through me and each time the words are repeated, the internal pain increases.

And it does not stop there. The words become thoughts and the thoughts turn into internal voices that torture me and say terrible things. They torment me and tell me that I am worthless, that I will never be able to get through this, that I am a bad, filthy little girl and I deserved everything that happened to me. And the truth is that I cannot find a voice to tell me that is not true and it then feels commonsense and spot on to me. And the frightened little Nita says, “I know, I deserve to be hurt. Let him hurt me because I am bad. I will always be bad.”

During the day I manage to quiet the voices, and push them deep down inside of me because I have to function during the day, I cannot allow myself to fall apart. But every day I am a virtual time bomb that cannot be disarmed, and when the darkness falls, the device beeps and I blow up. And the reality is there is a gaping chasm between ‘healing’ and where I am right now. And frankly, I am not even sure healing is possible. And I want to give up. I work so hard to climb out of the darkness, back onto the tightrope, toward the light, only to have something else knock me back off again.

When that all too familiar wind blows and knocks me from the rope, I try to hang on. I try not to allow myself to fall completely into the darkness, the place where there is no shred of hope left. But I often wonder what it is I am holding on to, and what I am holding on for. And I do not know why I am still holding on. Not anymore.

There are too many competing voices. They all have wants and needs and I am too tired to listen to them anymore. They will never become one. They are too different to be integrated. And I am so tired. And the rope is burning through the already thin layer of skin on the palms of my hands and it hurts and I want to let go. I want to let go. I want to let go of the rope and the pain and the anger. I want to let go of the depression and the tears and the fear. There is no balance now, there is only vertigo, and it is so hard to hang on.

It would be so easy to just let go.

I remember when I was a teenager and we lived across from a cemetery. I used to go there and walk around, reading headstones. It must seem like such an odd place for a teenager to want to be, but it was beautiful and it brought me peace in a way I can’t explain. One morning, I was walking through the cemetery, it had just stopped raining and as I carefully weaved my way through the gravestones, I felt this all-consuming loneliness envelope me. Suddenly it was as though I couldn’t breathe, my vision narrowed and the tears began to tumble down my cheeks like rain. I sat down on the wet grass and cried until there were no more tears. My jeans were wet and I was chilled to the bone but I didn’t care. Sometimes, still today, I miss that cemetery. Even though everyone there was ‘dead’ it somehow made me feel comforted and less alone…maybe that’s because I felt ‘dead and alone’ inside too.

Its overcast here today, clouds hover close to the ground making me feel cold and depressed…in a strange way, my body seems to be telling me that something dreadful is going to happen soon. And I feel the innermost part of my hidden self continues to push forward in a burdensome and wearing way…an uninvited guest arriving at an inopportune time. My body continues to tell me secrets I never wanted to know, and I am held captive, unable to escape. The aching pain inside me, the unmet needs, I am a long way from understanding them, or even endure them. Despite the ‘self-soothing’ skills I have learned, I do not have what I need inside of me to ‘heal’ my pain. I could have enough DBT skills to fill the Atlantic Ocean and it wouldn’t be enough to offset the pain.

And I will forever bear the mark of a woman with a personality disorder, a mood disorder. I will always bear the label of a woman who’s a self-mutilator. I will always carry the brand of ‘****** survivor’ and I will forever take medication just to stay alive. And the paradox is that as much as I abhor those labels, I find that I need them. They are me, they flow through my veins and when no one else is here, they are. Somehow they seem to explain the loneliness and despair. They illuminate why I feel as though I am broken into a million pieces, unable to put myself back together again. But I have nothing concrete to show for this abundance of internal pain. What I have are jagged external scars running from my knees to my thighs, across my abdomen that are a constant reminder of a time I did not choose life over death. Scars that I can hide from others, but I will never be able to hide from myself. What I have are 10 different bottles of medication and a pharmacist who knows me by name.  What I have is sadness captured in a few photos from childhood, hidden in a cardboard box in the corner of the den closet…photos that have bear the fingerprints of someone who wants a normal childhood, even today. What I don’t have, however, is my mind, an ability to trust, or an ability to rationalize and be a ‘normal’ human being. I carry with me a multitude of broken promises scattered on the bathroom floor, mingled with my blood. I look in the mirror and the woman looking back at me isn’t the ‘confident professional’ I pretend to be – in the mirror, without the mask, is the terrified, hurting little girl who has no idea if she is even real.

And every single day I look around and I try to figure out who I am, because at any given moment I could be someone different. I am breathing, I can feel my heart beating – but it isn’t me. It doesn’t matter what ‘self’ I put on to dazzle and charm the crowd, I no longer need my father to remind me that I am unwanted…unloved. There is a voice inside of me, an internal judge, who repeats all my father said to me, over and over again.

I wanted a teacher, a role model, someone to teach me what I never learned. I wanted to believe that they were real and genuine and not like my father. I wanted someone to tell me that I am real and that I do matter. I wanted someone to know all of the people who live within me, and still care. I no longer think that person exists.

Tonight I have been overcome by the weary darkening of overwhelming feelings. They pulsate through my veins, taking control... I fight all the frantic thoughts and I'm not sure what's becoming of me.
At times I don't care; I just want to be empty and so I push everyone away and close the doors around me.

I have lost my way. I've been dropped on a desert island and it's just me here, alone with my thoughts. My head has become a war zone.

You see it doesn't matter how you try to escape it, doesn't matter how hard you try to run you'll never run fast enough. For it has no features or feelings, it is flat and lifeless yet it hates me and seeks to ruin me more than anything else could. If I were to die would it be gone to? Its only reason for existence is to wreck me.  There's nowhere to go from here.  

I will leave this life...

"It wasn't your fault”* The words follow me wherever I go; inked into the many pages of a torn journal, etched bloodily into the flesh of my arms.  Haunting me endlessly and echoing inside my mind in bursts of staining black.

"Why do you hurt yourself?"  I want to scream an answer to this question, yet I never do, I never will. I don't have the answer they want.  Yet my mouth wants to spit the venomous words out at them.  My tongue, however, is empty of the truth.  I smile condescendingly at their horrified faces, doing whatever I can to escape.

"Just be a good girl and everything will be fine” Can you not understand?  I'm not good. I'm bad, tainted, my very essence poisoned and corrupted.   Don't touch me. I'll contaminate you.  Just stay away, keep an image in your head of me, smiling, happy, innocent.  Never come close enough to look past my mask, and then everything will be okay.  I don't want anyone to put me back together again, I deserve to be shattered.

"You don't understand!"  How many times have I heard that?  Too many to count. Being misunderstood is part of me, when people finally understand, their empathy will eventually turn to pity. I can't stand it, hate would be easier to tolerate than sadness.  Don't be sad for me, be sad for yourself, you're much more important than I'll ever be.  Just leave me alone, if you get to close to me I'll hurt you.  Somehow, I will. I will kick my way around you, until you have no other option but to loathe me. But I deserve it.  I always break everything, it's now my turn to be broken.

"It's not your fault."  Sure, keep saying that while you're 'holding' me. I know you don't mean it.  But I'll nod my head like the doll I should be, as if I believed you.  I'll just go along with it.  The need to make me feel pure, good… shut out all the other signs.  My hands can't stop shaking, the cuts I inflict upon myself are pale white yet swollen.  The scars are reminders of how I deserve pain, and the hideous ecstasy that comes along with it.  But just ignore them, I don't want you to know anyway.  Keep repeating those words to yourself, over and over again, trying to reassure me  I'll just sit there and nod soundlessly.  Watch me smile the way you want me to as I repeat it back to you.  I'm blameless. It’s not my fault.

You won't even notice the lie behind the words………
Blameless…shameless…faultless….guiltless…

Last night he proved that after almost 30 years he still has control over me.

His voice…his touch…they turn me back into the little girl of 5…I have no voice of my own…I have no power to deny him…

I cry…I plead…all to no avail…

I try to find my voice…I want to demand answers…instead I am quiet and submissive….

Today

Today I am ashamed…how does he still have that power? Why do I not speak up? I am not that little girl anymore…

Today I am 5 years old and trapped in an adult body…I want to hid in my closet and not come out…instead life demands that I play my role…

My heart breaks….

I thought about calling someone, anyone
I thought it would help to talk
But what do you say
When all the pain has this way
Of shutting you up
In your own personal Hell.
The silence grows, ringing in my ears
But I like it that way.
It is so much easier to hide
When the pain stays inside.
I do not want to talk to someone that does not know
Someone that has never tasted the wound.
I do not want their pity
Or their, "It'll get better."
I do not cry and that is not a lie
I break and scream
And try to remain unseen.
Do you really want to know?
Do you really want to feel it?
Let it burn you
Let it cut into you.
Do not ask me if I am okay
When you already know the answer.
Let me sleep without the agony
Of your worry.
God, let me sleep
Let me wake and deal with another day
In just the same way.
Biting and breaking the surface
Of each second reminding me I never really change.
I just rearrange things until they seem right.
Oh, God, let me sleep
And dream of better things.

My safety advisory system been elevated to RED

Please be aware of your surroundings at all times and do NOT leave your body unattended....but! I should capitalize that...BUT it is not always a choice. And lately, awareness and attendance to my body have not been a choice. I cannot stay in this body at night. It is uninhabitable. And I tell DT there is so much I can’t talk about. So many things that happened that I’m so ashamed of ~ things I cannot believe I did. And I don’t trust myself. I don’t like the huge blackness that surrounds me that continues to threaten me every night.

I don’t want to remember. I want to forget it all. All of it. Because at night, when the anguish and pain torment me to the point I consider taking a bottle of Vicodin, and slitting my wrists in the bathtub, it scares me. So many things that remind me of back then terrorize me now, in my present moment. And I know I need help with it ~ but at the rate I’m able to communicate about this stuff, I will surely be dead before the torment stops. DT tells me to be patient, be patient…but it just keeps getting worse and one night my patience is going to run out and I will do something irreversible.  But still he says, be patient, he says he has respect and patience and he will be here when I'm ready to talk.  But I'm afraid to speak because the truth is too scary.  I offered to draw him a picture instead.  His patience feels infinite and yet I still feel as though I am drowning and he is taking too much time blowing up the life raft.  

I feel sick. And I feel worried. The pain is torturing me and the pain meds barely touch it. It’s that bad right now.  I want to cut...it’s been a struggle.

And I feel worried. And not just for me. I have two good friends whom are also struggling and I don’t know how to help them because I feel so lost too right now. I want to help them but I don’t know what to do. Just be right here, I guess. I wish I could tell them that it’s going to be okay ~ and I could say that, but I don’t know how long it will be before we make it to okay ~ and I don’t know if I have the energy make it that far.

My Security threat level has now been raised to RED. I am safe right this minute, but I don’t know how long I can stay that way…there is no way to tell.

Dear therapist once said, "Once you stop trying to escape yourself, you will have won a big phase of the battle because in reality there is no one you presently have to escape or fear. One, because you are no longer a child, and two, because you have more, much more, personal power and capacities to protect yourself then in the past.”

It was so many years ago when I bought a costume of a confident woman with no history of abuse. I was the only one who knew it was a costume, and when I looked in the mirror, I longed to be that woman, the beautiful, confident woman with nothing to hide, and I never took that costume off. I pushed away the thoughts, the disgust that was of the past, I could do it…it was easy. I just had to stay busy, and not leave time to think about it. But one day that all came to a screeching halt and suddenly my life was so painful, and the pain was so intense…I wanted to be left alone in my pain, I did not want to share the pain I was feeling. I was afraid to explore the darkness that dwelled inside of me, the darkness that I had ignored and pushed away for so many years. I was afraid if the things that lived in my darkness were exposed to light, they would grow out of control, and overcome me, make me weak and afraid, **** me into the darkness until I no longer existed.

But the darkness was not to be ignored, it snuck up on me during the night, it rattled my windows, and wrote ******, bitter graffiti on my walls. There was no escape, I could no longer outrun my past, it had caught up with me, now ran beside me, and I knew it would soon overtake me. I began to have panic attacks, waking in the middle of the night, unable to breathe. I needed a coach, a life coach, and I needed one fast! I needed a coach to teach me to run faster, to escape. So I began to search for a coach and when I found one, but rather than teach to me run faster, he wanted me to slow down, to look…he wanted me to feel. What? Why would I allow myself to feel, it would just hurt, cause me pain. He told me that I could run until I wore myself out but I could not escape my past or my pain. I had to learn to face my past in order to move forward and heal. When I told him I was scared, that I didn't have the strength to face it, he told me that he would 'train me', stay with me, and help me to find the strength within me that he could see. The strength I saw in him was a reflection of the strength I was seeking for myself.

I have been hit time and time again in this process. I have had black eyes, bruised and cut skin, broken bones and a shattered spirit. And when I could not find the strength, he would help me, encourage me and cheer me on. I am moving forward, and I am starting to see my worth.