The power of words

So I was checking out a blog I follow – “Being her” – which is written by a woman who is going through some of the same stuff I am or have gone throigh (check out her blog but fair warning her blog is about an affair in which she was the other woman). So reading an entry I came across a comment, the comment was innocent nominating the writer for a blogging award, it was the bloggers name that struck me, “daddysverynaughtylittlegirl” okay so this name isn’t innocous or innocent but I doubt anyone else quitebhad the reaction to the name I did. I didn’t click on her name so I am assuming the daddy in her blog is just a pseudonym rather than factual. At least I hope so.

I doubt many reading that name or that blog would feel an initial rush of terror, that sinking felling of panic as your stomach jumps into your throat and you think you might pass out or be sick. Next came the flashback, where I am seeing the whole thing though this misty blue fog that makes me feel I am suffocating. The sensation of big hands on my frightened child body. Pain, panic and a sickening feeling of excitement. It sounds sick and wrong but its all twisted up in years of programming made me want to please him I was trained to make him happy no matter what. No one said no to my dad, no matter what he wanted.

So next there is this fucked up feeling of guilt because I never told him no, did I encourage him? Is it all my fault that I am like this? I am making huge steps to mental health but there is stuff underneath that I don’t know how to bring up. Things I am embarrassed to tell my therapist about. How do you tell someone that you fucked up history of child abuse left you with a daddy fetish. Its not real, my father is dead and what he did to me was horrific but I end up with men who are like him. Either too old for me, eg the Married Man I had an affair with was 20 yrs older than me,or the lawyer I had a thing for who was 18 yrs older. Then there are thebones who had the crazy ass anger issues that I fled states to get away from, or the ones who wantdd to use me for sex and things. I let it all happen, wanted it and maybe even needed it.

It makes you wonder about the power of words, to drudge up all of this just from a few words on a screen. It has me all up in knots, luckily I have a therapy session tomorrow.

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Beginning

I have been meaning to start this blog for nearly a year now, but have always put it off. Now at the urging of my therapist I am finally taking this huge first step.

There is so much in my life, both recent and long past that I have had to push aside and tamper down in order to survive to the next day. It’s only now, as an adult getting close to 30 that I am, possibly for the first time in my life, in a position to look back and try to come to terms with my past.

So here it is, I am 28 at the time of writing this, and I am stable both physically, mentally and emotionally though that stability has been long in coming. 2 years of intense therapy and learning to change a lot about my inner way of thinking and doing, has given me something I have always wanted but never thought I could have. Peace of mind and a knowledge that I am safe.

What happened to me to cause me to push aside myself? Why did I never feel safe? Well there is a lot to it, things I will try to explore in depth later on in this blog (I say try because I am not sure of success, my inner demons may prove to be too much for me), but suffice it to say I am a survivor of many things not the least of which is severe ritual abuse in my childhood years.

It’s a scary thing putting myself out there like this, knowing first hand that people so often blame the victim even if they don’t know that there are even doing it. I often talk blithely about my childhood, telling my story in a deadpan sort of way that has others questioning the truth of my words. There are 2 reasons for this the main one beinf that I have distanced myself from the events to such a level that it takes real effort to draw on my feelings, the second being that its somewhat of a test to those who I tell, id they can takw the worst of me maybe I can trust them with my best.

Writing osnt an easy endevor for me despite a desire to make a living out of it. I have read that ro write well a writer must give of themselves, tear out a part of themselves to put down in words. I am not sure if I can do thia I have already lost so much of myself and bear the physical and mental scars of it as proof. My life has been a war with my body and mind the battlefield. I often wonder if I have anything left to give, will the field that is me remain fallow or like true battlefields will all the carnage have left behind a more fertile soil.

So I guess this is my attempt to find out, my attempt at cultivating the soil of my mind in hopes for a fruitful harvest.