I was contemplating bad times. The span of my 10th and 11th years of age popped up as an extremely harsh time. At first, I attributed it to the difficulties of my dad struggling at work, can't remember if he was unemployed at this time or simply not bringing enough money home, as the hunger was pretty prevalent as well as the gas being shut off I intermittently for lack of payment.
In addition, these years covered the newly uncovered prostitution that I was forced into on weekends and occasional Thursday nights, my grandmother was amusing herself through torturing me mostly with matches, sexual abuse and explicit threats and I was constantly sick physically from stifling my abuses.
It makes sense that these two years are divided amongst many alternate personalities as the abuse load was high, critical really.
It had gotten to the point that almost every waking moment and sleepless night I was working to suppress, suppress, suppress and hide all my emotions. I was also actively suicidal and grossly depressed. I wore my dark feelings and others began to notice and see that I wasn't well.
My mother had taught me that whenever I felt something unpleasant happening, say an incestuous moment with my dad, that I was to be certain never to speak of it as if I kept quiet then I could pretend it wasn't real and it didn't happen. How sick was that to be trained by my own mother to never acknowledge the sick, perverted, painful stuff that was happening each day.
I swallowed all those sad and bad feelings. It's like suffocating a little more each day. The less I spoke, the more they got away with doing stuff to me. I was drowning in silent truths day by day with no end in sight. Of course I was depressed and suicidal.
I'm not silent anymore. I've got so much more to say. Stay tuned. Listen.
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