Monday: Today I’m grateful for feeling…

Grief and anger about my CSA/trafficking still. For money. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I shared this anger, indignation, confusion, with my SIA meeting today. I was so grateful to be in a group where I could express that. But it also devastated me to say it aloud. For money, for money, for money. He sold me for money. He could have worked. He could have gotten a job. The easier choice for him, my father, was to sell my body for money???! How much did I make for him? What did he spend it on? Did he spend it on the alcohol that colored the non-CSA parts of my memories of him? Did he spend it on the court fees against my mom to keep his custody? When he stole my small inheritance from his parents, was there any remorse knowing he had already gotten monetary value out of me? That maybe he could let me have this? That maybe he OWED me this? All the things I already knew he owed me but failed to deliver: protection, love, nurturance, child support, inheritance. All the things he took, the intangible things like a sense of safety, trust in others, the ability to ask for help, the knowledge that I am worth more than what I can sexually provide. Countless things taken. My innocence. Now to put together that he took them for profit. I’m so grateful that he’s already dead. 

Horrified, sickened, terribly sad looking into important questions for me: can an adult man “fit” inside a 3-7 year old child? Fit where? When do things start fitting? I’ve been haunted by the idea of this question for over half a year but it’s so hard to google, even if I could get myself to do it. In my SIA meeting today, I posed it at the very end because I knew this group would understand. I felt so dirty asking it, as if I were the perpetrator rather than the victim. After the meeting, I finally did the thing: I looked it up. The answer is yes, although you’ll tear if you’re young enough. Penetration can also fuck up muscles and bones, causing the common hip and lower back pain of a lot of survivors. Many perpetrators will use hands or other objects that will fit until the child is old enough to avoid the damning evidence of blood on underwear. What the hell. There are so many layers of awful here, I have no idea how to sort through this shit. But I have an answer now. Yes. I had been hoping for a no, even though it would be impossible. My denial is so desperate. 

Despair. Now that I’ve processed some anger, despair. I was on my way with Cubu for a comfort McDouble but broke down the second we hit the parking lot. I’m so full of denial, how are my inner children supposed to help me if a protective part of me is actively telling them to shut up? I KNOW what is true, I have all the evidence I should need. I was sexually trafficked by my father to other men. For a lot of this, I don’t know who did what but I know was raped. I was raped anally, I was raped vaginally, I had fingers put in me. I was made to perform fallacio on grown men. My dad used porn to groom my behavior, had me touch myself during, and got himself off on that. Why is it so hard to look this straight on? Lmfao jesus christ. I reread what I just wrote. Of course it’s impossible to look this head on, no wonder people go their entire lives NOT looking at it head on. I wish I could turn away too. I feel I’ve almost got the whole story, or as much as I will get. Everything I exhume I wish would just go back, bury itself again. I feel overwhelmed, at a loss, and so SO fucking sad.

Dirty, used, soiled, worthless. I was asking Cubu if he saw me differently now, if he sees me as any of those words. He was appalled and said no. I quickly realized I had asked them because I needed a confirmation that I wasn’t. Why? Because I feel like I am those things. I hadn’t thought of it, or admitted it to myself until this point. I feel like the stretched out, faded, soggy cum rag of these men, most of whom are dead. My whole body feels used. I can imagine hands where they shouldn’t be, mouths, fingers. I want to take steel wool and scrape my skin until only muscle is left. I keep telling myself that my skin is at most 7 years old. This skin has never been abused, it has only been loved. For now, this is my only defense. No wonder I couldn’t love or even feel my body until this year. 

Nervous, on top of all this big shit, because of Zumba tomorrow. Tomorrow is the first day I voluntarily leave the house to do something while Cubu stays at home, free to do whatever he pleases. I’m terrified. I almost backed out today but choked the words down. I have no idea how to conduct myself, but I NEED to try this, I can’t keep living like I had. I need to be brave. I need to live my life for myself. Thinking about it makes my stomach churn and I feel a nausea climbing through my throat though. 

Feelin’ good…

• I had a good talk with several coworkers today, one of which is the Zumba coworker that I will meet with tomorrow. It came up so I told her about Ludvig and his suicide. She held space and was safe to talk to. I rarely bring him up to people that weren’t there when he died anymore, I’m not sure why. But it felt good to reach a deeper level of confidence with her and to feel heard.
• I talked to the program coordinator at work about holding a talk/SIA group at the library. It’s about an idea I had on Saturday and I won’t flesh it out here. I believe talking about a thing before I’ve done it annihilates my chance of actually doing the thing. By talking to that coworker, I found out that it is possible and I would even get paid for it. I have a meeting with a survivor this week to talk about forming in-person meetings and I’ll see what that brings. I’m proud of myself for braving up and asking her about it, even though it exposed my CSA to a coworker that I’m barely familiar with.
• I facilitated today’s SIA meeting with my normal group, I haven’t facilitated with them before though. It went well. I was nervous going into it but there were so many vulnerable shares and open faces, things you don’t see in a meeting that doesn’t feel safe. So I believe I did it well and it felt good to finally give back to this group I’ve been meeting with for 5 months. 
• Cubu held me the whole time I cried in our car in the McDonald’s parking lot. It gave me strength that he didn’t care about other people seeing, or that we were in a ridiculous setting. He just loved me though it and hunted for tissues. I love this man. I’m so grateful to have a partner this supportive and good at comforting in times of crisis.