I am exhausted after all the writing that I have done in the last few days. This exhaustion comes from a place of grief.
When I view my life, it has always been in pieces. Now slowly, and sometimes too fast, my life is knitting together.
For most of my life, I have not felt real, but some kind of actress. Nothing felt solid for me.
Like an actress, I would forget each role I became. I never own any of myself. I just was whatever I needed to be.
That is exhausting.
It was exhausting trying to imagine how to be a child, when feeling I never understood how to be a child.
It was exhausting hiding that my stepdad made me his sex toy.
It was exhausting closing down that I saw hard-porn.
It was exhausting trying to be at school when I had no idea how to fit in.
It was exhausting being a runaway, never showing my fear or vulnerability.
It was exhausting trying to play happy families.
Being a child was exhausting.
I grieve that child. I want to say you can have some rest now.
Rest as I read children’s stories I have forgotten.
Rest as I watch films that remind I can be a child.
Rest as children’s TV can bring back some life.
Rest as I hold stuffed toys, that I couldn’t hold as a child.
I want my child to have calmness. I want her to have dreams.
I am exhausted when I try to understand who I was as a teenager and young woman.
I am exhausted when I know I had all of my teenage years stolen by male violence.
I am exhausted that I could not believe in hope.
I am exhausted knowing the men that raped and tortured me planned all their actions.
I am exhausted as I see and feel their hate in every cell of my body.
I am exhausted as my memory carries all the rapes, tortures, degradation and humiliation. It show me in small doses and overwhelming rushes.
I am exhausted as body now the truth.
I am exhausted as I know it happened to too many women and girls.
I want to give my teenager and young woman rest.
Rest to grieve.
Rest to scream at the complete lack of justice for that time.
I rest as I watch silly teenage soaps on TV, and imagine being safe enough for angst.
Rest as I find interests that were always in my heart, but lost in the pain.
I want to give her enough rest to cry.
And living now is exhausting.
I am exhausted as body memories follow me everywhere.
I am exhausted as I try to discover that I can trust.
I am exhausted as I try to find the “role” of living without violent.
I am exhausted as I abandoned self-harm, and have to face the reality.
I am exhausted as I write as honest and clearly as I can.
I am exhausted as my truth grow strong enough that others can attack me.
I am exhausted at being told I am a liar.
I am exhausted at blaming myself.
I am exhausted at be called mentally ill.
I am exhausted that I know what I know.
I want rest now.
Rest from being attacked.
Rest from seeing my horrors.
Rest to relax and watch rubbish on TV.
Rest to watch Arsenal.
Rest to go for walks without my mind going blank.
Rest to read and to remember what I have read.
Rest for joy.
To rest, I must grieve.
To grieve, I need to not be alone.