I can’t keep getting through each week to see another week just the same. 

I don’t feel able to do physical or body based activities. 

I’m afraid of that sensation. Thinking about it I start to feel anxious. I don’t want to feel like that in public, with other people. It feels out of control. But I couldn’t do the activity on my own either; I don’t have the skills or capacity to lead my way through the feeling. 

I have infantile thoughts of someone taking away all of the damaged me, the the hurt, pain, memories, and magically I become another person. 

I don’t know how to be different. 

What if I’m not able to be different. 

What else can I do. Really, what else should I do. I will try. 

My father would sometimes watch me have a bath. Until we moved to the new house and I never had a bath again. 

I’m not sure if he always did it. He did bathe me, and touch me, at least before about 6 or 7, before we went on the big holiday. He would come in to the bathroom to go to the toilet or wash his hands and stay. Sit on the toilet watching, sometimes masturbating, sometimes kneeling at the bath. I just waited for him to go so I could get out but sometimes he helped me, sometimes my mother came in to get me out or yelled at me to get out. 

I really hated having baths. Still do. Having a shower didn’t really make it that different but it felt different. Maybe because I wasn’t so out in the open. . But I couldn’t always have a shower. 

I hated the whole process 

And going to C’a house always felt awkward because we weren’t allowed to have showers there because we were supposedly too young. I hated getting undressed in front of her mother, her father never came in. 

In the new house there was a lock on the door which annoying my mother

My mother was not one for much touch, I have few memories of her hugging me. I presume she did so when I was a baby. I don’t recall her touch being embracing or particularly comforting, rather it was mechanical and obligatory. She might put her arm around me if she was standing or sitting and I was standing but not fully embrace me. I’m sure there were times when I went to her and received some comfort. But I sensed that that was not what I was to get from her and there was nothing I could do about that.

The time I had an accident on my bike on the road and a neighbour carried me home, I was lying on the bed screaming and I wanted her to hold me but she was not touching me apart from looking at my body. And she then put me to bed in a ‘quiet room’. I guess that may have been her way of trying to make me feel safe, to be in a quiet dark room, but I felt alone. And of course I thought she could see what he was doing by looking at my “down there” after hurting it coming off my bike. I wondered what it meant to have done that, was I in trouble from her, would I be in trouble from him, what had I done.

Do I reinforce my loneliness by not seeking help when I desperately want it, not admitting that I feel overwhelming need for reassurance and validation. That then confirms my belief that I am too broken, unworthy and hopeless. And hopelessness is a long-term companion, one that I have not broken with even in time when all appears ‘hopeful’. Which is another reason to withdraw because of the shame of hopelessness and the shame of responsibility. And if I feel that shame, I must have something to be ashamed of.

What if I wasn’t this fat and disgusting? Would I still feel this fat and disgusting?

Will I ever be able to cry?

I can’t connect to that disgusting person. Even saying that I know it is harsh. But it is disgusting. He made me disgusting..