Unbroken Silence

The unbroken silence, the story untold.  The pain not shared because no one wants to know.  The unknowing, unknowable ache, the hurt unheard.

The painful silence, the silence of shame.  A shame from believing the promise, a broken promise sorrow.

Shamed into deafening silence, smothered and broken.  Laughable trust, broken faith, Betrayed and shattered.

How does someone begin to pick up the pieces?

Vanished trust, unfindable hope, fear of being, dread of day.  Controllable distrust, managed mistrust…Unmanageable Aloneness.


I am feeling the weight of shame today.


I read the definition of sexual abuse last night as defined by Dan Allendar in The Wounded Heart.

“Sexual abuse is any contact or interaction (visual, verbal, or psychological) between a child/adolescent and an adult when the child/adolescent is being used for the sexual stimulation of the perpetrator or any other person.”

First off, he is missing a huge population of abuse….what about rape of an adult? That of course counts as abuse but is missing from his definition. And I am sure there are instances where sexual abuse is committed without it being done for sexual stimulation. That would count as sexual abuse. His book is really angering me for many reasons but I won’t go into that now. What set me off last night was after reading that definition I realized I have been abused by six different individuals, one being a woman.

Once that realization sunk in I began to cry and feel such extreme amounts of fear that I had to hide under a table for most the night. The world feels very unsafe right now. And I am feeling so much shame right now. Shame because I was older than when my dad abused me….it seems like I could have at least said no. But, I know because of my dad’s abuse I was conditioned for my mind and soul to leave my body while the abuse continues.

I am just feeling so alone.

and used.

and sad.

Twisted Roots

The root system, with all its tangled offshoots, entranced me.  I found myself going back to its wonder week after week not really knowing what was drawing me to it.  The large tree it supported was largely unremarkable but I found the roots organically beautiful and strangely engaging my heart.  The interweaving roots gripped the hill and seemed to be holding the entire earth back with its strength.  I knew there was a message it was trying to whisper to me but the message was just as tangled as it was.  I couldn’t understand its meaning.  My life seemed to be lived out of a dream, a foggy dream, that I also had trouble finding the meaning of.  I saw myself as God’s child but also enmeshed with that was being a failing mother, needy wife, recovering alcoholic, survivor of sexual abuse and one living with DID.  I am no longer suicidal but too often to admit I have moments where I think what a relief it would be for my life to end.

My thoughts seemed just as twisted as those roots.  Pain, when it stabs me, reminds me of all that was done to me as a child and leads me to despair.  Child-like joy teases my heart to look and find the beauty in life.  Fear grabs me and slams me to the ground telling me I am all alone in this life.  Intimacy with my Lover and Giver of Life includes me with His comfort and peace.  Confusion sends me desperately searching for control and feelings of unworthiness spirals me toward either being demanding or curling up on the bathroom floor.  God lifts my head as I fight to pull it down.  Shame often burns its name across my chest.  I carry the many names I received as a child:  worthless, unloved, unimportant, unhealable, unloveable, overwhelmed, hopeless, insecure, selfish, waste of time, alone, not good enough, not smart enough, not talented enough, weak, fearful, easily taken advantage of, undeserving, forever wounded…

Therefore God…

Someone once brought that phrase to my attention.

Therefore God…

Therefore God has interwoven me with Christ’s LOVE

Therefore God has laced me in with His GRACE

Therefore God has interspersed me with His PEACE

Therefore God has planted me in His INTIMACY

Therefore God has rooted me in His LOVE






together hand in hand


Why is it so hard to love myself?  I’ve been thinking about the post from yesterday and realizing how easy it was to condemn myself.  Wanting to hold to the belief or idea of a virtuous father is not an evil thought.  My desire for a loving parent who encourages and comforts is natural and GOOD.  My father took that healthy and innocent desire and perverted it to serve his own needs.  But the fact of abuse shouldn’t tarnish my childlike yearning.

Maybe that is what I am to grieve.  A longing for a loving and kind father that will NEVER be met here on earth.

Perhaps I should rename my blog Longing to Be Cherished.

What is grief?

My counselor has been trying to help me understand the difference between mourning and melancholy.  Melancholy is a sadness that pivots around two phrases: “if only” and “yeah, but.”  So, we’ll say to ourselves, “If only I had seen it coming,” or, “If only they had stood up for me.”  It’s not that these aren’t important things to wrestle with, but in melancholy “if only” is tinged with a hopeless regret.  The illusion is that if we re-visit the loss through “if-only’s”, then we can almost connect with the lost thing, person, or dream.

Mourning, is still aware of the “if only” feelings but it works through the unthinkableness of the loss, works through it toward acceptance.  And, it’s not a casual acceptance, it’s an acceptance that involves a profound sorrow, a shuddering sense of loss and pain that faces into the FINALITY of what is gone.   It really is gone and there is no getting it back.  In mourning is when we grieve.  But in grieving we can also hold onto our Hope.

Ok, so I understand that on paper but how in the heck do I get to grief from where I am now?

I have always envied others that have the ability to cry.  Of course I experience sadness but it touches me briefly then quickly flies away.  This probably has something to do with my mental illness, Dissociative Identity Disorder.  I dissociated during the abuse at the hands of my father so now my most common emotion is numbness.  Can you even call numbness an emotion?  I know being able to numb myself during the abuse helped me survive but now it is blocking my healing.

One thing that we discussed yesterday was me being able to see my Dad for who he really is.  For some shitty reason I am still clinging to him as a father (figuratively) and am refusing to let go of the idea that somewhere in my childhood there must be ONE good memory of him.

Why can’t I let go?

I guess it’s scary to think of a childhood with only a brutal, sexually abusing father.  A die hard narcissistic man who used people for pure enjoyment.  A man that tied his daughter’s hands up at age 6 to brutalize her.  Whose Dad does that?

Yes, I know the truth, but to come out and say that I lived with a terrorist that purposely sought me out at every opportunity to dehumanize me is frightening.  How did I survive?  Only by splitting off…each alter getting a different abuse and emotion because one child could not carry all of that pain.  So, I need to be able to say that life for me back then was death.

 Death at the hands of my own father.





The first post…for the second time

A few years ago I started a blog on WordPress.  After many hours worth of posts in a moment of impulsivity I deleted the entire blog.  So, here I am again.  I have been in counseling, received more healing, and am ready to start posting again.

But, I don’t really know where to start.  Do I start with my childhood abuse?  Surviving therapist abuse?  Breaking away from a religious support group that ran like a cult (organized by the abusive therapist)? Or,  My journey through life with DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder)?  What I think I will do is start with today then explain my life as I go.

I have found an excellent counselor, someone I have known for almost 20 years.  He has helped me deal with the therapist abuse that I endured for two years and at the end of those two years I developed so much trust that different alters started showing up.  So now our focus in counseling is healing for the childhood sexual abuse that I survived.  Evidently I survived by splitting off into a couple of different “personalities”.  To be honest, I have great difficulty calling them alters, personalities, or identities.   I really haven’t come upon a name that I feel comfortable with.  I guess those previous names sound not concrete enough for me at this point.