Acceptance sucks!

Recently I mentioned to a friend that I no longer feel welcome when I chat with others. Please understand, this is me--my feelings--not a reflection on anything that has been said to me. And everyone knows, my feelings are pretty out of kilter most of the time.

me: I don't feel that I'm sharing when I talk about me. I feel that I'm taking something that doesn't belong to me. I'm stealing time from them. Time better spent doing other things.
Friend: If that logic were applied to everyone, then we would all be islands, never touching anyone. I can't imagine that's how life is supposed to be, can you?
me: You should see me laughing--sort of hysterically, actually. That is how I imagine my life.

I crave quiet. I seek out alone time. And while I long to be by myself, I ache for the people I love to be with me. And I wonder why.

In the past two years my blog has networked modestly through a number of communities. I'm still unsure why people come. I talk about my everyday life, but I spend an inordinate amount of time discussing the things that make me sad. I've described some of the abuse I've experienced. At one point I was certain that I would triumph over everything, and somehow impossibly nullify everything that has happened to me. Of course, I knew that wouldn't happen. I had no idea what the eventual outcome would be. I didn't want this one.

Acceptance. It still feels a bit like defeat. In spite of the fact that I know I'm not defeated, accepting what life has given me feels sort of miserable.

Between the ages of four and nine, I have been molested by three different people on three different occasions, two episodes happening in church restrooms, the other in my own home. Accept that.

At age eleven I was raped more than once by an older cousin in my own bed and left to clean up the mess. I was tired and aching and terribly lonely and sad. I wanted someone to save me, to take care of me. No one did. Accept that.

As a small child I wanted to be held, cuddled, loved. I wasn't. I wanted my mother to love me as I adored her. She didn't. I understand all the reasons I didn't receive that blessing. I bear her no malice--nor my father who was gone during that time. I am left with a deficit in my being and no way to fill it. Accept that.

For whatever reason, I was emotionally and physically abused by my mother until I left home at seventeen. I understand that this was not because I was "bad", and even she has admitted that I tried desperately to bridge the gap between us until I finally gave up and endured whatever happened. As an adult I have tried to make a parent/child relationship--a healthy one--with my mother. It is something she neither fosters, nor wishes for. Our friendship is very nice. It is all that is possible for us. Accept that.

Because of the events of my life, I live with PTSD. Sometimes it's very manageable. I feel strong and capable and confident. Other times I believe everyone in my life wishes to hurt me--especially those who love me the most. I am difficult and frustrated in those times. Sometimes I pick fights or I isolate myself. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I want someone to save me--but there is nothing from which I need to be saved, unless it if from myself. Sometimes I have nightmares and flashbacks. Accept that.

I have difficulty with any kind of intimacy, physical or emotional. Sometimes, my poor scarred body still bleeds when I have a flashback, still feels pain even though I haven't been abused in many years. In the times when I should feel valued and comfortable by people who have loved me through the trauma of the past two years, I feel afraid and vulnerable. My head tells me they won't hurt me. My heart doesn't believe. The abuse and violence seems to have molded me into a being incapable of accepting love and trusting that it will continue. I have worked hard to combat this. In my marriage I've had some success, but not a lot. This is probably how I will feel in any relationships for the rest of my life. Accept that.

And so, I accept the things that I cannot change. This is supposed to bring me peace. Instead it makes me ache with what might have been, what should have been. It makes me resentful. No child deserves my childhood. It makes me look at the story I've been avoiding most of my life, and I accept it. But I hate it. And I want it to be different.