I do what I can.

It’s not much, but here’s a little piece of me.

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And to be clear: the post from yesterday is not a true life account of things between my father and me.

Dreams are often metaphors of our real lives and that therapy office and the relationships I thought I had with those male figures represent the space of this blog and the trust I have in all of you not to hurt me as I expose everything to you.

I’d like to think that my critic, Jiminy Cricket/Sonofabitch, didn’t mean to hurt me or make this space feel unsafe to me, but that has been the result. Even exposing my body today or for Boobday is a struggle.

I’m
fighting to be here, but it’s difficult knowing that whatever weakness I have in my walls of defense (that allowed my identity to become known) is still there — waiting to be found again — and maybe this time by a less benevolent individual.

I feel trapped, but I’m working my way out of it. I promise. Please bear with me.

I don’t feel safe.

Last night I had a dream.  In it I was assaulted by my father — no, my therapist — no, my father.  I was in his office in a loose white t-shirt and a pair of shorts.  My bare legs were exposed to his gaze.  I lay on a twin bed pushed against the wall, my cheek pressed against a pattern of white, cobalt blue and orange stripes.  Very 70’s.  A window and some ferns dotted the walls amongst bookshelves.

I was heavy with sleep, safe as a slumbering child.  My eyes fluttered open as my father — no, my therapist — walked towards me.  I smiled to myself knowing we would start talking.  I trusted him to sit in his green leather chair and rest his ankle on his knee.  Only he didn’t.  He passed the chair and filled my line of sight.

What I thought was the weight of sleep revealed itself as fear, oppressive and paralyzing.  I struggled to sit up, to gain my bearings, but my therapist — no, my father — closed the gap and lay behind me.  His weight strained the bed and I rolled back against him, helpless to gravity.

He breathed on me.  I imagined that he closed his eyes and filled his nostrils with the scent of my clean hair and I shuddered.  He let his arm rest along the curves of my body and his hand innocently, accidentally, rest where my legs joined.

But he and I both knew it was no accident.

I screamed, but no sound came out.

I sobbed, but no tears fell.

I only shook and died behind the barrier of my skin, the walls of my soul.

His hand pressed down on my plump skin and again I howled in terror and helplessness.  This time a sob escaped my lips.  This time I was able to tear away from him.  But I was only just now awake and my legs were weak, my eyes shrouded by the blur of tears.   I was painfully vulnerable.

He came towards me again and touched my breast through my loose white t-shirt.  My nipple hardened, braless.  He touched it again, smirking at my paralysis and my horror.

I pressed my back against the wall wishing it would swallow me, desperate for air, for my muscles to work, but I was immobilized with the searing cruelty of what my father — no, my therapist — was doing to me.

I wept and flung myself from side to side, but not really.

I bellowed and yelled and cursed his filthy, lying, betraying piece of shit life, for hurting me in a brightly lit room meant to be safe, but not really.

I willed it to stop, willed him to die, willed it all to go away just so I could breathe and suddenly… it did.

I lay panting in my bed.  The fan whirred above me.  The room was cast in midnight light.  My father really was dead.  My therapist was history.

I could breathe, but was I safe?  It doesn’t feel like it anymore.

Fucking dreams.