Dear powerless, frightened, hopeless Inner Child…
Death became your friend early on, because there was no one to listen to your woes. No where to go to escape the persistant onslaught of blame, regret, despise, hate directed at you.
Even though on the outside you belonged within a community of God fearing people who worshipped God everyday. Who wore beautiful hats and nice dresses and suits. Who on bank holidays prayed even longer and harder to prove how loyal they were to the word.
No one would believe I didn’t deserve it. For my disobedience and back chatting (there was a little piece of me that just wouldn’t give in and rebelled, even though the responses were harsh and dire).
“Thou shall not spare the rod and spoil the child.”
Thou shall kick, push down the stairs, pull her hair (until she had to learn to do it herself to avoid the pain), slap her across the face (dislocating jawbones), tied up with wire, beaten, humiliated and shamed into submissom because God gave them permission to do so.
you were not allowed to cry, to show any emotion, especially when beaten with the bucked end of a belt. The pink raw pulp of flesh showing on my thigh.
The horror, the disbelief, instant denial of the perpretator even in mid swing and years later.
So where does all this unspent emotion go?
Trapped inside for eternity it seems. Fight or flight in constant motion under the surface. Battle of words warring inside my head constantly, mine and my mother’s battling to be top dog (or should I whisper top bitch). Mine struggling to be heard among the din. Mine for years drowned out by the need for obedience.
Because obedience equals love, right?
Obedience equals death.
‘Zero to Nuclear’ in my reaction to preceived threat.
PTSD, because I grew up in a war Zone.
Now I am learning to tame the grotesque inner child, distorted from all those years in Darknes. Listening to her and giving her a voice.