Tabatha
It comes back in waves, erratic waves that send chills down my spine, covers my skin in goose bumps and brings tears to sting my eyes. Little things, like tripping over my own feet, the boy next to me grabbing my wrist in an effort to keep me from falling.
And I scream.
*****
I don’t even really want to talk about it anymore. I’ve talked about it so much, so often, too many times, to too many people who haven’t believed me or didn’t want to listen or who shut it out or who used it to hurt me, again and again. I’ve told it so many times through the mania and the depression that in retrospect it probably triggered that sometimes the details change – God, don’t the details always change after this long? – and sometimes I’m not sure what really happened and what didn’t anymore. And too many people will tell me my version, any version, is wrong. I’m wrong.
And since, my God, since. That was the first time I almost died. It’s happened so many times since then it’s become silly to count. That party, where I was roofied. That guy, who tried to bash my head in, who broke into my house. The other guy with the raging coke habit. That car accident. Those pills. And those other pills. The booze, the late nights-come-mornings, the loss of brain cells and burial of events so far in my psyche that I became free in my captivity, fell in love with my captor so rapturously that I sang my sorrows like an aria from the darkest opera that I never saw when victimization became characterization and I was a shell of a soul, talking but not walking my own sordid path.
And I became haunted by a ghost.
A ghost I can’t remember.
A person I can’t remember.
A night I can’t remember.
A life I can’t remember.
*****
Ten years later.
This August marks a decade.
I’m married now. I have a son – oh, what a mindf*ck that is – and more pets than any quasi-sane person should own. I have friends who don’t know, and I’ve quit telling them, no longer wanting to let that be my signifier, stopping wearing that scarlet letter on my chest.
I try to fill my life with love now. Real love. Where how damaged and broken I’ve become doesn’t matter any more than my ACT scores. And where the people who see me as Less Than are no longer the markers by which I judge myself.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t still struggle. That it doesn’t adversely affect my relationship with my too-good-to-be-true husband, because no one can really be trusted, nor can they really love me. That I’m not still caught off guard by a scene in a movie, causing me to bolt out of the room without explanation. That the sound of metal hitting bone makes me throw up in my mouth. That I will never sit in the backseat of an American made car. That I still hate driving that stretch of highway. That sometimes it’s too much and I drink or shop or exercise my demons away, for now.
That someone grabbing my wrist will forever make me scream.
And that sometimes, a story, these stories, pull commiseration out of the depths of my shattered, walled-off soul and I can’t help but this one last time to finally stand up and say, me too.
Me, too.
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Tabatha blogs here and tweets here. She asks that you keep all comments here on this post, rather than over at her own blog where it isn’t as safe. Thank you.
31 Responses to “Tabatha”
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Thank you for sharing this, even if you’re tired of saying it again.
What a brave person you are. I commend you for surrounding yourself with love and people who are going to be supportive of you. Good job for not letting negative people define you any longer.
Thank you for sharing your story yet one more time. For what it’s worth, I absolutely believe every word you wrote. I know you have no reason for making it up. Your version is not wrong. It’s the one that’s right. ((((( hugs ))))))
Thank you for sharing your story here, Tabatha. I am so sorry for everything that you’ve lost through those ordeals. I hope that you can find more strength, and peace, each coming day. Congratulations on your family. Stay strong! You are so strong. Remember that you are worth something – a lot.
I believe you.
I don’t know what else I can say. I don’t have the gift to make it right, to make it not-hurt. I don’t have a time portal (don’t I wish) to take you back and avoid it all. I don’t have the words to make it all better (and I know lot of words).
But this much I have.
I believe you.
Just as important, I believe in you. That you didn’t come this far to fail now. That you didn’t go through all you went through to give up. that you can’t possibly write something as gripping and beautiful as you just did and have nothing left.
So what can I offer you? A hug? Not so easy across the vapor of the internet. And even if you were right next to me, would it hurt as much as help? (It’s hard to know, and one must be careful of these things.) What then? enough space to let you breathe, enough closeness to let you know I’m here, and enough quiet to say what you need to say. And one more thing.
I believe you.
You deserve to be believed. And I’m glad you are filling your life with love, you deserve a life filled with love, free of that haunting. I believe it that for you, too.
Powerful post. I wish I could give you a big hug. I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through, and want you to know we hear you, we’re listening. We care, even if we are strangers.
I’m so sorry. Sorry for the pain of being used and sorry for the pain of not being believed. Good for you filling you life with love. You deserve it.
Sometimes it’s the not being believed that almost hurts worse, because then it makes you question “Is my pain real; am I allowed to be damaged by this?”
and the answer is YES
it is real and YES
you are allowed to be and feel exactly what you do and are
regardless of what happened or happens now.
We believe you and we reach out and say thank you for being brave enough to share it and share ours and move on into whatever future holds.
Thank you for saying it one more time. In this forum, you are heard. Your nightmares are echoed, your success is everyone’s, and we CARE.
I still walk out of the room during movies. I still wake up at night, silently screaming. You are not alone.
Thank you for sharing your story. I’m so moved by your strength and perseverance and survival!
“….still caught off guard by a scene in a movie, causing me to bolt out of the room without explanation….”
No need to explain. I completely know how you feel.
Great writting, and you seem to be right where you need to be now.
For me, this almost seemed like very dark poetry.
And in a very real way, I can understand that. Having told so many people, you’ve no doubt gone almost crazy having to say the same mundane, horrible, devastating thing again and again and again.
And before, no one believed you. Or at least few did.
But we do. We love you. And we’re here for you.
And for that, I have to say: Thank you for sharing.
oh lady…. this one hit home…. HARD.
congratulations on your survivorship. i just had my 9 year suckiversary… considering throwing myself a HUGE ASS party for numero 10 next sept.
you’re not alone. i will scream with you.
Thank you for taking the time to say “me too”.
Can’t remember. Can’t forget.
Thank you for posting here.
I am sorry for your past, hopeful for you rfuture, and proud of your right now.
You are amazing. Simply amazing.
I believe you. Thank you for sharing, and best of luck to you.
I believe you. Having the strength to say it one more time, even just the me too is amazing. Thank you for sharing.
I believe you. It took strength to bring it all up again and to write this beautifully honest post.
I don’t have the words. I’m glad you do.
Thank you for sharing this. Thank you for speaking words that I havent been able to speak. I believe you. your a fighter, so keep fighting. beautiully written, if there could be room for the word beautiful in such a horrid ugly subject.
Why the hell would anyone think you’d lie about this?!
First of all, thank you all so much for your kindness and support. You can’t imagine what it means to me.
@Emily — I was fifteen and my parents were amidst a divorce. There wasn’t much room for the apparent histrionics of a teenager while the adults were dealing with “real” issues. He was my first kiss, my first boyfriend of any substance — the theory was that I made it up “because he broke my heart.” It’s still not talked about, ever, even by me anymore.
You are not wrong. People who cannot hear the truth are people who cannot handle the truth. It is painful when they are the people we should be able to count upon in times of need. Keep learning, keep growing, and keep finding people who will listen. They are a blessing from above.
I believe you. Thank you for telling your story again.
Thank you for sharing. I am starting to have those feelings l that the story is changing around me, that some details are exaggerated because I don’t know what is real anymore. It has been almost one year for me, and I hope that in 9 more years, I can be as strong as you. Thank you!
just to say, I am learning more about this, and YOU have helped me.
God bless you this thanksgiving with a bounty of love
This weblog entry is being featured on Five Star Friday – http://www.fivestarfriday.com/2009/11/five-star-fridays-edition-81.html
I believe you.
Thank you for sharing.
I believe you, too. Thank you for having the strength to survive, to share your story and to be there for your own family.
Tabatha, Bless you for sharing. I’m glad things are better for you.
Just because you sometimes still struggle doesn’t diminish the fact you’re here and are a survivor. Your story really touched me. Thank you.