My approach to therapy seems quite unfocused. I see many paths but then don’t/can’t/won’t walk down them. I would like to be able to stay with an issue and work it through but I don’t seem to be able to do that.

Is it an intentional scatter gun approach on my behalf? Is it a way of avoiding things?

And what of it? So that happened. How much time needs to pass? I can function to a passable level, I have a job, I can somewhat maintain a relationship, I sort of have friends. Can I not get over this? He is not in my life so why does it matter so? I would like to exit, would that not be better for everyone? Of course it would and would prevent further problems for others. M said she liked seeing a different part of me because it was “real” and not the “always in control” T she has seen for years. She won’t like the rest.

“How old were you when you lost your virginity”?

Yeah, how does one answer that question?

This question has always made me so angry. Not only because there is so much judgement for all women depending on what the answer is, or because society is so sex and slut shaming of women, but because I know they don’t want my answer.

My father had this capacity for quite extreme rage which didn’t fit with the rest of him as a withdrawn, secretive, sneaky person. It was fairly consuming when it came out. And hard to get away from, though if it didn’t involve you then you knew to disappear until things had settled. On a holiday one time with the family, staying in a caravan park, I was taking too long in the showers. My sister came in to tell me to get out and that dad was angry because of all the water I was using. I knew I had been a long time and I knew that this was serious. I was dreading what was going to happen, not wanting to go back. I just waited in the shower block. My sister came back again. I went back with her. He was so angry that I had used so much water in front of other people. Grabbing me by the arm and shaking me and yelling in my face and hitting me on the legs with his belt, still holding me and I’m trying to get away and back away. I’m screaming and putting my hands down to try to stop the belt hitting me but of course it’s then just getting my arms and hands. He eventually stops and I have to stay in the caravan while they have dinner. My brother and sister weren’t allowed to talk to me. We left the next day because of what I had done and how I had embarrassed my parents.

He loved the belt. Of course we hated the belt. If we knew we were in trouble for something, it was a waiting game to see if it was going to be a belt punishment. He didn’t really hit with anything else, his hands but usually it was the belt. And being told to go to your room and wait, knowing that meant the belt was coming. Him coming in and telling you to pull your pants down and lie on the bed. And then lying there hating that you can’t do anything and you have no pants on and not allowed to move your arms. The stinging and pain is so big and trying not to make a noise or cry but usually did anyway. And if he thought whatever you had done was really bad he would say this deserved the other end and used the buckle end. We often “asked for this” . Not sure how walking through the creek with school shoes on was asking to get hit with a belt buckle. The buckle was so painful and sometimes would bruise. Feeling it at school sitting on the chairs, thinking the teacher somehow knew and not wanting them to know. And it was always done in private, with the door closed, even if my brother was also going to get it, he would get it in his room and me in my room.

My father, my brother, a ‘boyfriend’, my brother in law. And that’s not about the person I am or the worthlessness of me as a person?

Always waiting. Waiting for something to happen. At least after he had, there was a relief or release of pressure. Not sure that’s the right way of explaining. But it was like  if it had just happened that was buying time, meaning there would be a period of time without the wait. Any interaction could be a precursor to it, it was just an unknown.

I think I am waiting for someone to be enraged by it on my behalf and to stand up and do something about it and be angry for it, and fix it, and make it ok, and make him pay.

Of course I know that is not going to happen. It is no ones role to do that. And what would they be angry for? I am not able to do that for myself. I am not able to talk about it. It is not something that will ever be legally recognised. I think I want a unrealistic fantasy for him to be responsible and punished and for me to be the victor with power and confidence and to be undamaged. Some of that fantasy could become reality if I were to do something to him myself. Not only would he suffer, but it would then be public and they both would have to pay. It is certainly something I have considered often and seriously, to the point many years ago being set up with someone to talk about purchasing a gun. To be able to hold a gun at him I imagine would feel so powerful.

But really, what can I do with my life. I am alone with this. Despite my attempts to break out, I am trapped by him and them both and all the other fuckers that have done what they have done. And despite others showing another pathway, I cannot seem to walk it.

Thoughts ts of dying are coming back. Thinking about accidents and ways of disappearing. If I did something to him, then at least people would understand why I took my own life. I don’t want to go down this spiral.

How will I ever escape from him? As a kid I could get away from the house and stay away all day and feel a sense of freedom. Now I am am more away than ever and they are still with me. It is all with me. Heavy. The image, the feeling, the thoughts, the actions, the panic. The sick.

I feel that whatever and whoever I come into contact with is worse off. Because of who I am they are negatively affected. I only bring negative and hopelessness.

3.08am. Another sleepless night.

F for fail.

Disappoining. I was always ‘disappointing’ – my behaviour, my attitude, my efforts.

Over 25 years and I still let them rule and ruin my life. Perhaps that is the way it is to be.

There is too much to fix, too much to get rid of. I feel way too inadequate, incapable. I am trapped.

I don’t think I am able to do this.

I want to scream and yell and say the words but I can’t. Sometimes there are no words, I don’t know the words. Words seem completely unrelated. Sometimes there are words but I cannot break them out. They are just words but the shame and disgust that carries them swallows them up before I can say them.

I often wonder what people thought of me when I was young. Did they think I was a bad kid. Did they see what was happening. Did they do anything. How did they see what I was. I can’t see how something didn’t look odd at times. A doctor giving me the pill at 12, I don’t think I even spoke, my mother spoke on my behalf. It just doesn’t make sense. I bet people just thought it was me, that I was a slut. Great set up for future sexual assaults.

It probably did make me relate sexually. That’s all I was.

Words will never be adequate to describe what it was like to be afraid, to be unsure, to want attention, to want to disappear, to be alone, to feel like nobody. Knowing what I knew and that others didn’t made me in another world. I was always awkward and ugly and not good at anything and marked and always about to do something wrong.

Waiting for something to happen everywhere.