Being Believed

Had a chat with W this morning and we talked about being believed, especially in terms of abuse. As I have stated before, I was not believed during the time I lived with my father. He was the hero, I was the zero. The first time I was really believed was when I was living on the street, because as a matter of fact, there are many people out there who have experienced stuff like abuse, violence and so on. It was the first time no one implied I was just exaggerating to get attention. When I was 21 and my father tried to kill me, I did not believe myself. It was just too absurd and things like these do not happen, right? As a result, it took years to really understand what he had done or tried to do. I was able to talk about it, to tell what had happened, but it did not get through to me. And again, people did not believe me. They questioned every word I said, and I guess having a problem with alcohol did not help.

H and S were the first to really believe me, every word I said. But it took them forever to have me open up, because I was used to being called a liar and I was just fed up that. Not being believed made me fall silent, and regaining my ability to speak was powerful but neverheless it hurt. Being able to tell what happened helps, but it brings things back and makes them reality. I was no longer able to tell myself it was just a nightmare or fiction. At this point of time I understood that I had somehow lost contact with a lot of incidents and, even worse, with some parts of myself. Until today I do not recall everything. Some things are lost, at least for my conscious thinking. For my body, they are still existent, but I can’t lay my hand on them. That’s why some asshole wearing a certain fragrance and behaving in a certain way is still having my dissociating. Fuck yeah, triggers. I got a lot of them, so my everyday life stays rather…uhm, interesting.

Freedom of speech is connected with a kind of permanent pain inflicted on those you love. For some things I fail to find beautiful or not so harmful words. And to be honest, I value being ask to use non-explicit words for very explicit deeds as an impertinence. My father did not cuddle me blue and sore, there was a bit of violence involved. I guess I don’t think I am to go easy on therapists, but I try to be gentle with my family and my friends. I know it’s hard to bear hearing me say certain things in a certain way, so I try to find a way to soften my words.

I guess not believing me and regarding me as a liar is a bit more comfy than to really cope with the fact that bad things can occur to normal people. It makes people aware of their own vulnerability.

Another thing that keeps making me mad is people questioning our 24/7 lifestyle. I know it should not bother me, but concerning my life story, being called a liar is hard to take for me. And well, I ask myself why these people keep reading my blog if they’re convinced it’s all fiction. Perhaps it’s interesting, though. I don’t get it. But it reminds me of the fact that I started this blog just for myself and John, and we’re both enjoying it. So please back off and stop sending me e-mails. Thank you.


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