The Attic

As I lay in bed last night I tried to go to “the attic” of my mind
where my emotional parts live.
Several times I said aloud, “Go up, up, up.”  “Up, up, up” 
but I couldn’t really get there.
I thought it would be easier to do for some reason, but it was not.

Then, I found myself lying on my back, wrists crossed
and arms extended over my head.
My legs shook and I heard a voice, “Open up. Spread your legs Gaye.”
My left ear shut off and I felt a part coming up. I felt small and silent.
I felt that familiar pressure on my abdomen and a cramping feeling.
I felt a warm sensation between my legs
and I had a gripping pain in my right thigh.
My ankles felt stuck to the bed and I couldn’t close my legs.

I heard a male voice with my ears, not just in my mind but
I couldn’t really make out what the word was that he had said.
It was something like “Julie or Jules” or something, but I heard it.
I started to doze off and I was awakened by a clinking sound.
It sounded like something metal on my headboard. I heard it twice.
I heard it with my ears. My heart raced and my eyes popped open.
I lay there frozen; motionless and terrified. Eventually, I fell asleep.
I had dreams but I don’t remember them now.

I woke up with the distinct sensation that I had been choked.
I feel a dull ache in my neck to the left of my trachea.
It hurts to swallow and when I touch it, but it’s not a sore throat.

I have a hard time sometimes to separate body memories
from actual pain unrelated to flashbacks, triggers or memories.
They all hurt and they all feel real.
Usually though, once I identify that it is a body memory, it goes away.
A couple of times over the past few weeks I have been alarmed by a clear feeling that someone is squeezing my upper right arm.
It’s real and it hurts.
I knew immediately that this was a body memory and it went away fairly quickly.
This has happened two, maybe three times over the past few weeks.
I believe that not only was I restrained probably with handcuffs,
but I think I was either choked or held down by my throat.

I woke up early, sometime before six o’clock, and I lay in bed and prayed.
I went to “the attic” briefly.
One thing I noticed is that I think there are “garment bags” hanging
on one side and I feel that someone or more than one
someone is hiding behind or inside of them.
I wonder if it’s my bigger, older parts.
Some of my parts aren’t afraid and have come out a lot over the years.
Where are they? Why don’t I see them when I go there?
If they aren’t afraid, then why don’t they come out?
The wee ones that hide under the eaves seem afraid.
Jersey girl, (the scrapper), miss showmanship, (the great entertainer),
and the sexy one aren’t afraid.
Where are they?
Who else is in there?

Letting Go of the Fantasy

Today I am forever changed. 
Today I no longer have doubt. Neither do I have “hope.”

For 22 years I have lived under a cloud of doubt. 

I was in a tug of war between believing and disbelieving 

that I REALLY was sexually abused. 

What started out as a hint of the truth 

that I had been abused, had grown over the years 

to a solid 90% certainty that it was true. 

Oh, but that 10%... How I clung to that bewildering 10%...
Was it “hope” or just wishful thinking? 

I now KNOW that my father raped me...100%. 

Up to now I had a sliver of “hope” that I was 

wrong, crazy or that I had made it up. 

There was still a shred of “hope” that I was loved. 

In some strange way, I would have rather been wrong, mentally ill or a liar than to admit that my own father would 

force himself on and into my little body. 

I would rather be crazy than to admit that my Daddy was evil. 

I would rather be a liar than to admit that my mother 

would choose her status as the captain’s wife over 

the desire to protect her daughter. 

I wanted to be wrong because I wanted to be loved. 

Now I know I am not crazy but I also know that I was not loved. 

I have lost my grip on that tiny piece of “hope” 

and that’s a good thing; a VERY good thing. 

That tiny sliver; that 10%; that fantasy that I desperately 

held onto was just an illusion of love and protection.

That illusion kept me sick and kept me stuck. 

I've been stuck here for 22 years and painful as it is to lose that dream, I am finally free to move on now. 

The time has come for me to heal. 

This is the defining moment of my life. 

Today I am changed because today I am ready. 

I’m ready to remember. I’m ready to rage. I’m ready to grieve. 

It’s time and I’m ready.