Miss Gee (kodak_moment) wrote in in_our_own_way,
Miss Gee
kodak_moment
in_our_own_way

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i wrote this, like last week (not poetry)



When I first started having panic attacks, when I first experienced that paralysing, all-consuming terror, I wondered why it was all so goddamn familiar. I couldn’t understand why I felt like I knew this, recognised it…but why? And then it occurred to me that I had felt like this before, for the entire five years that I was abused I had felt this constant terror, in a muted sense. It got to the point where I was completely accustomed to it, similar to how you become accustomed to the hum of the computer or the rain on the roof. It was there, but it wasn’t really acknowledged. You almost took it for granted. It’s been there ever since, suppressed to a point at which I was barely aware of the way my hands shake uncontrollably, or the slight tremble in my voice, but suddenly, like the storm, after a somewhat eerie calm, it all blew up in my face. Suddenly I was eight years old again, and totally paralysed with apprehension. Trying to understand forces I couldn’t comprehend. Forming stupid plans to avoid which scared me. But it didn’t seem to be working. It was still hitting me at the back of my head, spreading slowly through my mind, paralysing me with dread and through my body causing me to shake with such a force that my muscles begin to ache with the strain of it. Its at a time like this that I remember the words, “The only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain” and I dig my fingernails deep into my skin hoping to focus on the sharpness of the pain, hoping to breath free, hoping to survive. And I can’t help but think that it’s not fair…I shouldn’t have to live like this. Trapped by a fear I can’t see, and can’t name. The sort of thing you can only bear to think about at 4 am when sleep would be a sweet relief, but closing your eyes doesn’t really seem like an option. This is the side of sexual abuse that no one can truly understand, if they haven’t been there themselves…the fallout. The afterwards. How are you meant to pick up the pieces of an ordinary life, you probably (if you were as young as me) never really knew? How do you move on? And it’s been five years, and I wish I could say, that I was ok, but I cant, it’s a long, long road to being ok. But that’s the point of being a survivor. I’m still here. And there’s power in that. There’s a control over my own self, I never had as a child. And by testament, every time I breath, I know what I went through, but I also know I’m still fighting it, and I will win. It’s true; sometimes I wish I could just give up, give into all the destructive elements in my life and say goodnight, but then, the point is… I don’t want to give into the fear. In my heart, I know, I want to survive.
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