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After my lumpectomy at age 23 I developed a hard cord that ran from my armpit to my elbow. It kept me from being able to raise my arm. Every excruciating day I had to do exercises to stretch my arm and regain mobility. At first I was glad that I wouldn’t need another surgery to cut the long, hard strand that tied my arm to my body. But, as the days worn on I actually began to desire a surgery to hurry up and get it over with. I didn’t want to waste so much time every single day walking my fingers up a door as hot tears burned my eyeballs.  I had a newborn and a toddler to tend to as well.  It was all just too much.  I wanted to give up.

That’s how I feel now.

Examining the dirtiness, the ugliness of my tormented childhood, my wild adolescence, and my marriage to a psychopath is overwhelming me.  The pain is too much.  The more I talk about it, the more memories surface.  I have four children at home to educate and provide for, plus adult children and grandchildren to whom I need to express my love and sorrow for what I’ve put them through.  These daily exercises are becoming too much.  I am ready to give up.

Why can’t I just go on pretending that everything is really okay?  I entertain thoughts of focusing on a full-time job and just praying everything will be alright for the kids.  I consider finding another man, someone to just help me out.  It’ll be okay if he doesn’t love me either.  My immediate family and neither of my husbands did, so why do I need to require so much from the next guy?  For crying out loud, I’m 47 years old.  I just need someone to put a roof over my head and fix my car.  I’ve missed out on love and companionship and commitment.  Big deal.  I’ll be dead before I know it.  I just need to get through the next 25 years.

I want to stick my head in the sand and pretend that my children aren’t effected by the violence they’ve experienced and witnessed, so that I don’t have to weary myself with late night talks and running them constantly to activities–activities with good mentors who will show them what normal looks like.

I am not liking that I have to truly accept that I’m not crazy, I’m not just being melodramatic, I’m not making stuff up (like my abusers told me I was).  My God, my God, my own mother and my husband, the father of my children, both tried to kill me.  My beloved father threatened to.  I worry every time I step out my front door that my brother is lying in the bushes ready to fire a round into my head.  That hurts too much to face.  I just don’t want to do these stupid exercises anymore!  As hard as it was to live with my emotional and relational immobility, it was easier than facing the harshness of my reality.

The beautiful and well written post I linked on here last week talked about wound cleansing and dressing changes.  It really spoke to me.  And now, I want to fight my healers.  I want to hit them and shove them away because digging at my raw flesh is painful.  I want the wound left alone.  I don’t care if it stinks and rots.  I just don’t want anyone touching it anymore.  I wish there was a surgery that would just cut that long, hard cord that ties my heart to the ground.