Sometimes I think the most painful part of abuse is the secrets that it forces. It’s not even about shame. Not really. I’m not ashamed of what was done to me. But I hold it as secret because society dictates that these are not things we talk about. People ask how I am and I respond with , “Good.” because that is the appropriate response to give. The colleague who asked has no idea that I have PTSD, that I’ve recently walked away from my entire family, and that I’m really hurting. She probably won’t ever know.
People really don’t want to know the details of what has happened to you. It’s this disdain-filled secret you have to keep in order to make other people comfortable…to follow societies rules about what to discuss. It feels like I’m being punished twice. The first time when the abuse happened. The second time now while I’m having to process through the pain in silence.
I’m not sure why I’m struggling with this more now than ever. I think part of me just feels like I need to talk, and talk, and talk until I can make sense of everything running through my head. I’m just coming to accept that my father is a sociopath, and with that it has overturned a lot of disturbing memories from my childhood. The concept that the only person it is “okay” to talk about this stuff with is my therapist is frustrating. . All I know for certain of right now, is that the secrets hurt. A lot.