The Lie.

I wonder exactly how beaten down I’ve been by this thing, which has been wrenching me apart since I was four.

Inspirational stories by people who overcame adversity and who went on to do amazing things, demoralise me. They are able to continue where I cannot.

I hear about how people supported them because they knew what had happened and were able to help. While, I kept my secret from anyone who could have and should have helped me. Helped me to understand that it wasn’t my fault. That it wasn’t okay. That I should have been protected. That it’s okay for me to be angry. Letting my anger consume me is only going to affect me and no one else, and I don’t deserve that either.

My mum used to say all the time, none of her girls were ever going to be abused.

Her brother had done it to her sisters. She was sure, absolutely sure, no one could ever do it to us.

But it did happen.

I was sexually assaulted when I was four. I didn’t tell her. She was so adamant. It would and could never happen. Not on her watch.

I didn’t tell her. I just listened. Every time she spoke about how well she’d done, keeping us away from that kind of thing, it was a lie. How could I tell her she was wrong? She was supposed to be right. She was supposed to know more than me.

I’d known, since I was four, that she didn’t know everything.

It broke my heart.

I thought constantly about what happened and why. I was a mess growing up. As a teen I was jealous of my older sister, getting attention from boys. A man had thought it was okay to sexualise me when I was four, why wasn’t I sexually attractive now? How did I get it back? Too much focus on sex. Not enough focus on self esteem.

I was also shit scared of boys who did want to be near me. I was thankful for alcohol and drugs in my teens. They reduced the fear, to an extent. I often still felt disgusted. I was always trying so hard to get people to see me. I wanted them to work it out, without having to say anything to them. I wanted them to comfort me and support me, so that I could be one of those people who was able to overcome this horror.

But they didn’t.

Even after I told them. They didn’t help me.

At that stage, I don’t think they could have helped me anyway. This disease, or memory in the pit of my stomach, took a stranglehold on my heart. They would have had to have been surgeons, to cut it out. They weren’t surgeons. They were their own mess.

I became brutalised over and over again. The thoughts in my head, replaying the memory, fogging my talent, intelligence and peace.

I developed anxiety and depression. I thought about suicide constantly. I thought I was able to hide it so well. From everyone around me.

The second time my heart was broken, was when I did finally tell my mum what had happened. She wasn’t strong the way I thought she should have been. It didn't feel like she was trying to help me, it felt as though she just wanted to know who it was. I think now that she must have felt guilt. She never spoke to me about it again.

She died.

I was so angry at her.

I’m so fucking angry all the time.

I can’t think straight because of how angry I am, and I’m so tired of it.

I want to be productive, but I’m so angry.

I need an income, so I can pay for a therapist, so I can deal with this anger, so I can be productive. So that I can maintain productivity without succumbing to my shredded insides.

I am unemployable, but no one understands why. No one sees the rain of anger in me.

I am so fucking pleasant to everyone.

It is detrimental to my health and wellbeing.

I am constantly screaming inside.