I’m whizzing along or, more often, creaking along trying to get a handle on the trauma, try to do something about the parts, and grieving and this other feeling stuff. And I tell you about it. You can see the progress I’m making—or not making. You can, at least, see change of some kind. We hope it’s in a forward direction, but if it isn’t, at least it’s a direction. At least something is happening.
So you know what’s up. You’re following along. There’s a velocity and a vector to it.
Then I seem to randomly (maybe) bang out with a post begging for help. Not for myself as an adult. I am getting the help I need. (Thanks).
For myself as a child.
For my family.
I suspect I say more or less the same thing every time I do this. I keep writing them anyway. I am not sure how much difference this makes. But I do it anyway.
Because a part of what I need to do in order to heal the trauma is to ask for help. My family was suffering. My dad can only be described in ways that involve profanity and a significant amount of rage, and my mother is no cupcake either, but my family was sick because they were sick. My dad needed a set of chains, and my mother needed more effective mental health services than she was getting. She suffered from a heavy dose of narcissism that made her singularly unlikeable, but she was ill. And she was trying to raise kids. And her husband was Jim Jones. Something needed to be done.
My sister was hurting me. She was hurting me because my dad was raising us to be sexually depraved sociopaths and she caved a little. She is not that strong, and she broke. She needed help.
I needed help.
Natalya needed to be rescued from the Russian mob.
We needed so very much. All of us did.
I cannot help any of them now. My parents are too dangerous for me to be around, and Natalya is dead, and my sister, well, I don’t really know what to do for her now. I don’t even know how to tell her what she did to me. She would not be able to bear the context in which it occurred.
But I need to be able to ask for help for them, and this is the way that I can. To say parents with burdens need support. Trafficked girls need legal protections and services to help them re-enter society, but most of all they need families that are not so overburdened that they cannot protect them.
And you can help in so many ways.
I keep saying it because it is true. Because I can help by telling the truth as I understand it—because I do know things that others won’t. I keep saying it because finally I can ask for help.
I know I am a part of society again, because I can ask for help. I keep asking for it, because I need to hear myself doing this.
I need to hear myself asking so that I know I live in a world that will help, that is not indifferent, that does not always look the other way, that is not devoid of empathy and compassion, that is not run by sociopaths, but people who care.
It is okay that I live in an imperfect world and even in one that might be something close to broken. We can all just keep trying to creak along in our broken, imperfect state. I cannot live in a world that is heartless.
Thank you for not being heartless.