I've something to admit, internet. I am ashamed of this admission in the same way I roll my eyes at myself when I call my teen-life hard because my father drank on the weekends. Pfft, alcoholic? I'm sure there are millions of kids who could properly school me about their parents who are full-time alcoholics and not part time like my dad. Wussy. Suck it up. Three days out of seven he would drink, only!
The next 'important' sentence I will write sounds to me fake in every possible way but I have been told that it is true. I've also been told that I should Just Get Over It.
I am a 'victim' of sexual abuse. Except I'm not. I only witnessed it. Apart from the times I was felt up by the school nurse (and then left school, and did not return for a few years) and almost raped in Bulgaria. I cannot be too detailed because it is my worst nightmare that my family will somehow come across this blog and It will all be Exposed and we will have to Talk About It. But yes, it was within the family. Close family. But as far as I can remember, it was never done to me. But I lived in fear that it would.
Wussy, right? Tell the people who have actually been abused to come slap me across the face, because what am I whining about? Really? Nothing actually happened to me.
Except now it seems my vestibulitis comes from that time. The fact that I acted like a little slutty whore when I was a teenager comes from that time (but just online! Because I can't even do that properly.). The fact that my weight goes up and down like I'm bouncing on the scales comes from that. The fact that intimacy and sex is repulsive and makes me feel Dirty and Gross and Not There comes from that. The fact that my husband blames and resents me comes from that time.
The fact that I have PTSD comes from that.
Please, someone. Slap me across the face. Suck it up, suck it up, suck it up, suck it up you fucking pussy. Someone just yell at me to just to drop 20 pounds, spread my legs for my husband and do what a wife is supposed to do.
Please.
Recent Comments