The five stages of grief.
1. Denial and Isolation
I just keep filtering through them, one by one. Never completely moving on from each. I’m currently cycling through anger. I’m angry at it all. The unfairness of it.
The past. The trauma. Him. The flashbacks. The memories. The sadness. The fear. Angry that he lives his life as a free man while I’m the one who has to endure therapy and pain.
ANGRY that people like him are allowed to walk this earth. My hatred makes me feel powerful. Motivated to help others like me. I don’t want to leave the anger stage. The anger is calming. I don’t feel scared or vulnerable when I’m angry. I want to confront him. I want to scream. I want him to feel my rage like a hot knife through his skin.
I know it isn’t healthy, but I don’t want to deal with the rest of the grief. I am also in denial and depression. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to feel. I don’t want to sit in the uncomfortableness that is my trauma.
It changes you in a way that one who hasn’t experienced it cannot understand. Some people who have gone through it push it deep inside them. They don’t speak about it. They don’t process it. They never heal from it. They just compartmentalize it and go on about their lives because it is the only possible way they can continue.
I can’t do that. I have to stomp my feet, and pull my hair, and yell at the top of my lungs. I have been silent for so long. Scared for so much longer, that now it is all draining out of me like water leaking from a broken faucet. Only, I am not broken. I am becoming stronger every time I speak about it. Every time that I don’t stay silent it is empowering. It makes me feel like I am not just a victim. Yes, it happened to me but it does not define who I am. It was wrong, horribly wrong, but I am not my trauma. It took me so long to be able to say that.
Louder for the people in the back; I am not my trauma. It does not DEFINE who I am. I will not let it. I will be angry. I will be pissed off forever probably, but I will be free of it, and he, he will have to live with it for the rest of his sickening life. Whether or not he feels any remorse, somewhere in his sick mind, he has to know what he did was wrong and he has to come to terms with that, not me. He has to make right with God-not me. He has to know that he lied when he was confronted. That he tore the family apart-not me. That he did this to all of us.
I hope he rots in it.