Healing Makes Me Sick

I am more and more knowing the reality of all the mental, physical and sexual violence that is deep inside me.

I am knowing and I am sick in every cell of my body. I am sick at night, I cannot rest. I am sick as I try to relax, I cannot switch my brain off. I am sick as I read, I cannot concentrate.

I cannot bear the knowing. But I know to live I must know.

Know that I had no safety, no protection. Not in a world where no-one believe that anything was happening to me.

How can you protected when nothing is happening.

Know that behind my bravado and smiling, I had an unspoken terror and rage. Of course, I acting like it was no importance, I had no-one who would hear I hated it all.

Know as my sickness show each sexual torture, shows each hateful language I heard and did not listen to, shows me that hope was a luxury I could not know.

Yes I am sick.

I am sick as I coming back into life.

A life I never though could exist. A life with violence is on the outside. A life where routine becomes ordinary.

A life that is dull is such a wonderful thing.

I fought my way to have evening of TV watching, getting food from supermarkets, sitting in coffee shops.

A dull life was a dream then. God, I am happy that I’ve got it.

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