I’ve been struggling more with suicidality the last few days. Suicidality, self-harming urges, and feelings of worthlessness.

The internal sound track in my head says I can’t feel things. I am not worthless. These feelings cannot be acknowledged or articulated.

But it suddenly dawned on me that this is good information. I really felt that way. The sexual abuse from my dad has been more on my mind these days—something seems to have triggered it. Something to do with feeling alive again. Well, there are physical sensations from it that you might call pleasure. I remember those as well as needing to perform in an enthusiastic way, even if the physical pain was terrible. (And it often was. It often was both together.) However, emotionally, it was torture. It was such torture, I could only think to express it in a physical way—as death, or as a physical wound you can see. There were simply no words for how much it hurt inside.

It hurt more, perhaps, because there was no one else I could even try to express this to. I couldn’t express it to my dad, although he was hurting me, but I couldn’t express it to anyone else either. No one could be bothered to try to listen or to try to understand. It takes a certain kind of person to hear about this degree of pain and just listen to it, someone who has confidence in the willingness to be with someone as a force that can help, and won’t try to change or reframe reality to make it more comfortable for themselves, and it’s scary to hear. It’s scary to hear someone in so much pain

My emotions are worth something. My internal experience is worth something. It hurt. It hurt my heart terribly. It hurt me beyond any words I had then or have now.

He didn’t hurt me because I had low self-esteem and didn’t believe I was worth protecting. He was the person who was meant to teach me I was worth protecting. He hurt me because he was a psychopath and he had almost complete control over my life.