Somewhere along the line of the last few months my parents have found out that I was raped.
I am finding it almost impossible to cope with.
My Dad keeps calling it a 'suitcase' that I'm carrying around that he knows about but that I don't have to open for him, it sounds like a pretty reasonable metaphor but it makes me feel sick just the fact that I know they know and that they're finding there own ways to deal with it and reason it out when I can't do it for myself. They know I was in crisis counselling. They know that I get flashbacks. They're reading books on PTSD...
I've spent seven years trying to keep it a secret from them and I feel like I've failed.
It feels like when they found out about my Eating Disorder. I felt like sure a failure. It wasn't my secret anymore. They were watching me all the time. I couldn't escapse it because it was all around me.
This probably sounds stupid, considering the fact that I am fairly open about what happened to me online, and to a few select friends in real life, my ex boyfriend, this is an open blog, if you're a friend of mine from FB or twitter or any forums I post in online then you would be able to find my blog and read it, and I am totally fine with that, I am fine with the fact that strangers might stumble upon my rambles... I am not ashamed of what happened to me. I try to be as honest as I can be with myself through writing here, exploring my feelings and the after-effects, going through the constant interal battles of blaming myself and feeling real enough of valid enough to be hurting. I will talk about my flashbacks, about nightmares, about how fucked up it makes my thoughts sometimes. I am open and honest and I accept that means that I leave myself open for people to see the ugly parts of me...
... I just never wanted my parents to find out about it.