When breathing hurts

I used to hate waking up and taking a breath. I felt so worthless inside and out. I often wondered if I were actually going crazy or if the crazy life of being an abused child was just a mere figment of my mind. Sitting in the corner in a chair far away from my father as I could get, I did not smile. I did not play with toys because I never had any. Oh I was given toys at Christmas and such but they never made it home. My brother’s were given toys and love but those things were kept well away from me.

I have a picture of my two year old self sitting on a tiny stool in a corner while my uncles and father were drinking. My own grand children laugh and play and I look at this little girl and shed tears thinking about what terror she was living through even at that early age. That was

 how life was then. No one cared for the little girl who never smiled and who was terrified of her father. I often wonder what would have happened if even one person took the time to care.

Unless you have been abused in some way it is hard for you to understand the fear which stays with you long after the abuse is over. The self doubts and self hatred at every decision you have to make no matter what the final outcome is. The nightmares which are not dreams but were your reality and no matter how many times you try to turn them off, you cannot. For me, having two strokes did the trick and lessened the fear and pain.

I still get my days when I hate waking up and taking a breath but I know that it is not the way it was. I can get through things because I am believing in myself and the voices of the past are becoming more distant. I look back and wonder how that little girl managed to survive but I am glad she did. One day at a time. One breath at a time…you can get through this…if you need help….just ask. xxx

Thanks for your comment. Comments are personal opinions of the senders and in no way reflect the authors or administrators of this page.

%d bloggers like this: