Sharing

I’ve found sharing here really hard lately. Which is why I’m now catching up on five posts all in one day (or trying to at least…if my laptop wouldn’t keep crashing and deleting everything I’ve written). But I think the reason I’m finding sharing here hard is that I’ve been sharing so much in my personal life. Only really with pc and with my therapist, but it feels like such a lot. It’s tough and it takes your energy, and I’m more of the closed-off/keep-it-to-yourself kind of person. So I’m learning, or rather unlearning, that lesson that it’s bad to share.

The other thing that this makes me think of is of my mum. Ugh. She has always told me and everyone else about how secretive I am. How I never tell her anything, how everything always has to be a secret with me. For obvious reasons, I really truly¬†hate her saying this. Because I mean if it isn’t enough that I’ve obviously had to hold so many secrets; of a family where so much abuse is taking place behind closed doors; emotional, physical, and lucky me, sexual (and let’s be completely clear, she’d have gone mental had I not kept those secrets), then how about all those other times the lesson of ‘keep yourself to yourself, don’t share’ was instilled… How about the time she told me that if I didn’t help her keep a secret from my dad they would get a divorce and it would be my fault? And how about being a little girl and sharing something only to be met with judgement, or anger, or annoyance, or laughter, or a very matter of fact “i don’t care”? How about her telling me how she just tunes herself out and nods along pretending she is listening because she really doesn’t want to listen? So fuck her and her sudden decision that actually, she would now like me to share everything with her. Fuck her.

forty-nine: hidden/hiding

i struggled with this one. because it felt ugly to put the two things i thought about in proximity to each other. in any case, i couldn’t think of anything better so i published it anyway.

  • the innocence of how our daughter used to run to a tree at the park, cover her eyes and lean into the bark of the tree, in full view, entirely convinced she was hidden; also, how she used to call i’m over heeeeeere! when we ‘looked’ for her
  • how it feels like i have this massive massive secret these days; that i am hiding this huge thing about me and my identity. that i have been dirty, violated, used. that i am hiding part of my true self, the part who now, fully believes the little one who lived it first. that i exist in this multiplicitous (is that a word?) matrix, where i am a capable professional, a mother, a wife, a friend, and at my core, a survivor of horrific gross things that were done to me when i was half the age of my daughter. in my darker moments i hate myself for keeping this secret. but i can’t risk telling it, you see. because no matter how much shame i feel for keeping her to myself, for guarding her, for keeping her tucked in, i am not bulletproof enough yet. all the #metoo and the media stories and the pain in the faces of fellow survivors still bring me to my knees, still make me tremble in awe and with grief. i am stronger than i ever thought possible but i am not strong enough, yet, to resist tearing them apart with my teeth if they were to hurt her again. we’re not ready. i’m not ready.