I write this while sitting on the bathroom floor, exhausted and empty.
I didn’t sleep last night. Thoughts of him and the rape swirled around my head non stop, literally non stop, I couldn’t get a break from it – it was just a horrible, traumatising, panic inducing roller coaster from 1am to around 6am.
I tried my best to fight back the tears and keep a stiff upper lip all morning, which is hard when you feel constantly inadequate, wrong, pathetic and all whilst having to be in the same room that you were raped in. I sat down with my daughter for breakfast. Tea, smoked salmon, scrambled egg and toast. Usually a firm favourite of mine. I felt sick while plating it up. I cut everything into the tiniest pieces possible and ate as slowly as I could manage.
The mind is a powerful thing isn’t it. I have been telling myself for days that I don’t want to purge, yet there was my body allowing the nausea to wash over me in an instant.
My nan was watching me eat, she doesn’t know what is going on in my head, she knows about what happened but not my new found hobby of self destruction, at least, I don’t think so.
I started to cry the minute my daughter left the table. I try and shield her from my obvious breakdowns, but, I probably don’t do a very good job of that either, just like everything else, it would seem.
My nan tried to comfort me, but ended up just looking at the floor awkwardly, they all do that when I get upset about the rape… why can’t they understand that I have no control over getting this bad? I don’t want to be this fucking depressed, do I. I don’t want to be this bad, do I.
Anyway, I ran into the downstairs bathroom, locked the door and let out the loudest sobs with my head in my hands. My head was, still is actually, absolutely banging. The familiar wave of nausea came up to greet me again and this time I gave into it.
Destructive behaviours. I don’t know why I have developed that urge. The nausea has been with me for a long time, I link it to the horrible anxiety that I have been living with, but the sudden desire to act on it? I look at myself and hate what I see, yeah, but its not for that reason. I just feel, fucking rotten.
I want to purge everything. I don’t want to be me. I don’t want what he did to end up defining me and I don’t feel strong enough to stop it from doing so.
I’m fucking pathetic, I know. You don’t have to tell me.