"No, you’re not okay. You say that you’re fine all the time but it’s obvious to everyone who sees your arms that you’re not. You talk to yourself like shit. You abuse the hell out of your body. You cut yourself all the time. You’re suicidal. And here you are trying to say it’s okay. It’s not. You’re not."
My therapist (via beautyinthebellejar)
Wish I had known this before
"Lo-li-ta: a ponta da língua descendo em três saltos pelo céu da boca para tropeçar, de leve, no terceiro, contra os dentes. Lo. Li. Ta."
"Hey my pretty little princess, I didn’t see you today, is everything okay? I miss you!"
So, this is my dad and the message he just sent me. My sweet and caring dad who’s loved by all of my friends and family because he’s so good to me and he’s such a nice person and loves me so much…
This is my dad. The same one that sexually abused me for years.
I wanna talk about recovery (TW sexual abuse)
I saw a picture today of a girl pointing a gun to the camera. It was realistic as hell and so incredibly intense that I felt like I was her. Maybe because I was her a while back in many of my dreams, not only the ones I used to have at night, but in my wishes too.
Going a little far back to a time when I thought I didn’t feel anger I can remember my therapist saying that it was because my conscience couldn’t let me, otherwise I would kill my father. I would stab him to death in his sleep, he said, I would stab him until I was covered in blood and than I would stab my mother too. The funny thing is that I didn’t feel nothing when I heard that, as always. During the abuse as well, I never felt. The bad grades, the anxiety, the self harm, the depression, the trust that I used to see sinking in a dark hole somewhere, all of this were real, but the anger wasn’t. I remember going to bed after he was finished and all I could think was “is this real?” but then I always forced myself to sleep. I always forced myself NOT TO think and I never did until I found my therapist. The only one who could actually help me, who came after the seven others I tried to go. And I started to feel anger when I could finally realize that the things that my father did to me was the reason for the living hell I was in for seven years. Seven fucking years. But you know what? It didn’t last long. It was so intense as the picture I saw today, but it didn’t last. My therapist did a good job, he helped me pulling this out but only when I was ready. Only when the nightmares stopped, when I no longer saw myself as a victim, when there weren’t cuts in my arms anymore, when I could finally stop the medicines because I found something to live for. I learned how to think about the sexual abuse without hurting myself and in a way that can actually help me. And that’s why I’m here and that’s why I’m writing this post. Because I follow so many amazing survival blogs and I see all you strong people fighting… But I see the days that you let the trauma take control as well. But those days will stop. I assure you it will. Until last year I thought I would always be defined by my abuse, but I’m not. Not anymore.
Keep up your strength.
We are much more than those nights.