part 125, or "I guess it really is what it is"

***Kind of a trigger warning. It triggered me, anyway***

The first time I started this post was about two weeks ago. It hurts very much. It’s really been bothering me – I’m very irritated that I haven’t posted it yet. At this point, the only reason I am posting it is because it might make me feel better about the whole situation. That has worked with things I’ve written about before; it’s why I keep writing and posting on this blog.

But this...fuck. It is ROUGH. I’m very much remembering how I felt at the time this happened. I remember being in the front yard, stuck because I wanted to go somewhere ELSE, but across the street is where I was violently raped, and I was too scared to go there much anymore, even though those boys that lived there – my best friends, the sons of the bastard that raped me in theri basement - were what I needed at that time.

I had stopped mid stride in the grass, with one foot pointing across the street, but my face turned back to look at the big bay window of the kitchen – where my mom did that to me – and I was so fucking angry.

I was stuck.

I still know how that house smells, and that the ceilings look like, and the size of the closet under the stairs, which was one of my favorite places there. I remember what it was like to stand in the rooms, to lay down on the couch and read for hours, to be so relieved to find no one home after school, and I think again about her –my mom.

Why did she do that to me? Why?

Even if I feel like I cognitively understand why, my chest hurts so bad, and my heart is breaking apart, and all I can do is stand there frozen in the front yard and look back at the kitchen window, and my brain is so overcome with pain that I can’t make sense of anything at all.

It was the worst – what she did to me was the worst. After all the things my dad did, and other people did, all of the torture and rape and being the star of kiddie porn, what my mom did to me was the worst.

Before she did that to me, I at least had HER. I had some anchor that I was only subconsciously aware of, a foundation for my sanity – she’s my MOM. She’s my fucking MOM.

And in that moment, any inkling of security I had left was ripped away from me, and I had absolutley no idea what to do.

Oh my god, it HURTS!!!! It hurts so bad, remembering what it felt like to lose those last remnants of my sanity, and to feel it all float away, and I remember what it felt like for all of it to float away, and from then on, it was all just so blurry.

It was just all a screamingly desperate attempt to not know that she did that to me, and the anger really set in, and stayed there and festered for the next fifteen years.

Anyway, I am posting this shit now. I’ve had a good cry, the real kind, where everything in me feels like it is going to implode, and tears flow out from eyes, and insteard of the anger and hatred, I just feel pain.

Here’s the original begining of this post:

Yesterday I had this thing where I vivdly relived the time that my mom raped me. I actually had not even thought of it as rape until just now. Even as I am writing the word, and knowing that what she did to me is, by definition, rape, I keep double checking the reality of the concept.

What she did to me is very similar to what the rapist guy did when I was fifteen on superbowl sunday. It took a lot of cognitive analysis to finally recognize that as rape, and I can't deny now that what my mom did to me was the same thing.

Jesus. I don't like thinking about rape this early in the morning. I especially don't like thinking about my mom raping me at all. I suppose I really don't like thinking about rape at all, either, but my stomach in the morning is so fragile. I mean, I am nauseous right now. It reminds me of elementary school.

So anyway, I don't want to think about it, but it was a really significant and intense experience yesterday, and I feel quite compelled  to write about it.

It was one of those times that I really relived the experience, except that I was still aware that I was here, today, and that allowed me to respond to my mom now in a way I wasn't able to then. I even talked out loud to her. Talking out loud in this remembering type of situation, even when I know for certain that no one can hear me, is really scary for me. I have such a fear of being overheard, or watched, or whatever.

I found out recently that people with avoidant personality disorder have an extreme fear of anyone seeing them blushing, and I wonder if this is the same type of fear I have about being overheard talking out loud to people in my past memories.

So anyway, I felt good about being brave enough to talk to that memory of my mom out loud.

******

I started this post three days ago. I'm scared to post it.

My mom raped me.

I don't even like thinking about it. Why would I write it in a fucking blog?

I am back to being afraid of what she might think or do if I post it, and also being afraid of what my brother and sister might say.

I'm not afraid in a concrete way - it is more like the girl in my brain is afraid of being abandoned or ostrasized or shamed or ridiculed.

But I am not the same girl now, and I have already been shamed and ridiculed and ostrasized and disowned, so what am I afraid of? What's left to scare me? 

It's the reality of it. If I say that my mom raped me, then I have to think - did my mom rape me? Then I go back to all of the ways that what my mom did to me constitutes rape. I keep running out of any other answer than:

My mom raped me.