I haven’t eaten all day, so when Kristen asked if we could just skip dinner and go to bed I jumped at the chance.

Haven’t gone an entire day without eating in years. I’ve been eating very little calories for about a week and a half now. It’s crazy how quickly it all came rushing back. It’s like it never left me. It’s so easy. I feel so strong and… magical? No. Special? No. I’m not sure how to put it into words. I feel again like I know a secret that others don’t. I know that eating daily to live is a fallacy. This feeling is a high and will probably dissipate, but my god how I’ve missed it.

I forget who I have on here. I can see I dropped it down to 5 friends, but I can’t see who they are on the app. And safari is being a POS right now. If I know you in real life, please DO NOT share this.

No one knows and I needed to get it out somewhere. I needed my safe journal space again- even if it doesn’t exist anymore. Not for 7 years, thanks to some asshole.

I don’t know if I’ll continue to post here. Maybe I’ll just delete everyone and post to no one. I needed to get this out, though.

I don’t believe any of it anymore.

“Just let it come” Jen was saying.
“If I just let it come, if I don’t try to fight it, it’s like I wanted it to happen” I tried to explain to her.
She explained why it wasn’t. How it was important for me to try to gain some control.
So I let it come.

“He’s choking me” I tell her, “He is telling me how easy it would be for him to choke the life right out of me”.
“Oh God” Jen whispers so quietly I almost miss it. She sounds devastated.
She rarely responds like that and I find myself wondering what was so awful about that. I’ve told her worse. Maybe it’s perspective.
“You must have been so scared” Jen says, which makes me realize I am shaking and rocking.
I take a second to feel, and I nod. I am scared. Very.
I am so used to surviving by pushing my feelings aside and pretending that everything is alright, that sometimes I have to just sit and feel before I can realize what it is I am feeling.
“What word & picture match how you are feeling right now?” we were asked at Innovations (an intensive outpatient program).
Like children, we had to learn to express how we feel with words.

She tries a new approach with me.
“Look at that little girl,” she says, for the first time referring to her not as me but as a little girl, “What can you say to help her; to comfort her?”
“Nothing,” I find myself responding, “She doesn’t deserve it”.
Jen tries more, but the self-hatred is so strong.
“I hate her” I say, “I hate her”.

And then I’m gone.
I was able to separate myself for that time, but then I’m gone. I’m her again. I’m me again. I’m lost and alone and hurting and dying. I am dying.
Or maybe I just wish I was.

I am alone in my room and he is holding me down by my throat. He is trying to force his penis inside of me, but it won’t fit. I am crying, or maybe just choking, I can never tell anymore.

“Can you hear me?” I hear Jen ask from a distance, “Nod if you can hear me”.
I contemplate if this voice is real and where I am and who I am for what seems like hours.
I remember I am in Jen’s office. I am not at home. He is not really here. Or his he?
I remember I was asked a question and I nod. I nod to let her know I can hear her.
I wonder if my response took too long; if she remembers what I am nodding in reference to.
Then I remember it’s Jen. She is so patient with me. She knows. She was waiting and watching for that nod.
I feel her hand in mine, and I cling to it. Safety. I am safe. This is my reminder that I am in Jen’s office and not really where I am seeing & feeling.

I am both then and now. Mostly then.
I flinch in the now.
“He got it in” I tell Jen, and I realize I am crying.
I am crying audibly. If ever I cry it is only ever silently, and now here I am crying audibly. I feel shame, but I let it continue. I need to cry. It hurts. Everything hurts. And somewhere in there I am crying for what was lost.
I am crying for my childhood. For my daddy. For all the things that should have been and weren’t.

I have been gone again and Jen is calling me back.
She is asking questions, trying to get me to talk; to get it out; to share the pain so I don’t have to go through it alone again.
But I can’t. I try, and I was for some of it,  but I can’t when it gets to this. When he is starting to orgasm. I can’t share this because I feel so disgusting. I feel so ashamed.
But I try.

I can’t quite remember the dialog, as I was so far there. I am there and I am talking, knowing Jen is listening.
I tell her how he made me thank him.
How he came in my mouth and made me thank him.
“He tells me I’m not even worthy of his cum” I was telling her later, or perhaps it was then. Time is so confusing for me. It’s not linear, it’s random.

“Is he gone?” she asks when she senses it is ending.
She knows I get silent and still when it’s over. I feel dead. I feel awful. She is patient and waits for my response.
Finally I nod and I sit up. I keep my arms crossed over my chest, but I sit up.
I realize now that this is an improvement. I can’t sit up during it, I curl up as tight as I can, but I’ve gotten to a point where I sit up afterward.

I am silent. I am thinking. My brain is processing and remembering; and I am feeling.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“His threats” I respond, “To put the knife in me. To kill my mom. That everyone will hate me if they find out”.
“That right there proves that you did not deserve or ask for what he did to you” she says.
“He had to threaten you. And he knew that you cared about other people. You cared enough to endure so much pain to save someone else. He knew you weren’t bad. He knew you didn’t deserve it, and he proved it by threatening to hurt your mom. He wouldn’t have had to do that if you were a bad person, or wanted it, or deserved pain like that”.
I think about what she says.
“But he doesn’t lie” I tell her, almost repeating his words to her, “He doesn’t lie to me. Other people do”.
I find myself believing these words less than I ever have before and I can almost feel hope. Almost. It’s hard to feel anything good after a flashback.
“He just… He repeated over and over and over and over. He repeated so much.” I told her.
“I know” she said, remembering, “He sat down and told you those things over and over”.
“He repeated them while he was doing it,” I revealed for perhaps the first time.
“The worse he made me feel, the closer he came to-” I cut myself off,  unable to say it.

“Do you understand what I was doing in the beginning?” Jen asked me.
I shook my head no.
“I was trying to get you to separate yourself. To see it like a movie instead of going completely there” She revealed.
“Did it help?” she asked.
I thought about it, and nodded.
“It did help at first,” I told her, “But then it…”
“It just got too overwhelming” she said, finishing my sentence.
I love that I don’t even have to explain things to her most of the time. She knows. She knows me and she understands.

When I was 19 or so, I was dating a very manipulative & controlling guy.
One day in particular, I actually said no to him when he wanted sex. Usually he would convince me it was something we had to do.
“You are not a very sexual person, and I am a highly sexual person,” He would say in that tone that just seems to make you believe whatever he says, “We need to compromise. We just spent an hour not having sex, now we need to have sex”
I still protested this time, though.
He still continued.

He told me he was going to cum on my face. I told him he’d better not. No way.
He did anyway. It got in my hair and I got upset.
He laughed.
I asked for something to clean up with.
He threw me a dirty sock. It had actual dirt on it and when I tried to wipe myself up, the dirt came off on my face.
He laughed at that, too.

There are many things about him that haunt me now, but that one is the worst.
I never saw that any of this was wrong until someone spoke up that he seemed to have complete control over me.

He had all of my passwords to everything, including my online journal because “we should trust each other”.
The person said almost everything I said started with, “Well ____ says…”

I didn’t see it.

Then again, I learned a long time before that this was how guys were supposed to treat me.
Why would I think any different about it that time?

The thing I hate most about this was that I was an adult. I should have spoken up. I should have fought more. I should have seen him for what he was. I shouldn’t have let him treat me the way he did, or control me the way he did.

Once I started to see things from the outside, I started to stand up to him.
One night, he wouldn’t let me leave his house. I told him I wanted to go home and he said that he didn’t want to take me home, yet.
He had a friend over, and she said she would take me home.
He said that he would call my mom and tell her I had been out using drugs with this friend, so that when she brought me home my mom would think I had been out all day using drugs.
I didn’t want my mom to think that, so I stayed. The friend tried to get me to leave, but I couldn’t.

At first he wouldn’t “let” me break up with him, but eventually he gave up. I think the novelty of being able to control me wore off, and he went looking for his next victim.

In the beginning he had searched me out. He knew who I was. He knew what I was.
Day one he told me he was going to marry me. He kept up with that. Eventually I started dating him. I hadn’t even liked him and even then I couldn’t tell you why I started dating him. It was just in the way he spoke, the way he was.
The entire time, he reminded me of Charles Manson, or what I’d heard of him, as I never knew him.

Which reminds me, when this guy was in 8th grade he was suspended from school because he had a bunch of “followers”. I guess I wasn’t the only one his charms worked on.

My dad is still sober.
I guess he cares about himself more than he cared about hurting me.

He made it less than 2 weeks after I told on him.
He swore he’d quit drinking and he made it less than 2 weeks.
He finds out he’s dying and he quits drinking.
It’s been 2 months or so.

I never mattered to him.

My mom had agreed to watch my kids when I went inpatient. I was very clear that there was one rule: She must not watch them at her house where my abuser still lives.

I called her today with the date I was going in. She told me she couldn’t watch them at my house.
I told her I was not going to put them at risk leaving them there.
“You don’t trust me to watch your kids” she said, sounding hurt.
I wasn’t playing that game.
“No,” I told her, “It’s not you, it’s him. I don’t want my kids around a pedofile”.

Then it came.
“I don’t believe all you say about the abuse,” she told me.
She believes the one time, when I was 19 and told her right afterward.
“I think your therapists are putting ideas in your head” she told me.

I explained how not true that statement was, but I’m positive she heard none of it.

I am so angry right now.
Upset, disappointed, sad;
but mostly angry.

My entire life has been about not upsetting her.
“She can’t handle it. She needs me. She needs me to be good; to be there for her” I would tell myself.
He even used that. He used it, saying if I told it would hurt her. And she wouldn’t believe me anyway.
Turns out he was right.

After tomorrow, when we have something planned together, I won’t be talking to her for a while.
She will get upset, but that’s fine. She can get mad. I’M MAD!

I should have seen it coming.
It didn’t fit that the “Queen of Denial” (as my old therapist, Robin, often called her) would believe me as easily as she seemed to. As she pretended to.
She did blame it on the alcohol. Said he wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Truly believes that.
It fits much better that the “Queen of Denial” wouldn’t come out of her denial for this either.

This is the same woman who, days ago when I told her I don’t carry a bank card because I know I’ll use [drugs], told me “You should have one. I don’t think you’d use”.
If the former addict says she’d use, I’m pretty sure she’d know best. You don’t tell a former addict to take LESS precautions than they believe they should take.

The Queen of Denial does not believe that her husband abused me more than that one time.
That fits better.
I should have expected it.

…It still hurts.

No one cares.

No one asked.
No one helped.
No one gave a shit.

I suffered for years, thinking no one knew; thinking I was hiding it perfectly. When actually plenty of people saw that something wasn’t quite right. Then as I got older they saw that something was definitely wrong.
But did anyone do anything about it?
No.

When I was 2 and my cousin told that my dad had molested her, did anyone do anything to get me out of that house?
No.
They never even told me about it.
Never warned me.
Never cared.

When I was 10 and my brother tried to kill himself, and -as I later found out- my aunt noticed a twitch in my left eye, did anyone do anything to get me out of that house?
No.
Did anyone ask if I was okay?
No.
The never cared.

When I was 13 and it was found out that I was starving myself did anyone think that maybe then it was time to get me out of that house? Maybe then did it finally break their denial and cause them to realize that maybe this was my way of telling them he was hurting me?
Did anyone ever ask if he was hurting me? Did anyone even let me know they knew?
No.
No, they didn’t.
They never cared.

When I was 14 and caught cutting myself, and my mom was called, did anyone think that, yes, he must be abusing me?
No.
They said it was for attention.
Yes, attention.
Or maybe I’m just screwed up.
Certainly the guy accused of molesting my cousin wasn’t molesting me.
Certainly this wasn’t the cause of my problems.
It was just me.
Screwed up and looking for attention.
No one cared.

When I was 16, I had long known that no one was ever going to help me.
I walked into my friend’s therapist’s office and asked for help.

When I was 17 and tried to kill myself,  I suppose they just figured it was too late.
I did, too.
Robin didn’t.

Since then there have been numerous more suicide attempts and hospitals stays.
Some days I still think it’s too late.
Most days, in fact.
Robin is now gone. I won’t get into why. But there are people now who still say it’s not too late.
But they don’t know.
Did they watch everyone turn their heads and pretend that something horrible like that couldn’t have been happening? Did they see all my desperate cries for help turned down?
No.
No one cared.

And people wonder why I think no one cares about me.

There are so many things that I need to get out, but the words don’t want to come.
Writing is a chore right now. It takes effort.
I don’t like it like this.

My mother is supportive of my going inpatient at the trauma unit, but she wonders why I won’t talk to her.
How can I?
How can I tell her what her husband did to me?
How could she handle hearing what awful things happened to her daughter?
If in fact they did happen.

Last night I thought I heard her crying and my immediate thought was to run to her aide.
I had to stop myself. I had to remind myself that I am the daughter and she is the mother. That I cannot handle it right now. I simply cannot.
But she has no one else. How could you do that to her?
I cannot handle it right now.

I felt so guilty.
Not only for not going to her rescue, but for being the reason for her tears in the first place.
I knew it would hurt her.
So did he. That’s why he used that to keep me quiet, among his other tactics.
If it did in fact happen.

I feel like a fake; a fraud.
I worry I will go to this place and everyone will know it is all a big lie.
“Oh they’ll believe you” Jen told me on Monday.
“How can you be so sure?” I asked her.
“Because I will be talking to them”
I love her.
I’m quite certain I shouldn’t, but I do.

There is so much wrong with me.

Sleep is good for the soul, as are good friends and people that care about you even when you do not care about yourself.

Am I feeling wonderful? Not by a long shot.
Do I know this up-and-down depression will drop horribly low again? Yes.
Do I know what to do?
Not even a little bit.

Just keep breathing.

There is a voice screaming in my head “I want to die! I want to die! I want to die! I want to die!”
It is relentless.
It is my own.

I have not wanted to die this bad in a long time.
And it’s somewhat different.
While I know now that some would be hurt, I almost don’t care.
I’m almost in enough pain to say “I’m sorry, but I have to be selfish this time. I just can’t do it anymore”.

I’m in a contract to stay alive until Monday, but in all honesty, I’m not sure if I am going to uphold it.
I’m not even sure if it’s entirely my decision anymore.
No.. it is. That’s taking the easy way out. Blame it on something else in my head taking control. And in some ways it is, but if I kill myself it will be my own fault. My own decision.
Hate me, blame me, never forgive me.
I hurt too much to care anymore.

I know this is selfish.
It’s very very very selfish.
But I hurt so much.
I hurt so very much.

I don’t want to hurt anyone and I suppose that is what is making this so hard.
I don’t want to hurt anyone.

This would be so much easier if nobody cared.