knock knock

at some point after working through the trauma, i found myself wanting to know how it benefitted them, how touching my child self intimately in the middle of the night gave them pleasure.

night after night my adult self would lie motionless, frozen, eyes wide open staring into the nothingness offered by night, clutching one hand in the other, legs tightly closed and waiting, waiting for the soft whispers filled with a combination of kindness, evil and ultimatums.

i’d learned kindness was a guise created to comfort the receiver of ill intent.

i’d fight. i’d fight to forgive the child self for not saying no, for not screaming or fighting back. i’d call her many names and ultimately settled on ugly, cause ugly in my child mind meant the same as pretty, and was the only explanation for molestation, or what i called in my mind, punishment for being dirty.

i thought i was dirty because my skin was brown and when i got older decided i was dirty not because I was brown but because of the thoughts i’d had about the opposite sex, the sensations that accompanied those thoughts, and the reaction my body had to the same.

every part of me seemed flawed. my skin, my body, my thoughts, my carnality, and my way of speaking. i knew without a doubt that i deserved everything i had coming, so never told anyone cause no one taught me that my body was mine, that my thoughts counted, and that my heart mattered.

i’m not that child or that adult any longer.

the widespread disease of wrong thinking runs through my genes just as it runs through most everyone’s. at least until embracing the idea of bloodletting, of watching pain drain from ones veins and dry until becoming little more than a stain on a brightly beating heart.

it’s a cycle.

after all these years that’s what i learned.

all those men and teenagers were repeating cycles of abuse and i like billions got caught in the wheels. at least long enough to consider that being a spoke and speaking could be the ticket to freedom.

it’s not really freedom you find when speaking about trauma. it’s release. and it’s not complete release. it’s more like opening a door to let fresh air inside.

you’re still tasked with finding the courage to walk out the door.

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