i can’t talk about it with anyone.
i mean, i guess my therapist, who i see once a week for 90 minutes, but outside of that, i just can’t. it’s too heavy. it’s too much. people don’t understand. my family will never, ever believe me. and i’m angry that what someone else did to me when i was too small to do anything about it, to even properly remember it, has fucking ruined every chance i’ve ever had at having a real, truly open relationship.
my partner tells me i can talk about it, but he also said he has secondhand trauma from hearing about it and thinking about it. and now i feel like i can’t. i don’t want to hurt him. i feel horrible for not even thinking about it. i feel like a monster for that.
and i guess that’s all i’ll ever be now, right? i don’t feel human, maybe i never really was. the second i stopped being a good, quiet baby who didn’t cry or fuss and started being a small person walking and talking was the second i knew no one really loved me anymore and i wasn’t safe. maybe i’m just not a person. i don’t know. when i look inward i don’t see a person, i see an animal.
i wish my abuser wasn’t dead so i could get some kind of answers. but he’s my mother’s father so what could i even do. no one would ever, ever fucking believe me.