The more I read this, the less definite I am about what it's telling me.
At first, it seemed like a grieving for recognizing that we might die carrying the burden we were handed, and a sense of the race being over before we manage to get to the finish line. There is also the assault to our whole selves, the feeling of annihilation that comes from the physical reality of our abuse and the idea that even though we survived in body there was still a "little death" of some part of our selves that happened in it's wake.
Reading it again I wonder if part of the injury here is the awareness of mortality and adult sexuality being pushed on someone way earlier than they should have to carry it. Or that the awareness of mortality now makes us realize that there is more of the race behind than ahead - essentially that we are running out of time. So why can't we make the disclosures we need? Why do we resist the need to recover?
At the end, it seems like when people do hear what we have to tell them, it's so hard for them to take in that no one thinks to ask what impact the abuse had on us. As if the enormity, the taboo nature and the silence around this kind of abuse makes it impossible for some to ask "How are you feeling?"
Everybody here's got a story to tell
Everybody's been through their own hell
There's nothing too special about getting hurt
Getting over it, that takes the work
- "Duck and Cover" by Glen Phillips