There must be a line where, once crossed, there is no returning or coming back from; presuming one was in the ‘whole’ place to begin with. It feels like I can never get to the other side; at times I have seen the other side but I am always having to lug myself and my bag of history with me and that prevents me moving.

It’s always here, with me, impacting on how I interact, what facade I need to put on. I feel like such a fake at times. The external feels vastly different from the internal experience.

He continued to touch me after he stopped doing other things, even when I was older, and I so knew it was not ok and that what he was doing was completely wrong but he did it anyway, and it feels like I continued to let him do it. I did avoid him, and tried not to be in the same room alone with him. I felt responsible in a different way because of how I had matured and what I wore and how I carried myself. And that he was in pain and lonely. And he still smelt, of sweat and alcohol.

I would prefer to not wake. This vileness is too big.