I don’t talk about what happened to me. I blog about it, but I don’t talk about it. To anyone. And there is a really good reason for that. First of all, it happened a long time ago. Even I think I should be over it. I’m ashamed that I’m NOT over it. I’m ashamed that it continues to have an effect on me to this day in the choices I make and the way I see the world. I’ve tried hard to recover. I’ve been in individual counseling for years upon years. I’ve gone to 12-step Celebrate Recovery groups. I’ve taken classes. I’ve read books. I’ve completed workbooks. I’ve prayed. I’ve had others pray for me. I’ve even gone to a healing prayer center on several occasions. I’ve journaled and blogged and written poems. I’ve tried. And it has cost me a freaking ton of money. But nothing has had a deep and meaningful impact on me. There has been some change, but not the significant change I was hoping for…or that I have needed in order to live a healthy, “normal” life. And I’m ashamed. Because, really, it must be my fault, right? I must be doing something wrong or I would have gotten better by now, right?
So I don’t talk about it. I continue to keep the secret.
I’ve heard others talk about things that happened to them long ago. There’s a guy at work who is open about the fact that he was sexually abused. People shake their heads. They think he’s crazy for talking about the fact that a cousin abused him. And don’t you love it when you hear someone respond behind someones back when they disclose something like this, “It happened HOW LONG ago??? My god, they should be over it by now!”
So I keep my secret and try to act like I’m a together person. I hold my cards close. But I judge myself and find myself wanting. And I wonder why it’s still an issue. I wonder why I haven’t been able to recover. And I totally blame myself.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve tried…and have finally basically given up. It doesn’t matter that I’ve invested time and money and every resource I could come up with to tackle the massive destruction of my soul. All that matters is that I can hear the judgmental voice of others playing in my head…why is she still talking about that?…what is her problem?…why isn’t she over it; it happened ages ago…she survived, so what’s the big deal? Their thoughts have become my thoughts. Their judgments have become my own. Shame keeps me locked away in the darkness, afraid to venture into the light. I have a fatal flaw. I must not let those around me know.
I wear a mask and pretend that I’ve overcome. I wear a mask and act like nothing happened. Until I’m alone in the dark of the night when the weight of it all comes slamming down on me and I can no longer deny that I’m desperately broken. And so very alone. And there is no one to blame but myself. Because I SHOULD be over it, shouldn’t I? Surely by now I should have been able to let the past be past.
Why can’t I just get over it?