520 days ago I hit my breaking point. I sat in my garage with the barrel of a loaded .357 cold and metallic in my mouth. With my finger on the trigger hoping 125 grains would take care of the pain. 519 days ago I told my wife I was sexually abused when I was a boy.
It took me 465 days from the breaking point to write my story. My wife read it 55 days ago, when it appeared here. She hugged me, but we did not discuss it for two days. I wondered how she felt until she cried and told me she had gone down into the basement and destroyed every Christmas ornament my mom had given me from my childhood. She broke some of these things with a hammer.
But it was last night that I finally shared it all. I told her more details. I told her stuff I have just recently accepted. How I sought out others with whom I could continue to be a victim with, somebody else’s bitch. Nine years old, dirty, worthless, ashamed. I told her how the acting out stopped, but the thoughts remained. He was nice to me – I should be sucking his dick. I told her that like the acting out, that these thoughts have gone away. I told her that something still remains. I told her I don’t know the trigger, but sometimes I have to replay the memories in my head, and act out with myself. The compulsion to be right back there – becoming the 9 year old rape victim again in my mind. And it disgusts me.
I then shared with her some of my posts, and even a few of your responses. And for the first time, I sobbed and mourned the boy I was, the boy I could have been, the boy I should have been. The Truth really does hurt – something I understand now. I am completely fragile. I am so very broken. And I am starting to let the hurt out.
I understand what all of this has been. TERRIBLE. SIGNIFICANT. PROGRESS.
Edited by mattheal (07/25/13 11:07 AM)
Edit Reason: Add trigger warning
"And yes, I have searched the rooms of the moon on cold summer nights.
And yes, I have refought those unfinished encounters. Still, they remain unfinished.
And yes, I have at times wished myself something different."
- Bob Kaufman, I Have Folded My Sorrows -