I wonder sometimes whether my past was real. Whether enduring the abuse of childhood actually happened. I wonder whether it is real.
Rationally I know I was abused. But I keep the secret. Years of conditioning are powerful that way. I question my motives for keeping the silence. Is it because I am afraid I am wrong…that it never happened. That I am just a nutcase. Someone who should be kept silent and apart from society.
It’s bullshit. What happened to me…happened. And other people witnessed it. I am pretty sure that the memories are strongly repressed in my family’s little circle. But just because something is buried does not mean it did not happen.
One day I will work up the courage to break my silence. I will speak out. I will advocate for myself, but at the moment the years of silence weigh down on me. A habit impossible to break.
I do not know why I keep silent. I keep telling myself that some things cannot be unsaid. But, and this is a big but, by keeping silent I am denying part of my story. Allowing a smear campaign to be carried out, where the person who hit and hurt me is dictating the public perception of me…
And yet, I still carry on the family line of not washing dirty laundry in public. Of shouldering the responsibility for what an adult did to a child.
It’s not right but it is the current reality. For years I have been told that I am strong enough to carry this burden in silence. I now need to convince myself that I am strong enough to tell my story out loud.