Daddy Please See Me

I saw my dad today. I feel such a strong compulsion to tell him everything, well, enough but not too much. I don’t know how much I can or should tell him. I don’t want to hurt him. He doesn’t know. I never told. I understand that it’s the little girl in me who wants to run to my daddy and tell, like I should have told when I was little and so brutally hurt by someone my parents thought was trustworthy. It’s all so fucked up. I’m so fucked up right now. I also want to tell him because I see him so often and we’re really close. I don’t know what to do. For now, I wait for clarity of mind and reasoning before I do anything.

I haven’t written in a while. The PTSD, the nightmares come back, especially, what I’ve come to refer to as, phantom nightmares. The phantom nightmares are the ones I wake up sweating and terrified from, but can’t remember anything about. The last one left dust, tiny particles that I tried to grasp. I should have written any bit that I remembered immediately, but didn’t, and it all evaporated. So many things happened that night from 8:30 in the evening on, some of it innocuous, some significant. I looked up my friend, Tommy to see if he’s ok. I didn’t contact him, just looked at Facebook. I looked at his older brother who hurt me, and came to realize that he was thirteen years old, not fifteen when he raped me. Does it matter? Maybe, or maybe not. Does it change the now? Not at all. I had the nightmare. I called my friend, my rock at 2:30 am. I don’t think I looked at Tommy or Seth until after the nightmare. It doesn’t matter, other than I’m usually good at piecing events together. It’s all a blur. I spent a span of about twenty-four hours aware, yet confused about the order in which many things took place during that day. There was no crying, just the confusion and heaviness.

I don’t know if I can take care of the little girl that I was, the child within. Sometimes it’s just too much. But, who can help me take care of her? I hurt, she hurts, I hurt for both of us and I feel helpless, hopeless. Self-destructive means of surviving persist. It’s just that, though. I’m trying to survive. The shame and fear become problematic. I’m just trying to get through until I get to that first appointment and start to work with the trauma therapist, ten days. I am aware that things will probably get worse before they get better, but I will stay the course.  I’m a fighter tht way.  I want better, and there is no sweeping this under a rug.  I did get ahold of my insurance company to find that there was a mix up. I have no co-pay at all, where I was told there would be a fifty dollar co-pay per week to continue DBT group. SO, I can resume group this coming week. What started out as an eye-rolling venture, because I thought it was bunk, and that both my therapist were just trying to make me get out of the house, because of the agorophobic tendencies they were seeing, has become a lifeline. I’ve learned so much of such great value in that group. It should be tought in grade school. I believe it will be paramount to my success in trauma therapy.

I was feeling so strong. Now I just feel tired, scared, weak, and worst of all SO confused. My head is fuzzy, not about the details or facts of what happened to me, just in general. My mind is fuzzy and my heart is heavy. Today is not a good day. There’s a song that plays through my head at times like these, and it describes perfectly what I’m feeling and experiencing.

BREATHE ME, by Sia

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And the worst part is there’s no one else to blame

Be my friend, hold me
Wrap me up, unfold me
I am small, and needy
Warm me up, and breathe me

Ouch, I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
Lost myself again, and I feel unsafe

Be my friend, hold me
Wrap me up, unfold me
I am small, and needy
Warm me up, and breathe me

Be my friend, hold me
Wrap me up, unfold me
I am small, and needy
Warm me up, and breathe me