Ambivalence is taboo.  No one wants to know that I still love him, always did. 

Maybe always will.

I am so split.  Back and forth.  

A silent tug of love.

I was an abused child.  I am a survivor of child abuse

But.  Was I really abused?  Was it really so bad?

Perhaps, I was the only child in the world who wanted it

Didn’t I?

It felt terrible, but part of it felt good

Love is supposed to hurt

It was normal.  It was my life.  I did not know that it should not be. 

Why complain about normal?

I’m angry, I hate him

I’m sad, I love him

I shake, I fear him

I am confused, conflicted

Hopelessly

My thoughts and emotions peppered by others’ comments:

“You are just making excuses for them” 

“Just get over it, get on with your life”

“He was a bad person.  Why say anything nice about him?”

“Don’t be silly.  No abused child has any positive childhood memories”

“You can’t still love him”

“Abuse is not love”

“It’s still abuse, even if some of it felt good”

“It is okay to love and hate”

It all makes logical sense, what people say

But these people are not the ones with the memories of good times, of love and kindness.  And of pain and fear and despair. 

Extreme opposites

He was the main carer, and the main abuser.  Two men in one body

So, sometimes, my heart is stretched away from logic into another place

His old brown wool jumper, home-made, with the holes I could stick my thumb through.  I stole it, hid it in shame for years, and used it to comfort myself.  That soft wool flapping around me, sleeves which could not be rolled up.  He was always so much bigger than me. 

His mug I smashed, full of terrible flashbacks.

Two men in one body

Ambivalence is shameful, confusing, something not to be talked about.  For me ambivalence is one of the hardest things about abuse.  Back to back with the betrayal of my betrayer. 

I have told. 

And now I live with the guilt of that.  All swirled into the pain of flashbacks, the loss of the life I could have had, the residual fear which never leaves me. 

All damage he has done

I want to use my story to help others.  It is difficult - I have to tell.  It can no longer be locked in.  My body is screaming.  And hidden words must come out of that gaping mouth. 

A child’s mouth, child’s words.  A child’s heart 

Every word costs – guilt is a very difficult emotion to live with

I know I was abused. 

But.

Originally written Nov, 2019