Young Enough and Old Enough.

Thoughts,


Here I am at the young yet, old age of 25 years old.
I find a deep bitterness trying to grow in me.
Anger and hatred planted so deep it will cause much pain to rid myself of it.

My mother tried to contact me around my birthday.
It's like she wants to try anything she can to ruin what should be happy days for me.
There is some small part of me that wants to believe she doesn't have motives and genuinely wants to be a part of my life. I hate that soft part of me... that weakness that longs to have my mom back... It's just a big manipulation.

My most recent struggle is the war of whether or not to go back to school. I am young enough it wouldn't be a big deal... for most anyway. The other side of the coin is, I am just old enough that it may be harder to get back into than I can handle. I have no high school transcript, no SAT scores, no ACT scores, nothing. A few credit hours at a previous community college but, nothing to shake a stick at.
This all because my parents lied and said "God" told them to home school. I believe it's possible He told them to do so. However, they didn't. They simply pulled us out of school and put us to work on the ranch. Everything I know, I taught myself post 3rd grade. The only problem with this is, you don't know what you don't know and things like Math, Science and Biology fall to the way side.

The long and short of it is, if I go back to school I need to want it, bad, and be ready to struggle harder to reach my goals. Oh, and figuring out what my goals are.

There are so many things looking back that cause me a great deal of hurt, anger, and frustration.
Beyond my lack of education and opportunities there is so much I feel cheated out of.
I feel like my passions I had in my youth have been stripped from me and the only passion I feel (outside of my love for my husband) is anger at my relatives.
I feel disconnected with the very gifts that once kept me tethered to this world.
 Music barely touches me, it used to be what pulled cleansing tears from the once secret hurts of my soul.  Horses used to be my heart beat. I haven't even touched one in over a year.

Maybe this is the feeling of lost.

It is time to find a way to let go of  yet another ugly hurt and bring a pulse back to my decayed and decrepit inner being.

I am hoping this new year brings new beginnings but, I know better than to expect those beginnings will thrust themselves upon me.
I must to take it a day at a time and build strength to take those days by force instead of the usual passive lethargic existence I've found myself struggling with once again.

I'm just walking it out.

Lies, Only Skin Deep

 Skin Deep,

                                                        Image: My Fighting Chance

If only it was, skin deep. Epidermis and tissue can be sewn, even glued shut. It can be treated with antibiotics and therapies to enhance and accelerate the healing process.  It's so much more though, this wound. It's spiritual, emotional, psychological and the least of it's damage is skin deep.

I'm talking about the wound of abuse.
The words abusers speak, the manipulations and exhaustive exercises they put souls through. --They brand minds and to sear mental recordings with lies.
Lies, that if left untreated, just like a skin deep wound have and will infect the rest of one's being.

For me these lies were once a blanket I used to cope and conceal. I used them to hold my broken heart together for a time suppressing my true emotions.
These lies comforted me and gave me a false sense of control. Control that was stolen from me when my abusers first touched to me.
Lies that said "It's YOUR fault." something as a victim I had told myself time and again in hopes for that false sense that I had some control. I needed to feel I wasn't the helpless victim no one wanted to believe I was anyway.

Breaking the cycle of these lies and the layers of shame they had held over me, made healing on every level possible.
It is, was, and continues to be hard.  Well meaning loved ones try to help but it's hard for them to understand.

 I am a survivor of more than just abuse and assault. I am a survivor of a false sect that fronted as "family."  They coddled my abusers because entangled within their communion were the very monsters who touched me. The very barbarians who looked at me with hungry eyes and spoke to me with their blasphemous mouths -- lived amongst and were people whom my life was entrusted to, family.
As I look back at my youth it pains me to try and grasp the level of desperation and denial one had to live under to miss all the signs of hell right in front of them.
Then to couple that with a strong religious foreground--oh, how depraved they are!
Yet, I was once one of these delusional individuals. A hard grievous truth that I have and do face daily.

Skin deep, not even my tears are just skin deep. They come from deep within, a reservoir where pain and hurt meet mercy and healing. The effects of which are pools of soul cleansing tears.
Tears which only recently in my life have I allowed myself permission to feel and experience.

How can this be? How do such places of horror and people of illness exist?
My comfort is understanding that, this side of eternity- I don't have to be able to comprehend how or why on such matters. I must give myself permission to deduce that I do not even need the answers nor does it matter if there are fathomable conclusions. These entities and evils do exist, period.
My purpose in healing is for personal gain. However, it is also a proposition which effects others around me a great deal. I now possess a real family. One which I am a huge part of creating and even keeping together. If my wounds which are much more than skin deep are not properly cared for and dealt with, they can possibly infect not just myself but the entire unit and community of support and family around me. I am not responsible for the evils committed against me in the past but I am responsible for my healing process and the power I allow it have in my life.

Healing does not end because you can no longer see the wounds.

Dear Nanny

Dear Nanny,

I miss you!
I feel like cancer stole a lot from us, you and me. We had good times, sad ones, hard times but no matter what kind of time it was, we had each other.
I miss that.

I wish you could be here today and see me. Meet my son your great grandbaby. My husband and the loving wonderful man he is. He takes care of his shoes! ;-)
He also loves and respects his mother.

I wish you could see all the things you taught and showed me working in my life. Everything from the way I get pretty before going out to the way I keep my  house. I wish I could tell you I was safe and happy. I hope you know that.
I remember so many things you told me and wish now I had paid even more attention.

I miss painting my nails with you. I miss going out to our little tea house for luncheons.
I miss watching you. I miss your smell. I miss your singing.
I miss you.

I miss curling your hair and eating big breakfast with coffee and Irish cream. I miss having ice cream snacks on hot days with you. I miss drinking a big ice glass of Dr Pepper with you. I miss our fancy cakes.

I miss long car rides with you to Arkansas. I miss our conversations solving the worlds problems.
I'm sorry I grew up and grew busy. I regret that now. I regret not calling you more.
I miss you. I love you.




This day two years ago I was on the phone with you, when you took your last breath.
 I will cherish those last few moments we had. I will never forget telling you it was okay to go even though in my mind it wasn't.

See you on the other side someday.

Spit balling

I am so angry,



I am angry at the people who never protected me.

I am angry at other rape victims who did not report and could have possibly saved  me from this hell.

I am angry that I have to be the brave one who is exposed and vulnerable to the scrutiny of liars and accusers in order to seek justice.

I am angry that I have been a fool and was trained to take a beating and rape time and again.

I am angry that my whole life was spent learning how to mask everything with a religious falseness so as not to disappoint or shame my "family."

I am angry that rapists can time and again CHARM their way in and out of the lives of victims and get away with the horror and damage that they leave in their wake.



I am angry that pictures of my body taken by a rapist are being used in total strangers spank banks and porn addictions DAILY!

I am furious that it will take telling my story AGAIN and even showing these pictures to more strangers before I have a chance... just a chance at justice.

I am angry that my nightmares can't be bottled up and used as evidence to prosecute this rapist.



I am angry my husband has to see or even know of such things.

I am also scared...

I am scared that I will lose... and he, my rapist will be STILL be free.

I am scared that one day I will have to tell my son SOMETHING about why mommy can't sleep good or cries from time to time for no apparent reason.

I am so angry and afraid that I don't have a mom to support me but instead she chose a rapist over me.

I am so angry that she is missing out on my life and sons life and I can't trust her to be safe and help me.

I am so angry that it is me and my husband against the whole evil of rapists and abusers.



I am tired... tired of fighting depression and fear. I am tired of not resting when I sleep because I am running and fighting in my nightmares. I am so tired of hurting, I am tired of hiding but, I am also tired of being brave.

I'm tired of feeling so much and yet it's the strongest part of me... feeling.



WHY?! Why EVERYTHING?! Why me?



How do I get past this and focus on something bigger than me when this IS bigger and consumes me?

When? When do I get peace? When do I get justice?


When will the morning come that I wake up and the day is not a battle to get through?



 Where is Christ in this? Where?

The Heavy Tiredness

Aka Depression.

I move with the agility of an 80 year old arthritic woman.  My walk is slow, I feel stiff even though there is no stiffness in my joints.  My face feels too heavy to smile and my jaw feels locked.
My joints though not stiff, ache. They ache from not having a proper amount of fat or muscle to cover them. It hurts to lay down in one position for too long.  Something falls asleep or a hip pops out of the socket and I am stuck in pain.

My doctor believes I am healthy as a horse and  just a "little" under weight.
My opinion, 92 lbs is too small even for a 24 year old 5.4 petite frame.
I eat, but it's becoming more and more forced.  I feel so detached at times.

I love my son and my husband but, I struggle feeling good enough for them.
Good enough to deserve them, good enough to be worthy of their love and affection towards me.
It's time again to see my therapist and doctor about increasing my meds.
I feel defeated in the need to do so. I feel like I failed on this smaller dose.

What are my rapists and abusers suffering?
Nothing, that's what.

Damn!

Here I am in therapy, on medication, in support groups, blogging, drawing and anything I can do to try and help myself recover and still...I am plagued with nightmares, this stupid depression and more.

Anger... how I hate that you are there and won't come out.
You frighten me and comfort me. I have no idea what to do with you and yet I want so badly to express you to a degree in which I would feel justified and effective.

Tears... where did you go? Do you not know I am hurting and need to feel you slowly run down my face like the caress of an angel letting me know it's real?

Fear... you're an unfortunate constant. You and anxiety seem to know where to find me easily enough. I feel as though you, like my father, and the devil laugh at my pain and enjoy torturing me.

Nightmares... Yes, you mental rapist. CURSE YOU! You love to chase me and trap me. It's a sick game of cat and mouse you play with my head at night. No matter where, when or how I sleep you are there. No matter how many times I wake up or jump in my sleep you infiltrate my head.

Shame... you haunt me still.  I told you, I was done with you and yet you come back and hang over me with the rest of the previously mentioned group members.

I hate you...all of you... depression and all you bring and steal from me.
This is a bad day...no, this is a bad week.
I'm so tired.

The Somatic and the Spiritual

The Nightmare:
There are images of an elevator, my sister and a knowing  she is pregnant and then another image of my father. Things get fuzzy and clear off and on and then next thing I hear in my mind is "You were never going to take care of me anyway! You never have!" It was my sisters voice in response to my father kicking her out of the house.
Things get dark and a horrible feeling of doom overwhelms me. I can't see anything and I wake up abruptly.

The body memory:
I hear the low hum of the air conditioner at work in our room. Jimmy is laying next to me on his stomach tucked snug in the sheets.
I am wide awake and feel cramping in my abdomen. Then I feel moisture running down my legs.
This is unusual and confusing. I throw the sheets and blanket back and sit up in bed there is blood.
Now I'm more confused and freaked out. "It's not time yet.." I say to myself.
I get up and go the bathroom to clean up and feel humiliated and embarrassed.
I get back in bed and try to sleep but at this point I am too afraid to sleep.
The next day I am more confused about the previous nights nightmare and cramping with bleeding. I did not bleed anymore the rest of the day...or the next.

What I had is what is known as a somatic memory... or body memory.
It's when a memory is stored in your body instead of your mind. I know my father abused me far worse than just back handing me and throwing me across the room from time to time. I know there are deeper scars from more than his verbal abuse on my heart. I have memory gaps in my childhood and there is no doubt in me that these gaps are repressed memories from sick and degrading abuse inflicted upon me by my father. The memories have been suppressed unto my body...and come out in the form of cramping, bleeding, weird bruising, chronic back pain, and more. My body has a flashback instead of my mind.
I know that until I got my first period my childhood is VERY fuzzy.
I also know that when I did get my period my father loathed me. He wouldn't come near me except to hurt me and even told me not to touch him.
He was in no danger of me wanting to be near him anyway.
When something triggers me to get that feeling of doom like I had in the nightmare I get cramps and usually back pain. I have no memories though.

This body memory and the pain I feel is VERY real and this is a defense mechanism against the nightmares and suppressed memories. Or as some would have it...LACK thereof.
Mentally I could not handle the hell I was put though so my body took the memory on in physical form and holds it there.
I will need much therapy to learn how to cope with this and decide on proper treatment.

I HATE this!

I have a life time of recovery ahead of me and I struggle with everything from physical pain to emotional and mental anguish from my past abuse.
I feel as though the only thing my abusers are suffering is old age...something we are all damned too.
How unfair.

Paul was right, "to die is gain"... and some day's I struggle wishing I had died long ago. It would have been a mercy.
However, I must not leave this verse or partial verse out of context.
Because Paul also said "To live is Christ,"

"For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain." 
                                                                                     Philippians 1:21

Paul spoke this while in chains... imprisoned in his own kind of hell.
He was not speaking from behind the comfort of a solid pulpit with "safe" religious people.
He was speaking covered in filth, and chained. He starts by speaking about how all this horror he was suffering and had suffered served only to advance The kingdom.
The verse prior to the above says:
"I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death."
                                                                                        Philippians 1:20


To live is Christ... what is Christ?
Christ is a living sacrifice, a death to sin, both sin committed by and against the body.
The physical death was the body or somatic reaction to sin.
The wages of sin is DEATH.
Yet, in this death... Christ is glorified. 

Incest Equals Cannibalism

 Incest, the Emotional and Spiritual Form of Cannibalism.

"It's normal for siblings to touch each other and explore their bodies and sexuality."

I heard this before... even from my own mothers mouth not in these exact words but with the exact implication of this statement.

What about fathers touching daughters? Or mothers touching sons?
What about when the older brother is himself a rape victim acting out the nightmares and horrors that were done to him upon his little sister?
What about that hideous dirty old uncle who has a porn addiction and works around used and abused women daily and targets the weak...even his own niece?

These family members prey upon the weak... and then devour them spiritually and emotionally.
They shame them, guilt them, hurt them and then cook them up or "groom" them to satisfy their filthy hungers.

Are you hungry or feeding?
In some way you are either hungry and going for what satisfies your appetite or you are feeding someones appetite.
In the animal kingdom there are 2 kinds of animals... the predator and the prey.
Animals with eyes close together are predators (dogs, cats, etc.) and animals with eyes far apart are prey (horses, chickens, cows etc.). Humans fall under the predator mindset of course. We are hunters, fighters and feeders. We feed off each others energy by either dominating them or following their lead. We feed off what others around us project or send out.  You will fight, or you will flee.
You will be dominating or dominated. period.

What about the rape and assault victims though?
They fall under the category... BROKEN.
They are dead, half eaten and broken.  Because someone decided to dominate them and instead of protecting them as a leader... murdered them and ate them. They had a hunger, a cannibalistic hunger to attack a weaker of their species and murder who they could have been.

When a dog is attacked or trapped and cannot escape they fight or flee and in some cases the dog will freeze... or go into shock.
One example is the dog who stands in the bath tub and shakes the entire time even though his body temperature is normal and he will shake from shock because he cannot run or fight this thing he fears.
When a dog is praised or coddled during this experience it teaches him to continue projecting this fear and shock state of energy and he will always react this way to the bath until someone, a dominate leader works with him and does not feed this energy with coddling or sympathetic petting.

A rape victim is often done this way as well.
Thrown on a bed, or up against a wall, maybe even on the floor and then attacked until her predators hunger is satisfied. When she cannot get away she will go into shock and try to at least mentally escape her hell in that moment. Her attacker especially if it's a family member will coddle and praise her... "groom" her for her next attack and she will hide from the world and be trapped mentally for future attacks until something gives.

Is there hope for the broken?

Yes!

It not easy, it is hard, it is scary for the broken but it is possible.

  "The LORD is my strength and my shield; in him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults, and with my song I give thanks to him."                          Psalm 28:7 ESV

When you cannot be dominate, but fear being dominated.... look for where your strength lies and be dominated by it from within.
You don't have be devoured anymore.

  "Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour."                                                     1 Peter 5:8

You don't have to be a victim anymore... you are worth living and fighting for.
 Someone else, a higher power, has already paid the price for your death.
You are so loved, a life was already devoured for you...a sacrifice was already paid for you so you don't have be dead anymore. 

"¹⁶ “For God so loved the world,^[a] that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life."                                        John 3:16

Say The Words.

Say, "I love you." every chance you get because you never know when one of the times you say it,  it will heal something broken in the one you love.

You never know when those words will hit a deep part of the heart never touched before.
Seize each chance you get to say these words because, it solidifies a deeper truth than the half truth or out and out lie that tried to cover it.

Say "I love you" any moment you can in every way you can unashamedly.
Because you don't know when it could be your last.
 No one ever gets to the end of life regretting having said or expressed these simple yet powerful words.

Love, conquers all and love NEVER fails.
True and perfect love casts out fear and tonight for the first time in my life this truth has hit home with me.

I love and have continually grown in my love for my husband.
I know in my head and heart he loves me but before tonight I don't believe I really understood with my heart the depth of that love.
I knew it in my head all along but, tonight, something about the way he said to me hit my heart.
It felt as if something broken or dead within me was suddenly made whole.
I heard his words with my heart, like I've heard the unmistakable whisper of the Holy Spirit before.
I heard his words and felt them in a whole new way.

There was nothing spectacular about how he said them, there was not particularly romantic reason for it. He was just simply saying he loved me after dinner tonight.
He does this every night and tonight was no exception. Except, that it was exceptionally real and deep for me.
I responded with "I love you too, Poppa" but, I did so with a heavy mind swirling and reeling over the truth of these words.

I am loved.

For so many the previous sentence is an easy truth to swallow and believe. This has never been the case for me until my husband.
I could write a chapter on what happened when he said those words tonight.
Suffice to say, I get it now...in my heart not just my head.

I will continue to let these words do the work they have started tonight and hold on to them.
I will also never feel silly or ashamed for saying them to those whom I do love.
I vow to make sure my family knows everyday that I love them.

Say the words, seize the opportunity, and never give up.

You the survivor, or the loved one of the survivor are healing and even without your healing you are good and you are loved.

So Hate-able

Text message to my husband:

"I feel good about today's session but, momentarily I am very angry.
I think back to all the times in my childhood when I fought or worked hard like I did with those kittens and he killed them... and laughed about it.

What's more sad and anger provoking is that these memories are my most predominant childhood memories. They affirm in me and that he hates me.
It's okay now because I hate him back. As a kid though I felt continually devastated that my efforts and attempts to gain approval were still not enough. I was hate-able even in my best condition."

This is a message I sent to my husband after a brief phone conversation following my morning therapy session.
This particular session I spoke about recurring dreams and nightmares that have slowly infiltrated their way back into my sleep.
Nightmares of beloved pets dieing and rescuing animals from the people who raised me.

I told my therapist the following account of a childhood memory that will better explain the above text message.

When I was around 7-8 years old. I had this big black cat who had kittens.
She was a young momma and I brought her inside in my bedroom so she could raise her kittens without the dogs interfering. She did well the first day or two but one evening my father let her outside (more like kicked her out) and I never saw her again.
Her kittens were hungry and had gone a whole night without milk so I started feeding them.
Every two hours I got up and mixed powder and water to make  milk  and with an eye dropper. I tediously fed each kitten until he had his fill and put them back to bed in their box. This went on for several days. My little 7-8 year old life was consumed by feeding and caring for my kittens.
I don't remember what set my father off but one evening he had melt down. He was sick of kittens in the house and kicked them out.
I screamed, begged, pleaded and cried but it was to no avail. The kittens were removed from me and put in the shed with a pan of milk.
It was a cold night and the kittens did not have their eyes open yet. I cried myself to sleep and awoke the next morning to a milk pan full of drowned baby kitties.
My little heart was shattered and I tried to swallow back my tears but it was no use.
When I told my father they were dead he stood there and watched tears stream down my face and then laughed.

Mom always said he didn't know how to cope with other peoples sadness and it made him uncomfortable so he gave an awkward laugh. I however felt a cold sting of hatred pierce my heart each time.

This is NOT the only story I have like this in my childhood.
I have raised all kinds of animals and most of them yes, in the house (including a horse).
They were house pets until my father got fed up and kicked them out and something killed them.
It was not uncommon to wake up to blood bathes in the yard.  My beloved pets body parts would be all over the place after he evicted them the night before. I felt my pets deaths all could have been avoided but, I had no means to win any fights with my father.
Life happens, things die. I knew that, but I was slowly murdered each time he would respond to such situations by laughing or making an excuse.

I hate him for hating me.

My husband asked me if mattered anymore that he hated me and, it doesn't.
I don't care anymore that he hated me but, I do wish I knew why.

I try to tell myself, "It's not about you." This is a truth that will take some time before I can swallow.
Most of my life I have believed it was about me and that I was hate-able even in my best condition I wasn't good enough to be more than hate-able.

As a rape and abuse survivor I have struggled with getting in touch with my feelings.
It's only recently I have started to allow myself to feel the anger and find productive ways to transfer that energy to something productive and healthy. I am learning how to not repress my true feelings and instead allow them be what they are and embrace that.
This is a struggle for me. I have to give myself permission to be happy, sad or angry.
I've been so controlled in my life that I have to give myself permission to even take a drink of water at times, in my own house no less.

There is much work to be done within me to feel my emotions freely and let them go.
There is also much work to be done to forgive and let go so I can have the power to heal and not allow my past to ruin my future. It is a step by step process.
For now, feeling anger and hate and allowing myself to process it in a healthy way is all I can manage.
I pray for God to guide me through this process and I know He will see me through to the other side.

The Dirty Tissue Is You.

I hadn't exactly slaved over dinner but, I had made a valiant effort to prepare a decent warm meal for my husband after a hard day of work.
He enjoyed it and even thanked me afterwards. We both sat on our old borrowed couch watching something left over in our Hulu que and just relaxed together.
The baby was asleep and after a bit it was time for us to turn in as well.
I picked up the dishes and took them to the sink while my husband finished using a toothpick just before he went to brush his teeth.
He got up and left the room while I finished rinsing the dishes and straightening up the kitchen before washing up for bed.
I turned around and suddenly felt my face get flush and warm at the sight of this disgusting thing on my coffee table.
I try not to be picky but the sight of a used dirty napkin, tissues and toothpicks left behind on the table bother me to no end.

I got so angry over this stupid little piece of trash my husband left behind.
I was a little surprised by the depth of my anger about it and just took a deep breath and cleaned off my coffee table.
I went to bed but, I was not able to shake my feeling of anger with my husband. You would have thought he had committed treason or something.
I sent him a text later explaining that when he left such things on the table it bothered me and I did not want to have to have a conversation about it but, I preferred he just not let it happen again.
He looked me a little confused and then looked back at his phone.
He replied "I'm sorry baby, I will work on it."
I was satisfied with his response and let it go.

A few days later I was walking through the house and saw this same situation on my coffee table again!
I took a deep breath and decided to give him some time to pick up on it and fix the problem himself.
However, by not communicating immediately with him about it, the inevitable happened.
I became more angry each time I walked by it and finally snapped at him "Honey! we talked about this! I didn't want to have this conversation but, really?!"

He looked at me confused and a little shocked about my reaction to his forgetfulness.
He quickly remedied the issue and peace was restored to the household. Or was it?

I was now bothered by my response to this silly, seemingly meaningless issue.
To me though, it wasn't silly or meaningless. To me it was a personal passive aggressive attack and I was now on a mission to find out why.

I brought it up at my next therapy session and the following is what I discovered.

My therapist probed me about my childhood and who had been passive aggressive towards me.
My sister, father, rapist brother and adult rapist all had been passive aggressive in one form or another towards me.

My sister knew I liked a clean room and I remember one time in particular after I had worked so hard to clean our shared bedroom she came in and left a sock on the floor. I remember yelling "What did I do wrong? why are you mad at me?!"
My sister looked at me and laughed. "How did you know?"
 I don't remember much about why she was mad at me, I do remember it got resolved and we both had a good laugh about it later but I never forgot it.

My father was never one for words of affirmation and it was nothing to always have to walk around him if he was walking or standing in the middle of a walk way. I always took this as his passive aggressive reminder that he was "KING and Head of the household." He was notorious for leaving filthy used napkins and tooth picks either on his plate or at his eating area. He would hold his plate out and instead of asking for us to take it to the kitchen this gesture was simply a silent command to do so.
When he got home from work it did not matter who was watching TV and what was on it the living room and TV were his to watch the news and unwind. He would watch TV, eat dinner and zone out.
Present physically but elsewhere mentally.

My rapist as an adult was also passive aggressive. He had a very similar routine to my fathers.
He expected dinner when he got home, and for everything to be cleaned up for him afterwards.
He also left nasty used toothpicks and napkins on the table.

My therapist suggested human filth bothered me more than even animal filth.
This was true on many points. I have never been bothered to clean up animal body fluids when I worked at the veterinary clinic.
I struggled with it more when I became a nurse aide and cleaned up human body fluids daily.
I wanted to understand why this was though. I was not satisfied with "Most rape survivors feel this way."
Why do rape survivors feel that way?

Because, we feel like human waste.

Awe yes! Why wouldn't we? We are taken, brutally victimized and then thrown away like garbage and often times more than once. Even worse this is done to us by those to whom we belonged or were enslaved too. Like human waste that belongs to someone but is thrown away...that is how I was feeling.

I felt like my husbands used napkins and toothpicks were a picture of ME.
A perfectly good thing, used and then tossed aside...only I was now cleaning up the mess.
I hated it, I didn't want to clean up this mess.

I would like to point out that I have NEVER been made to feel like I was waste tossed by my husband.
However his act, a simple, meaningless act was a painful reminder of my life long self image.

Now that I understand it I can let it go.

Flashback

It had been 3 days since I'd actually had a meal. I had been surviving on yogurt, pudding and vending machine snacks to make it through my classes. I was too weak to walk up the 3 flights of stairs to English 101 today and I knew I was in trouble.

This battle with food and taking care of myself had happened before. It grew worse each time it happened, and it went unnoticed by my family. In all fairness, they rarely saw me as it was. I went up to three months before calling my mother a few times. It was at least that long in between visits to see them. I avoided holidays with them and had been doing so for years by this time. Mom was always "busy" it seemed. I guess I came by that honestly.  I don't know what kept me going.

I wanted nothing more than to lay down and die. I could barely fall asleep though.

I was losing what little health I had and it was getting worse at home.
"You're such a disrespectful bitch!" He started yelling. "I asked you to do one thing today and you are so busy being wrapped up in your own little selfish world you can't take care of one damn thing!" I would be sitting on the couch crying as the shouting started. The "one little thing" he was talking about could be anything on any day. It could be something like washing a load of laundry to mowing the yard or sending a text to him at lunch.
Any of these was punishable by vociferating, followed by, "Get in the shower you cunt you stink." Or something similar. Weeping, I'd run to the bathroom and shed more tears as I scrubbed off imaginary filth. This shower was a preparation for being raped. I knew it and believed I had no escape.
I would take the longest, hottest shower I could stand in hopes it would numb me somehow for what was about to happen. I would put on my robe, slowly open the bathroom door, and he would be waiting for me. I would be taken by the arm and manhandled down the hall to the bedroom. I'd be thrown on the bed. Sometimes on my back, sometimes face down, depending on his mood.
If I was face up he usually said something like, "I want to see your face and watch you enjoy it." (As if that were possible.) If I was face down he would say, "I can't stand looking at you tonight, I'm doing this for you."
I would lay still and lifeless as possible. I sometimes strained or winced in pain, or shed silent tears and endured flash backs from my rapes and abuse as a child.
I hated myself for not fighting back, not protesting, not running away.
After my rapist monster got himself off, he would all but collapse his fat, sweaty body on top of mine.
He would catch his breath and make some comment like, "god you're a great fuck." I would lay in humiliation and defilement on my side so my back was facing him.

This is why I had no appetite. This is why I wanted to lay down and perish. This is why I weighed 96 lbs on a 5.4' frame. Each rape was different and yet all of them were alike.
I was sinking.

The Perfect Storm.

"You are so ugly." says the voice in my head.

The sun is shining and beams of light penetrate through the layers of curtains and shades that cover my windows. This scene playing out in the mirror of self hatred, disgust and shame looks ridiculous to those looking in. I get paid to model, walk the run way, pose for pictures and host public events because I am beautiful physically, or at least that what the agents tell me.
All I see is a skeletal frame of a starving woman's body with a frightened little girl trapped in her eyes.

I hear my phone buzzing on top of my vanity. It's a text and my already tired and wounded soul takes another hit and shudders. It's him. He wants to know what I am doing... what time is my next class and when I will be home. I respond with the wanted facts and then he texts me again "wuts wrong? wheres my girl today?" my heart sinks and that stupid knot of torture forms in my throat. This is a subtle manipulative text that I must respond to with enthusiasm and some form of happiness no matter how fake. "I'm here handsome just gettin ready for class. don't wanna b late" I hate myself a little more now for speaking this way but, I know if I don't the consequences will be hell to pay.

How did I get here? I am trapped in a house with a rapist, a cousin rapist no less.
Why don't I run? Where the hell is my sense of self preservation? These are questions - that at time of this real life scene in front of my looking glass is taking place,- I am not even mentally capable of having on my own.

I am sleep and nutrition deprived. All my actions and reactions to any and everything are fueled by fear, shame and manipulation by my rapist. I don't see a pretty run way model with a perfect body. I see a skeletal frame covered in scared skin and sunken eye. If it weren't for my eyes and something in them begging for hope... I'd look dead. I look all but dead today.

Oh how nice it would be to lay down on this bed and put my head on a pillow and never wake up again. I think to myself. I am to cowardly to take my own life but, there will be nights I spend begging God to have mercy and take me away, and He won't.

This how I ended up here.
I had just lost my grandfather a few months prior to this day. I wanted a change in my life from a dead end job to a career and education. I also had a fiance and wanted to be closer to him and his college. I needed to move to the big city, away from my small town rural life.
This man, my cousin a 59 year old divorced man offered me a place to "crash." Encouraged by my own parents I took him up on his offer. I had tentatively planned on working and going to school and at some point getting my own place hopefully with my fiance... my soon to be husband...who never had any intention of marrying me.
I trusted this man... this family member, this undercover monster.
 He groomed me, built up my trust, helped me find a job and get into college.
Then it happened, I had a miscarriage with my fiance and we broke up after I finally realized he was a liar and not ever going to marry me. I was devastated and relieved all at once.
After all the abuse as a child I never developed a sense of self worth. I knew I didn't have the strength or self love to leave my fiance for myself. It took losing an innocent life and realizing my someday children deserve a better father than that. I couldn't leave for me but, for my now dead child I would never even look back.
 It was a perfect storm for my predator cousin. He introduced me to drinking. I was a pathetic lightweight. I had only consumed 3 shots of wine before in my entire life. I had an entire beer and was passed out of the couch after crying myself to sleep.
I also had been to see my Doctor for chronic back pain from an injury sustained working on the family farm like a man. I was prescribed pain medications to take at night or when my back pain became unbearable. After my miscarriage my back pain returned with a vengeance.
Every night I fell asleep after drinking and or taking my pain medication.

Then the rapes began.