I have something I hoped I would never have when I reached this point in life.  I have regrets.  Many, many of them. Major regrets.  Regrets weigh a lot and they are very painful.  There is no cure.  Therefore, regrets make life seem rather hopeless, as though what has come before will poison all that comes after.  And they make one feel like a failure.  They tear at my heart.

I deeply regret having stayed married to a man who continually told me he didn’t love me.  I stayed for 22 years.  I stayed until I totally died inside, having become completely numb…a dead man walking.  I lost my youth; I lost so very many years of my life as a result.  I can never get those years back.  I can never get my youth back.  I can never return to a point where there is hope for the future.  The future is gone…I squandered it one miserable loveless day at a time.  I believed God put the two of us together and, for that reason, I believed I was “stuck” with him.  Surely, if he was a gift from God and this was the best God could do, being loved wasn’t in the picture for me.  Obviously, being tolerated was the best He could do in my case and I should be grateful to have some companionship.  Love was asking for too much.  So I stayed and tried to make the best of the situation, hoping against hope, someday my husband would be able to love me.  I stayed with him until he left me, having fallen in love with another woman.  I have been alone  ever since and without hope of that changing.  I regret having lost the opportunity to be loved.  If that was ever possible, it’s certainly highly unlikely at this time in my life.  Now that I’m old.  And even more broken.  I can’t even pretend to be a whole person at this point.  Surely, if I was unlovable when I was young and able to hold myself together more successfully, I’m utterly unlovable now.

I kind of regret not having any children too.  I was afraid to…you know how those experts always say that abused children abuse their children.  Well, I wasn’t afraid I would abuse a child; I would rather die than hurt a little one the way I was hurt.  But I was deeply afraid my lack of wholeness would cause them damage.  What if I couldn’t be stable enough emotionally and that subsequently hurt them?  What if my fears were passed on to them?  What if I couldn’t be a good enough mother because of my own damage and deficiencies?  What if I couldn’t give them all the things they needed to be healthy, happy, whole human beings?  I would never be able to forgive myself!

I regret having not gotten help sooner.  Although I did try.  Money was hard to come by.  Reputable, qualified counselors were hard to find. But if only I had found someone who could have understood the damage long ago!  Back before everything was so reinforced and cemented into place.  I might have become a whole different person…one without so many painful, unfixable regrets…


I have these walls.  They were constructed long ago when I was a child and let me tell you, I was one heck of a builder!  These walls are AMAZING!

They keep me locked tightly inside.  They keep my emotions from getting out.  I can’t even get out or feel my emotions when I WANT to!  The walls are high and thick and deep and wide and strong. Very strong.  Massive.  I’m currently beating my head against them as I try to claw my way out. I’ve been praying them down.  I’ve been trying to dig my way out from under them or find a way around them since I can’t seem to get over or through them.  I’m beginning to despair that I may be trapped within the confines of this fortress forever.  My walls will be my coffin.

Is there some magic word I need to say?  Some formula that will cause them to crack and come tumbling down?  Some trap door I’ve yet to find?  Some secret passageway?

I am in awe that they were constructed well before I hit my teen years.  Oh, I’ve fortified them over the years, but still, this Great Wall of China that runs through my heart, mind and soul was largely complete before I reached the age of 13.  Time has not worn them down, caused them to decay or erode in any way or created a breach.  I’ve been trying now for years to destroy them, but to no avail.  I remain tightly encased.  Untouched by emotions, for the most part.  I experience a profound level of depression and not much else.

To be fair, we all have walls.  Some boundaries are healthy, so I don’t want to completely dismantle mine.  But I would like to reduce them to a more manageable size and perhaps include a few windows and doors.  I would like to be able to escape them if I choose to do so.  I would prefer they not be my prison.

Did I mention that my walls keep everyone out.  Everyone.  Out.

The bad thing is, they don’t really keep me safe, nor do they really protect me.  They give me a sense of security and they numb me, but people can still hurt me.  Happens all the time.  They can’t hurt me as badly as they could if my ability to connect wasn’t pretty much nonexistent.  But they can still stab me in the back and make fun of me and bad mouth me and reject me…all of which still hurts.

The main thing my walls do is isolate me.  They do a very good job of isolating me.  I no longer seem to have a choice in the matter…my walls have totally taken control.  I’ve not been able to regain control, reminiscent of Frankenstein…once created, he had a life of his own and could not be contained!  My creation has become my captor.  As desperately as I long to escape, that which I created has no escape hatch (bad planning on my part!).  I wander endlessly in this maze, this desolate wilderness, beating on never-ending walls that don’t give an inch.  I’m weary of beating on walls.


The universe is vast.  I am a dot, a tiny, minuscule blip, barely discernible, rarely noticed.  I am feeling lost in the overwhelming immensity of the cosmos.  I am alone and I am lonely.

I am so alone, so lonely, it hurts both emotionally and physically.  I feel the pain ripping through my chest as well as tearing through my heart. It is not a good feeling.  There is nowhere to turn for relief. No one to reach out to who will hold me until the awful throbbing ache and shredding subsides.  I have been crying out to God, but He seems to be otherwise occupied on the other side of the universe.  I need His arms to swallow me until the panic has released its hold.  I need Him to embrace me completely until I can breathe again, but He is keeping His distance and that adds to my pain.  I am calling; crying…but He isn’t answering.  Sometimes I do not understand God at all.

I am tired of being a broken, screwed up mess.  I am tired of being so needy and lonely and isolated.  I want to be wanted.  I want to be loved.  I want to be a real person who lives a real life…not someone who is so depressed, all I can do it try to make it through another hour; another day; another week.  The nothingness of it all is overwhelming.  It destroys me totally. I am undone.

I am too icky to be around people.  But in this moment of darkness and aloneness, I desperately need someone who can care, even though I don’t deserve it.  Even though I’m in no way worthy of their love and care.  In this moment of destructive, wounding painfulness, right now, when it’s killing me,taking me to my knees and making me completely worthless…this is when I need a loving touch more than at any other time.  This is when it would matter the most.  This is when it would make an incredible difference.

But the touch doesn’t come.  The universe is infinite and cold. I am lost among all the clutter and I am completely, utterly alone.  The pain that swallows and consumes me is no comfort at all.

It Must Be Me

“If I, as a child, claim that something awful has happened—that someone has done something terrible to me—and everyone around me acts as if nothing is the matter, then either I must be crazy, or all of them are. And when you’re a kid and your life depends on all these people, there is no choice: of course, I must be crazy.” Secret Survivors by E. Sue Blume
“Of all the horrid ramifications of child abuse, the self-beliefs formed by the child reap the greatest destruction. Abuse is the most penetrating and permanent communication possible, and it always conveys to the child one or more of several messages: I caused it to happen. – It’s my fault because I am bad. – I don’t deserve any better.” Am I Bad? Dr. Heyward Ewart
“Many survivors have a difficult time with the concept of the child within, even though forgiving that child is an essential part of healing. Too often women blame her, hate her, or ignore her completely. Survivors hate themselves for having been so small, for having needed affection, for having “let themselves” be abused.” The Courage to Heal by Ellen Bass & Laura Davis

As the saying goes, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve thought to myself or said, “I must be crazy,” I would be a very wealthy “crazy” person indeed!  If I also had a nickel for every time I’ve said, “I’m a monster,” or “There’s something wrong with me,” or “It’s all my fault,” or “I deserved it,” or “I must have done something to cause it to happen,” I would be more wealthy than Bill Gates.  Truly.

It’s very hard to forge through all the feelings of guilt and shame.  It’s hard to believe I’m worth anything and that I didn’t cause everything bad that happened to me.  Sometimes, I can mentally comprehend that I am not to blame.  But most of the time, I completely believe it’s my fault and that I totally deserved it all.  The physical, emotional and verbal abuse. The neglect.  The sexual abuse.  The hitting.  The screaming.  The rejection.  The isolation. All my fault.  It is totally natural to blame me…for everything.

Right now, I’m going through a numb stage. I can’t feel much of anything…not good, not bad, not happy, not sad.  Well, I feel depressed, but that’s pretty much “normal” for me.  I just don’t feel pain or more sad than what is typical.  I think in the medical community, they call it “asystole”  or “flatline.”   I truly hate being in this state.  Hurting is so much better than not being able to feel.  Trust me.  It is.  And hurting is pretty horrid, so that should tell you something about how terrible it is not to be able to feel.

At first, it seems like a relief.  It feels like a needed break. An escape.  But the “escape” becomes a prison from which there is no exit.  You become a member of the living dead.  And that’s when numbness is a nightmare that far exceeds the horror of all the pain in the world.

If I was a better person, I wouldn’t be in this prison, would I?  If I was stronger, more intelligent, worthy.  But I’m not worthy.  I’m the reason I was abused and I’m the reason I can’t escape the aftereffects.  It must be me.  All us abused people out here can’t be wrong…right?


Have you ever felt like a failure?  Like everyone around you is special and wonderful and worth so much more than you are because you can’t get your act together while they so easily can?  Can’t quite live up to expectations?   Can’t quite perform up to standard?  Heck, can’t even begin to live up to expectations is closer to the truth. And that’s the way I feel all the time.  All. The. Time.

Oh, I do a few things right.  Yes, even I get a few things correct!  But I do SO FEW right, it’s downright discouraging, disgusting and depressing.  I try to perform…try really hard.  Just can’t do it any more.  I’ve completely run out of steam.  It’s always been hard.  But now…now, it seems utterly impossible.  My house is a disaster, my relationships are dismal and disappointing, my work is devastating, my heart is discouraged, (I’m on a “d” theme today, it seems) and I’m downright deplorable and dreadful.  O.K.  Enough with the “d’s” – I’m done!

I have no truly close relationships.  There are people I care about who care about me and I’m thankful for every one of them.  But I am hard to connect with.  I seem to have a Teflon coating that keeps me in and keeps them out.  I don’t want it to be that way.  But connecting is HARD.  I’ve forgotten how.  My connector doesn’t work any more.  Even though some of them (friends) are trying very hard to get through my shell, I still can’t connect.  Heck, I’m trying very hard to get out of my shell, but that’s not working either.  So I sit in here alone, lamenting the fact that I’m failing as a friend and am unable to forge a deep relationship with anyone.  That’s a major failing.  And it’s painful.

At work, I give it my all, but my all isn’t much.  I’m so burned out, which scares me because I don’t know how to make myself arise from the ashes of my former “capable” being.  I truly used to be quite good.  I used to be able to get so much done!  Now, I’m moving at the blinding speed of…plod.  Everything is hard.  Just getting myself out of bed to go to work every day is hard.  The drive to work is tedious.  Heck, getting out of my car to walk in the building seems to take major effort!  How ridiculous is that?!?

My mind doesn’t seem to be as sharp as it used to be either.  It used to function quite well…I was quick and picked things up quickly and did everything I did at a quick pace.  I could concentrate, get the details, focus, analyze, problem solve, organize.  Now, I can’t concentrate long enough to read a paragraph.  And problem solve?  Forget it!  My problems continually completely overwhelm me.  I don’t even know where to begin most of the time.  Pathetic!

Nothing works the way it’s supposed to work any more.  I’m not getting the things done I should be getting done.  I’m isolated and don’t know how to change that.  I can’t even find God most of the time and He’s supposedly reaching out to me, so it shouldn’t be that hard to find Him.  But it is…for me…  Work isn’t working, home isn’t homey / comfy / secure, life isn’t life-giving (more like “life-destroying), church isn’t spirit-renewing or encouraging…all because I’m failing.  I’m a highly successful failure…whoopee…

Major FAIL.  That’s my new name.  It fits me so well.

Fair Trade

I just read an article by Fiona Macrae on the internet that said a survey of female students aged 18 to 65 at British universities found that almost 1 in 3 would be willing to die younger in exchange for the “ideal” figure.  The survey determined that 2% would forgo up to a decade of life, 10% were willing to trade between 2 and 5 years and 16% said they would swap one year of their life for their ideal body.

Have to say, if I could keep it that way without effort and pain, I would gladly give a couple of years off the end in exchange for my dream body.  Don’t know that I would go 5 years…I would have to think about it, but 2 is quite doable.  I don’t really want to get old anyway, quite frankly.  It becomes difficult to do everything. Enjoyment (not that I HAVE much of any to begin with) is substantially reduced.  Health becomes more of an issue. No one cares what you look like anymore because you are nothing but wrinkles. The brain goes.  You totter instead of walk.   You can’t even care for yourself, so living in your own home become a big concern. Because of all this and the many other challenges of aging I haven’t mentioned, two years off the tail doesn’t sound like that much of a big deal to me in exchange for my ideal / perfect body.  Guess that puts me in the 10% category.

What would my ideal body look like?  Hmmmm…well, a lot of people aren’t going to like it.  But if I had my preference,  I would weigh between 90 and 95 lbs.  and would be able to eat whatever I wanted, within reason, and still maintain that weight.  I wouldn’t have to exercise to stay there, but if I did exercise, it would just make me feel better rather than making me skinnier (since I wouldn’t have to diet to maintain my weight).  I would be a size 00 or a 0.  I would be waif-like.  No boobs.  No butt.  No thighs.  Decidedly bony.  I’m 5′ 4″ and this would cause me to be classified as “underweight” per the medical community.  But I don’t care what others think, because this is where I feel comfortable and this is what makes me happy.  This “look” might not be sexy by anyone else’s definition, but it’s the look I want; the look that feels good to me.  And it’s my definition that’s most important to me because I’m not trying to please anyone else with the way I appear.  This would be totally for ME…my ideal, my dream.

Yet, I can’t help but wonder what has influenced me to create this particular picture of “ideal.”  Could my father’s cutting remarks about my mother’s weight have had an impact?  Could his relentless rejection of her because of her weight have caused me to see things in a certain way?  Could the emphasis on food and eating (clean your plate!) versus the encouragement to diet and fit a certain (very thin) mold to be accepted have influenced me?  What about all those “you would be so pretty if only you would lose some weight” comments?  Or my all time favorite, “You have such a pretty face,”  said with a twinge of “what a shame about the rest of you” in the voice. Next, there are the magazines and movies and television shows where the leading ladies are always the thinnest, teeniest, tiniest.  “Good things come in small packages,” you know.  Don’t you think that implies bad things come in big packages?  And then there’s the way people treat you when you’re overweight (yep, I’ve been on that end of the spectrum too).  You’re treated like you are the plague.  Like it might rub off.  People don’t even SEE you most of the time, but if they do see you, they look at you with disgust.  They judge you and find you wanting.  It’s assumed you are a pig, that you aren’t as gifted and talented as your peers and that you have very little, if any, value.  You couldn’t possibly be professional or intelligent if you are overweight. Others will snippily  quip that you’re fat…a fatty…obese…and they will say it like it means you’re totally stupid, disgusting and worthless.  No one much cares what’s on the inside because they believe the outside says it all.   Perhaps these are some of the things that have caused me to paint the picture I have of  my ideal body.

Not everyone who is exposed to the comments, taunting, disgusted looks and magazine ads develops ”body issues,” as they are so cleverly labeled.  It takes a perfect storm of events and feedback to do the right amount of damage to sink a soul and rape a mind.  Unfortunately, it’s not that uncommon of an event.  We are especially vulnerable when we are children, and once developed, those ideals and beliefs are with us for life unless there is some pretty major intervention. As the British study indicates, there are quite a few people like me in this world who desperately want to be thin.

I would call it a fair trade…to give up a couple years of my life in exchange for my ideal body.  I might even believe I got the best end of the deal.  I don’t know whether to be upset because I can’t make the exchange or to be horrified at the thought that the events of my life have created this intense desire in me to be very small. What I do know is this:  I must be thin…maybe at any cost.  I’m evidently willing to pay a price that a lot of people would never pay.  And to feel good about what I got for what I paid.

Hide and Wait

This is the screwed up person’s version of the timeless game of “Hide and Seek.”  See, with “hide and seek,” you KNOW someone is going to come looking for you.  They want to find you.  And they will search relentlessly, looking in the most improbable places until they find you.  That’s how the game is played.  Discovery is the ultimate goal.  Hiding is part of the fun and it’s all in fun.  You want to remain hidden the longest, but you don’t want to hide so well that you are never found.  The mad dash for home base after you have been discovered is part of the excitement you look forward too.  It’s a thrilling moment when you’re finally out in the open racing for home while trying to avoid being tagged!!

With Hide and Wait, the ultimate goal is to remain hidden…forever.  Discovery is failure and there is nothing fun about it.    And no one is going to try too hard to find you since “finding” is not really what the game is all about.  It’s about keeping distance.  About not discovering much of anything about the person you are talking to and not letting them discover much about you.  Keeping it shallow.  Keeping it light.  Keeping it safe.

If you are the hider (which is most often my role), one tactic that is particularly effective is to get the other person talking about themselves.  This accomplishes a couple of goals.  One:  You can easily hide because all you have to do is sit back and listen, asking an occasional question to keep the dialogue going.  Two:  Other people think you are interesting.  More importantly, they think you are NORMAL.  This is ultimately what the game is all about for the hider; appearing normal.  Because when you are the hider, you are decidedly NOT normal.  You’re hiding for a reason.

My reason is that I was abused as a child and it did a lot of damage.  I’m different.  I’m damaged.  I’m broken.  I’m also a little shy and introverted, which doesn’t help.  And then, there’s this eating disorder thing that I battle daily. (Can you believe how much of our social interactions revolve around FOOD!??).  It’s rather awkward to excuse yourself from the table after eating so you can go throw it all up.  I’m also divorced and don’t have any children (or, gasp, grandchildren, as is common among my friends now), so I don’t have any of the common connectors that most others have.  As a result of all of this past “yuck,” I don’t want people to know exactly how messed up and lonely I am.  Therefore, I try very hard to keep all that “garbage” hidden away inside of me.  I hide and wait until the conversation is finished, then critique myself afterward to determine how good of a job I’ve done at hiding.  I sigh a big sigh of relief if I’ve managed to keep it all fairly well camouflaged.  I kick myself a hundred times if I know they caught a glimpse of my mess.  In which case, I figure they won’t want to talk to me ever again. Which makes me feel more lonely and more like a freak.

You see, when you play hide and wait, you’re playing because you’re a messed up lonely person who craves a little human interaction.  But you know if they see the real you, they will flee, screaming as they go, because you are so horrid!  So you hide all the “ickiness” away in hopes of getting a little touch, albeit a shallow, insignificant one, from another person.  Then you pretend it was enough to get you by until the next time.

On the other side of the proverbial coin, they don’t really WANT to know (me) the hider.  They don’t want to go deep.  They DO want to talk about themselves because they find themselves to be endlessly fascinating (and they are, in most cases, very nice and interesting people).  So they aren’t really seeking.  In that sense, they are hiding too.  They have stories they tell about themselves, but they are very light and amusing and…shallow.  What I’ve found in my experience is, most people only need fairly shallow interaction.  Those deep connections are not something they crave the way I do.  So not only am I hiding myself away to avoid discovery, my heart is longing for something the other person is ill-equipped to give.  It’s a stupid game, truly.

I’ve been a master hider.  Used to be astoundingly good at it.  Then I ran out of energy and tenacity.  More often these days, I find myself hiding by isolating.  Social interactions are torture…just can’t seem to muster.  Can’t even pretend to be normal.  I’ve become more and more awkward, more odd, more filled with raw sewage (the smell is difficult to disguise!).  The side-effect of isolation is that you become even worse at interrelating as time goes on because you’re so out of practice.  Isolation does icky things to a person.  Psychologically, you become less fit and less capable of relating normally because you are broken down piece by piece by piece until there’s not much left.  When you’re broken to begin with and you are being worn down through self-imposed isolation, the end result is dust.  That’s what happens to your heart and soul.  If you’re fortunate, the mind survives, but survival isn’t the exciting option it’s made out to be.  Survival is just that…barely surviving…alive, but not so much.  Which provides you with even more garbage to hide!  Yippee!

The most scary thing about the game of hide and wait:  it’s not really a game.  It’s deadly serious.  And losing is not an option.  Losing means exposure; it means you’re found out, rejected, labeled, avoided, judged.  There is no “Olly, Olly, Oxen Free (all in free).”  You’re a freak and people know it.  And being an “it” really sucks.

The Sky Is Crying

The sky is crying and so am I.  It’s that kind of a day.  Cold, rainy, gloomy, depressing…the hint of spring we were beginning to catch glimpses of is all but swept away and hidden beneath heavy winter coats, breath fog and involuntary shivering.  I’m so ready for spring…but spring is not yet ready.

I find that in the darkness of this day, in the unrelenting rain, in the bone-chilling wet and piercing cold, I have nothing more to say.  My voice is gone.  I am broken and empty.  All I can do is let my tears join those of the raindrops the clouds are crying.  Words are often inadequate vessels and today they leave me cold and alone, seeking a flower where there is none.  In this wintry, lonely place, I have no words.  My tears must do the talking for me.

Another Week Down the Toilet

That’s kind of how my week has gone.  The thing that scares me the most about this is, they all seem to go this way.  Week after week, another one goes down the toilet…along with hundreds and hundreds of dollars of food.  Way too much of my life revolves around the toilet, quite frankly.  I need to get out more.

But it’s Friday, which is good.  Soon it will be Friday afternoon and that will be even better. Followed by Saturday, which is a big relief. Then Sunday, when I gear up to do it all over again.  Monday is horrid; I can barely force myself to face it.  Tuesday is still really depressing and difficult.  Wednesday is more drudgery, but I’m becoming numb to it.  Thursday, there is hope of a break; some rest if I can just hang on a little bit longer.  Which brings me to Friday once more, thankful it’s almost the weekend when the demands of performing are reduced.  Do you get the feeling I am dragging and clawing myself through the week, just…barely…hanging…on…until…the…weekend?

Weekends are a big relief.  I can get up whenever I wake up and I can take a nap if I get tired.  I can even take two naps if I’m feeling exhausted.  Sometimes, if things are especially not going well, I might not get dressed if I’m too depressed.  I can fail and not beat myself up so badly.  I don’t have to fight and struggle like I do during the week.  I play with the dog. I play on the computer.  I run a few errands.  I try to do a few chores.  Yes, I’m always pushing myself, but on the weekends, I don’t push nearly as hard.  I cut myself some slack.  I give myself some time to breathe and to crash and burn.  If I don’t perform at an adequate level, I’m not going to utterly hate and despise myself for it.  Not as much, anyway.  On the weekends, I can be who I am, even though who I am is not acceptable.

I wonder what life would be like if I didn’t hate myself.  I get the feeling most people DON’T – hate themselves, that is. I can’t honestly imagine how that must feel.  But I would think it would be kind of nice to actually enjoy your own company and not be completely disgusted with yourself.  Maybe, if a person likes who they are, they don’t simply endure the day…day after day after day.  Flushing them all away down the toilet as fast as possible as they try to make it to another weekend when they get another short reprieve.  Maybe, when they like themselves, they actually find some enjoyment in every day…even in a MONDAY.  Maybe, if you like who you are, you can like your world too.  It’s just speculation on my part, because, honestly, I can’t fathom what this would actually feel like.  I still have my head in the toilet.  Watching the food as it’s flushed away, along with my emotions and sorrow.  Watching the days go around and around and down the drain, never to be experienced again.  Watching my life disappear minute by minute, day by day, week by week, year by year.  Watching it all whirl around and vanish.  And I can never, ever, ever get it back…

Am I a Person?

When you are sexually abused as a child, you learn quickly that you are not a person.  You are, in fact, an object to be used by your abuser.  In my case, my abuser was my father and he used and abused me from the time I was about 4 or 5 until I was 14.  By the time I was 6, I knew deep in my heart that I didn’t matter.  I knew I existed only to please and satisfy my parents.  I was to bring fulfillment into their lives.  I was not a person.

When you are not a person, the rules do not apply to you.  People deserve to be loved and cherished, especially when they are children.  But since I wasn’t a person, I didn’t deserve anything.  I was fortunate indeed if I received a few crumbs from the table.  How dare I even THINK I should get to eat a meal with human beings!  I was an object…objects don’t eat at the table with the real people.

I learned to live without love and nurture and care and protection.  Those were reserved for people.  I learned to live with being hit and sexually used and neglected and slapped and overlooked.  I learned to be happy if I was tolerated, though not accepted.  I learned to live with rejection.  I learned to hide myself away…the real self…the one I buried deep inside of me, in the caverns of my soul.  Life was a scary lonely place.  It still is.  But then, I’m not a person and as such, I don’t deserve anything better.

When you are not a person, you can beg your daddy not to make you strip for him, but since you are only an object to be used, your words do not even penetrate the air around you.  They go unheard and unacknowledged.  They have no impact whatsoever.  When you are not a person, you can plead with your father not to make you perform oral sex on him, but your pleas fall on deaf ears.  Objects have no voice.  Objects exist for the sole purpose of being used.  Every instance of abuse just drives the point deeper into your heart.  You are nothing.  You do not matter.  You are not a person.

Today, all these many years later, I still don’t believe I am a person.  My counselor tries to tell me that I am.  But I learned the lesson well and all attempts to dislodge this long-held belief have been unsuccessful.  He says I can’t face the truth because if I know I’m a person, I will be very angry about how my parents, my father in particular, treated me.  The injustice of it all will become clear.  The pain will be overwhelming. So I avoid the problem by clinging to the belief that I am not a person, therefore, I didn’t deserve any better than what I got.  The problem is, I don’t know how to see things any differently than the way I see them.  I don’t know how to change my perspective because what I have always known is all I know.  So I type this note, casting the question to the gods of the internet as I try to understand and find the truth.  Am I a person?  I am haunted by the question.  I have no answers.

The World Through My Eyes