Lonely. Painfully lonely. World vs me. There is so much going on that I’m not allowed to write/talk about. I feel suffocated and distant. A hot knife repeatedly plunges into my heart. I am neither dead nor alive. 

I took my girls to the cinema today. In a bid to connect with them and show them that I was a normal, caring mother – or show myself. I bought them popcorn. I smiled, I touched their faces. My care and adoration for them is genuine. But my heart is so heavy. I couldn’t focus on the movie. I felt steel cold claws gripping me. Reality. Pain. Restlessness. 

Then grocery shopping – robotic. Girls picking eggs excitedly. 

I feel nothing.

My husband and I are going through paperwork, there’s stuff – the stuff I can’t talk about. I’m on edge. I’m weary. I’m tearful. I realise again how alone again.

No one understands.

There is such an enormity in that one sentence. If you break a bone, and another hasn’t it’s hard to explain the pain but there are examples. You could find a way to explain to the immediate pain and the healing pain. And you could have that conversation in the middle of just about anywhere. In fact often when the weather changes people refer to old injuries playing up. 

But can anyone understand the pain of rape? To be violated? To be used? To be hurt so violently and so intimately? The things that were said and done? To relive that trauma? To describe that pain? To describe feeling that pain years after the event? The nightmares in which it feels so real? The flashbacks where you feel like you’re there? Times of the year where it’s harder? Being asked questions that make you relive those very moments? A conversation that can barely take place anywhere. A conversation barely anyone wants to hear.

I feel alone. My body hurts. My head hurts. I don’t want noise, I don’t want memories, I don’t want to feel or think. When my husband shouts it triggers me, he doesn’t understand. I know he tries but he doesn’t understand how hard this is for me. He wasn’t there. It’s never happened to him, it’s not a broken bone, it’s a raw wound. 

I try everyday to get up and be mother, wife, person, but don’t look too closely, you’ll see all my bones are broken and my soul weeps to be heard.


5 thoughts on “Broken

  1. Living with trauma of rape is so hard. Praying that you find what you need to heal the invisible wounds. A friend once described such living as “chop wood, carry water”… Just going through the motions. I spent years and years in that place…I hear you


  2. I think a friend who looks you right in the eyes, and can touch and hug you would be helpful. It was for me, and it only takes one. But I’m here too. You can talk anytime. And my hunch is there are many more ‘friends’ on-line who would too.
    I know what you mean. One can chat about illnesses, and other things that hurts us out in public, but some hurts, the ones most needing airing, are not acceptable conversation. Talk is still good, whether it’s one friend, (if you haven’t met one trustworthy enough, it can still happen), or ‘talk’ by writing, which you do.
    You might think think this is insane as I did when a therapist told me about ‘thought stopping.’ I told her out loud she was insane. But if you find yourself thinking about the trauma repeatedly, you can train your mind to move on by telling it ‘stop.’ In winter especially can lie there in bed if I wake in the night and go over a troubling incident or on-going problem, god, over and over again like rat in a wheel. She said say, ‘Stop.’ and think of something else. When I started trying to do it, even though I thought her to be insane, I did make some progress, and over time notice I can do it if I put my ‘mind’ to it.

    Once I had to take almost the entire trip to my son’s wedding wedding in NH working on my willful mind to ‘drop the load’ because I’d be spending a great deal of time around someone who continually hurts me. (I hurt her too, I think we are too much alike) I did not want to ruin my son’s wedding with resentments. I visualized carrying a very heavy backpack but letting it just fall off my shoulders.
    Repetitive thoughts, mine are always about her, not my abuse. So maybe I’m coming across as even more insane as my therapist. But I was rather amazed that I did have some control over my willful mind.


  3. So sorry that this is your daily experience. I have not been raped but physically abused & flinch every time one of my kids comes towards my face with something to show me, they don’t understand, poor things “Not near my face, not near my face.” I understand how difficult it is to parent while coping with the daily remnants of trauma. I’m sorry for what happened to you and hope you can find peace someday.


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