One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter. --James Earl Jones
I've been having really awful dreams. Vile nightmares, about the disgusting rat bastard that was my father, and the things he used to do. In the dreams, I am also trying (and failing) to protect my sister from either knowing what is happening to me, or from being hurt herself. I wake up feeling dirty, frustrated, and ashamed, composing hate-mail in my mind.
My response is appropriate. Those feelings are normal and I was not allowed to feel them for many years. And if they are coming up now, it's because some part of me wants to process it and get it out. Some part of me thinks I'm ready. But the rest of me doesn't. The rest of me thinks I will never be ready because this stuff is the ugliest and most repulsive stuff on the planet and I'd rather just pretend it's not there, that it was never there. But I know that it is.
Perhaps I should give in. No one wants to be miserable, so this is a difficult decision to make. But. Right now, I don't have a lot of serious commitments. I work a shitty retail job where I am, as per usual, underappreciated. I'm not back in school yet. I'm not married. This is as good a time as any to fall apart for awhile. To be gentle with myself, not expect too much. Because. You know. After all.
I am so sick of this cycle, though. I always think I've made some progress, I feel good for a little while, and then... and then the dreams come back. I can only hope that the nightmares and the nausea and the helpless rage will become less and less frequent as time goes by, and I allow it to surface and leave me.