To free oneself from a phobia.
Via gradual exposure to the thing that is feared.
Lately, I’ve been wrestling with how much to share on the blog. And not for myself, actually, but for my family who
may will be affected by the things I choose to reveal. Even though this is my outlet to express myself fully, and let it all out, the fact of the matter is, I always worry how the things I write about might affect the people I love. Because I know for a fact that my parents read my posts. Eve (and her friends) read my posts. And for those reasons, I do not fully disclose my thoughts nor do I talk about everything in my head.
I wish I could though.
Just let everything gush forth without a care in the world.
I T W O U L D B E I M M E N S E L Y L I B E R A T I N G
Does it come as a surprise to you?
This trepidation of mine?
Afterall, I’ve talked about running away. And growing up within an environment that views tanned skin and articulation on a female as ugly. I’ve touched on the topic of masturbation. And once you talk about DIY-ing, it’s rather like going to the point of no return, isn’t it?
Yet there are aspects of my life that, if I haven’t kept completely hidden, I haven’t completely disclosed either.
Shocker, I know.
Yes, the sexual abuse as a child.
And it weighs heavily upon my soul.
I cannot lie.
And is quite likely what triggered today’s mood. I want to shed all the burden it’s put on me, but I cannot. For now. I know it’s my story to tell but I worry how it will affect my parents since the person who did it lies within the immediate family circle. And is someone with whom they still have regular contact.
Still, one has to wonder if my reticence stems more from my reluctance to confront what happened.
My brother believes I should start a journal about it.
Pen my thoughts down. And then, one day, either publish it. Or post it here. When I feel ready. And, he suggests, perhaps also after pre-empting my parents before I hit the publish button.
He has a point. I just hate the idea of bringing the topic up with them. I can barely talk about it with my husband. I cringe at the memory, and feel repulsed and disgusted with myself when old thoughts resurface. I’m very much aware that nothing which happened was my fault. Not in the least bit.
I can’t help but wonder, though, if I did or say something to encourage it? That caused the abuse to last over a period of 2, 3 years.
Dress & Boots (c/o Forever21) | Embellished Bag (Zara) | Sunnies (Poshmark)
I do know that, even after all these years (30+ to be precise), the fact that this part of my life bothers me so, means he has retained control over me. And I need that to stop. I need to put an end to it.
There’s this saying I came across. a long time ago, that old sins have long shadows. I’d revise that a bit to include also the sins of others upon us, for they too reach far and wide. And to counter that, I’d start with desensitising myself. Just a little.
And how’s that for light Monday reading, huh? GRIN you can always count on me to be forthcoming. And honest. And no holds barred.
p/s I link up here.