Sometimes it bothers me not being able to put the past into words. I think the more I work through things in therapy, the more important it feels to say it. To say the words. To use the labels. It never used to feel important. Like I don't need to assign labels to the things that happened to talk about it and work through it. But now.. I don't know. I think maybe I've been afraid to say things. Afraid of what? Not sure. Just afraid. But since it came up tonight on another thread I want to try and put it into words. Residual alcohol in my system is helping to get it out. I knew there was a reason why I should have a drink.
My past is a confusing mess of one shit storm to another. My memory is very shotty and I have to work very hard to piece things together. But I'll start at the beginning.
When I was a kid, around 7/8 I wrote a story in class about a monster who touched children and didn't like grown ups--words I used in the story. I still have this story. This story was read by my class teacher. And absolutely nothing happened. It was a catholic school. There are 3 possibilities that I'm aware of that could be the reason I wrote this story.
1. The first is one I have no memory of, but my brother does. It involves us being left in the care of a woman who was physically abusive. There was also a man present at the house--neither of our parents knew there was a man there, they were both under the impression it would only be this woman. We went to this place a few times and this is what happened the last time we were there: While in their "care" they separated my brother and I. My brother remembers me being taken away by the man to the bathroom and then hearing me scream the house down. It was a hard conversation to have with my brother, he sounds traumatised by it. And he feels lot of guilt about it--though he shouldn't. He managed to call our mother, he doesn't remember the conversation just that he got her to come and get us. We never went back there again. While I don't remember this happening at all, interestingly enough, as an adult I wrote a fictional story (I used to write a lot) and in the story a young boy is being sexually assaulted in a bathroom. His older brother knocks the door down, decks the perpetrator, and saves his little brother. I wrote this story before having spoken to my brother about our past. I haven't shared this story with him, and perhaps it's nothing, but it's eerie how similar my work of fiction is to that incident.
2. This happened in our family home, I remember it vividly. I'm not sure I can put it into words yet. But I was taken to the walk in closet of my brothers bedroom and some things happened to me in there. It was an older male, a neighbour. I haven't talked to anyone about this incident. I would've been around 8 there as well I think.
3. Then there's another man. I'd describe his behaviour as grooming. It was over the course of years. He gained the trust of my parents, everyone's parents, he was well liked by a lot of people. I don't remember specifics very well here. Just two incidents that I can recall. But I think I've blocked a lot out. Anyway, I recently learned he was investigated for having inappropriate relationships with children, but he was never charged. Funnily enough; he's now employed at the catholic school I went to. Figures.
This is really the first time I've managed to put this all into words of some sort. There's so much more to let out. But this is a start.
Anyway. Going to try and get some more sleep. Just woke myself up by karate chopping the bed. Not even sure what I was dreaming about, just woke up trying to fight the bed.
I hope i don't wake up later regretting posting this.
