Finally realizing I needed to be accountable to myself and release some of my childhood pain led me to writing about my past experiences.
Sharing my worst secrets and thoughts publicly was not something I ever envisioned doing. I never in my wildest imaginings thought that maybe someday anything I had to say would matter.
I’m not even a writer. I needed an outlet to try to prevent my very real and incredibly fast fall from grace from accelerating. Instead of numbing those thoughts or pretending they didn’t exist I forced myself to explore them. I wrote them down. I got them out.
One day I felt like writing for myself wasn’t good enough. I needed to share it.
I have things to say.
My voice and the right to use it was taken from me before I even knew I could make my own choices. I have been holding this crap inside for far too long. Creating a world of isolation and blame for things I never set in to motion.Things that should never happen to anyone yet continue to happen on a daily basis to children everywhere.
I was conditioned to feel that I needed to keep carrying the baggage silently.
Made to feel that I somehow earned and deserved it. Most victims of childhood sexual abuse are made to feel that way. It ensures our compliance, further enabling the abuser to continue hurting the victim.
Through sharing my thoughts, fears and memories I have found that there is a need for survivors to feel that they are not alone. So many have reached out to say thank you and ask me to write more. I am trying to find a way to reach those that need it most. Many of my readers and friends have suggested more social networking kind of thing. It scares the hell out of me because I don’t really know what I am doing. I also have that irrational fear that by starting a blog or creating a page or writing a book I will be seen as whiny or dramatic or trying to clamor for attention.
I am by nature the exact opposite of anyone that enjoys and/or seeks attention.
I’m doing it anyways.
I would rather “like” a page that brings awareness to a topic that is important than to some insignificant bullsh*t that steals our time and dulls our thoughts and prevents us from fighting for or thinking about things that matter.
I hope that my rage doesn’t diminish anybodies interest in what I have to say. It is a powerful message. My delivery at times is not tactful. My thoughts at times are erratic and may seem childlike in their delivery.
That is because they are.
I’m just now learning how to voice the injustice of what unfolded when I was young.
I’m just now trying to being heard.
I’m throwing an adult temper tantrum and people are responding and relating to my screams.
Far more than I ever expected.
The more support we have in being able to speak the unspeakable or feel safe enough to scream instead of remaining silent the better our chances are of saving a child from what we had to endure.
To me, that makes it all worth it.
This post was originally published on November 7, 2015