I have lived with pain and grief for so long that it made that I cannot breathe deeply.
When I try to breathe deep it come back with pain.
When I try to breathe deep, fear attacks my heart.
When I try to breathe deep, my stomach is a well of grief.
I think I breathe shallow coz I don’t want to know my body is alive. I don’t mind my mind being alive.
But my body, that is where all the memories are stored.
These days, I feel grief is reaching to hear. It want to be seen.
My grief wants to scream. It want to shout. It want to whisper.
It does not want to be ignored any more.
I have felt grief all my life.
When I was a child, until I left home at 19, I would get the most horrific headaches.
Headaches of frustration that was nothing I could do or say to stop my stepdad abusing me.
Headaches as I know my mother was not going to rescue me, or even take that much notice of my pain.
Headaches as I wanted to scream and scream – Stop it now. Stop everything. I hate it.
I see my headaches, and feel grief grab me by my throat.
I want to heal my childhood. I want that none of the abuse, the pain, the confusion and the rejection to have happened.
But it did – and I cannot re-write history.
I don’t breathe deeply, for the pain of my lost childhood to bear.
It is too much to bear that I know porn.
I know it because I have drowned in seeing porn. Seeing porn is a suffocation and a poisoning.
I can’t breathe that in.
When I remember viewing porn, I remember wanting to die. I remember trying to stop breathing.
I thought just seeing those images would kill me.
For they killed my sense of hope. They killed my will to fight.
Breathing in porn was breathing in hate. Breathing in porn was transforming me into a sex-doll.
I could be nothing else.
Seeing porn and knowing my stepdad’s abuse made prostitution a logical “choice”.
I almost can’t breathe as that sentence shows I must grieve.
I must grieve that a young teenager, a child, can hate herself that much that prostitution appears a logical choice.
That is so wrong. That hurts so damned much.
I had been filled with so much abuse and hate, that I accepted the unacceptable.
I was accepting by ignoring my body.
As I was fucked over and over. As men made various ways to put terror in my body.
I would not allow myself to feel.
I would be the tough “whore” who won’t not care.
What the point of caring, when I no idea how to stop what was happening.
I must of been breathing when I raped. I must of breathed when I was beaten.
I was breathing when I throwaway after they had done with me.
But I don’t remember feeling alive, I imagined I survived by being dead.
Grief hits me so hard when I see that time.
A time I blanked out for over ten years, coz I could believe I still be alive after all the tortures my body had lived through.
I could not see how lost I was then. How I was so alone.
I could not let in that the men did raped me. I could not let in that they planned how to torture me. I could not let in they saw me as non-human – only a porn-doll they could damage.
I could not see that I did prostitution as a form of suicide.
I could not say I deserved so much more.
Now grief comes into the top of my lungs, it grabs my throat. I terrified to breathe deep.
I am scared of crying, because I cannot get past stopping tears.
My grief is not tears. My grief does not sob.
My grief is in this writing of this blog. Each post carries my grief with pride.
My words say the past. Say it and allow grief to no longer hide.
Grief will make me whole, for I will not ignore who I was and how it made who I am now.
Grief is scary, but it gives me my life back.