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.