Killing Me…

*******trigger warning –Graphic*******

The last couple of sessions in therapy have been very intense, ever since I brought up the fact that I feel like I killed my child self.  My therapist keeps pushing/questioning  this belief, yet I still keep coming back to the fact that I feel like I methodically, intentionally, and purposely killed that side of myself. Part of it was a way of putting it out of its misery, but there is more to it then that . My therapist wants me to explore why I feel that I did the killing, so I’m writing out everything that is going through my mind, whether it makes sense or not.

I know that she would like me to see it as I had no choice in the matter, that I did what I did to survive, and maybe that is true from every other stand point but from where I’m standing. Here it’s almost as if I can look down and see the blood on my hands. The blood of that child I use to be – innocent, guiltless, untouched, free, blameless, really just a baby. I know that most people would say that the abuse – either my grandfather’s raping me or my parents and the emotional abuse I suffered time and again at their hands was really at fault. But in the end, I feel that I stuck the killing blows, I made the decision that the child could not longer exist, so I killed it. I, alone, made the decision that she would be better off not having to deal with the pain and suffering. I ended it for her, just like you would end it for a suffering animal.

Except unlike an animal, it wasn’t a quick and it wasn’t painless. It happened slowly, tortuously, over many years. I delivered a blow every time I failed to escape my grandfather and the rape, every time I hide inside of myself instead of fighting, screaming, yelling, whatever it took to stop it..  Every time I took the easy way out by escaping to other places, other times in my mind, I left her behind. I left her to deal. I left her to die. I might as will have pulled the trigger, because by the time I got back to her that was all there was left to do. She was so broken, so battered, and in so much pain. So instead of experiencing those things I choose to have no memories of them at all. I choose to wipe the slate clean but to do that I had to get rid of the evidence, I had to get rid of her. I figured that with her death went the pain and suffering.

I had to become an adult, there was no more time for the childish things that most children have in their lives, I had to kill the part that wanted those things. I had to make the hard decisions, the adult decisions. There was no room for doubt, indecision, or regret. I had to survive so I had to kill the part of me that was my greatest weakness, the child, its wants and its needs. I couldn’t allow the enemy to know that I had that weakness, so I had to root it out, destroy it, and hide every bit of evidence that it even existed in the first place. I had to make myself stronger than them while not letting  on that, that I was what I was doing.

The problem I’m having now is that I feel like by killing that child I have killed everything that was ever good in me, everything that ever had emotion or feeling. I feel that now all I am is a battle ready shell with no core. And while I can’t say that I regret killing the child off because I feel that, that was the only choice I had, I do wish that it didn’t have to be.


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