Today is a very bad day. I usually write in the morning when my head is straight. But tonight with background of West Indies vs Australia cricket match, I feel I must write.
I am close to depression. For me, that is an empty feeling.
More I want to cry, and I can’t.
My tears were stolen by my abuse.
They were stolen by my mother’s neglect. I felt I had no love. I know I was not protected.
I should of been able to cry. But I know I can’t.
Why cry when it is ignored. Why cry when it is just seen as weak.
Tears went into my stomach and refused to come out.
But male violence made my tears disappear.
Being raped as a young girl, put too much shock in body for the tears to appear. They seemed almost pointless.
After in the wet bed, I had a shame I had no words for. I could not cry when it must be me being bad.
I think somewhere deep there was anger. My eyes watered with frustration, but no tears appeared.
After the first rape I know I was alone.
I lived with shock after shock. So many shocks that it slowly turned me into a robot.
Robots cannot cry.
Seeing porn froze all emotions. I was a stunned rabbit waiting to be shot.
Porn kill me. I lived by believing in hope. Porn kill that stone dead.
Porn taught me how to be a sex doll.
I had learnt not to, even my head, to questioned my stepdad.
I would have baths. I would ignored my terror.
It felt like the water was made of acid, as his fingers were in me.
I ignored my sickness as he stroked my hair. As he played footsies as I tried to eat dinner. As his tongue went down my throat as he kissed good night.
I try to pretend I was happy. I so wanted to pretend everything was normal.
But I was cracking up.
Maybe crying would of given me a short break. Maybe crying would of given me back some emotions.
Instead I was freezing out my heart, ignoring my soul.
I could not know my fear, it may kill me.
Somewhere deep I still angry, but it was impacted by ice.
I believe in many ways I was dead when I enter prostitution. I had given up caring what happened to my body.
But even then I was shocked.
I was shocked to be gang-raped. I was shocked at the amount of pain that was forced into my body. I was shocked at the pure hate.
I know never to cry. Crying would give those men pleasure. I know it would be a green light for more pain and more degradation.
To survive it was best to act dead.
That was easy for me, for I had died in my first rape when I was six.
I found “date rapes” hard.
Those men were “friends”. Those men had fooled me into trusting them.
I had been fool enough to show some vulnerability.
Date rape murdered my soul.
It tossed any vestige I had of hope into a rubbish dump.
I could not believe in anything, after a man I had been friend for eight years sadistically raped me for six hours.
All I had to believe in was that I must die soon.
That is my past.
I want to cry now, now I am away from that world.
But still no tears will come.
I am terrified that I am an empty shell.
Today, I could perform being happy, when my stomach was aching with grief.
I smoked to stop the pain of not crying.
Today, when I told a friend that I felt close to the edge, she said you appear so well.
That is my problem, I am so good at acting I cannot let out my grief and pain.
I want my tears back.
They are mine.
They don’t belong to those bastards.