Impossibly painful secrets

I’ve spent days battling over the idea of writing this post. I’ve spent years writing about the experiences I’ve had, the things done to me, said to me. I have spent countless hours explaining my fears, anger & anxieties that these things have lead me to experience. I have written of dreams of my father that I have had. The same reoccurring ones where he is alive when he should be dead. Where everyone treats him as if nothing has happened and I suddenly feel like the one who is in the wrong. Where I confront him about what he did and that he should be dead, I saw the autopsy reports, the autopsy pictures. He’s dead, not alive. Everyone hates him. Yet there he is, alive & loved by everyone. Often times I find a way to kill him. Usually I wake suddenly, in the middle of screaming at him “YOU’RE DEAD! WHY CAN’T YOU STAY DEAD? YOU DON’T BELONG HERE! I FUCKING HATE YOU! STOP LOVING HIM HE’S AN EVIL BASTARD!” I wake shaking, scared, angry and full of anxiety. Usually I spend the whole next day feeling he really is still alive. The dreams are so vivid. So real. So detailed. They FEEL as if they really happened. I spend days on end feeling the pain and anxiety I felt in my dream.

This dream, I’ve explained before. This nightmare, I’ve told you all about. This is not a shameful dream. Nothing for me to be embarrassed or hurt by. I know in my heart it is my minds way of processing something I never had the chance to do. It’s a way to confront him since I really didn’t get too. Its my way, often times, of killing him the way I wanted too for so many years. Nothing truly painful about that. Nothing for me to hide in that.

But these dreams aren’t the ones I have most often. These dreams aren’t the ones that keep me up most nights, afraid to go to sleep. These dreams don’t have me contemplating suicide instead of performing simple act of sleeping. These dreams don’t keep me held in and eternal hell. These dreams aren’t the ones that lead me to think the world would be much much much better off without me. These dreams aren’t the ones that make me think I will never get better. No, these dreams are good dreams compared to the ones I’ve kept secret all my life.

And here is where my struggle of writing this comes in. Because I know that these dreams, this line of thought, this secret. This is what makes me the person I talk about. The bad person. The one who doesn’t deserve to live, to be a wife and parent. And this is where I struggle with the decision to make this public or to password protect it. Do I let the world see my sickness, as it truly is? Do I let the world judge me, call me the things I know in my soul I truly am. Do I let everyone see the real me? Or do I pick and choose who I trust with this information? I’m still not sure. I’m 4 paragraphs into this and I still don’t even know if Im going to post this or leave it locked away from everyone. But, isn’t that going against the reason I’m doing this? To make people aware of how abuse impacts a person for their entire life. Not just with flashbacks, dreams, PTSD, DID, depression, anxiety, panic. This abuse I endured wasn’t just physical. It wasn’t just sex. It was mental. It skewed my subconscious mind to an extent even I can’t comprehend. It formed something deep inside me that is now sick and I haven’t found a way to repair it. Maybe theres not a way to repair it. Something engrained in me from such a young age. How do you truly fix that? Sure I have a conscience and I know right from wrong. I have a good moral compass. I know right and wrong.  But something in my deep subconscious mind didn’t get the memo. And thats where my secrets have stayed. Buried deep. But none of what I’ve written in the past will explain my deep seeded wish for my life to end. But this, this may help you understand it. And I know, deep in the pit of my stomach, that the majority of you will agree with me. Once you know. You’ll agree.

So here it goes.

The dream starts off like so many. I’m an adult. A mother. A wife. I’m in bed with my husband. But I’m just not satisfied. Something isn’t right. He gives up and goes to the bathroom. In walks my father, nude. Suddenly I know, this is what I needed. The sex is amazing. The best I’ve ever had. It feels amazing. Sometimes it happens this way. Sometimes I seek him out, come on to him. I wake up from these dreams completely turned on. Sometimes I dream of past sexual encounters that really happened with him and get turned on instead of feeling anger or disgust. But this, this isn’t the worst. The dreams that lead me to want to die. No those don’t involve me at all. But they do involve my husband. And my daughters. And while that may be a nightmare to someone. A deep seeded fear that my daughters may endure what I had to endure in my childhood, this isn’t what happens for me. No. I wake from these dreams the same I wake from the dreams of my father and I. And that, folks, is the sickest part of all. I dream these dreams & instead of feeling anger and fear I feel excitement and arousal. And while it very quickly turns into pain and guilt, I can’t erase the feelings I feel initially. And that’s as far as I can go right now.