I hid the heavy secrets so well that even I can’t find where I buried them.
I carried on like it never happened, like I was never abused and that my family were loving and normal. I hid the truth from others and mostly to myself. When I remember now, there is a small part of me that still wants it all to be untrue. A part of me that doesn’t want to believe. The truth is so scary, so terrifying and defies all the boundaries of ‘normal’. But how can it not be true. People don’t make this kind of thing up! Memories and the sensations, and the feelings and emotions they leave behind come from a place. A place of truth. The hiding is the absence of truth.
Last night I dreamt that I was sitting next to my father and talking to my cousin who sat beside me. It was the most terrifying dream. My cousin was asking me a question and the words couldn’t come out. I knew what I wanted to say but the words didn’t make the journey from my mind to my lips. I was hypervigilant and aware of my father next to me. His eyes were half-closed but I knew he was watching me. I tried to make myself smaller, invisible almost. I wanted him to stop looking,
‘Is he looking at my breasts?
‘Stop looking at me’
‘Stop, I want to be invisible’
Then HE touched my thigh and it was the most horrible feeling. A wave of revulsion like a thousand creep crawlies running across my body swept across me.
I woke up!