The Journey of a Survivor

One image haunts me. It happened when I was in the 4^th grade. My grandparents were drunk and in a vile mood. My grandmother stripped me naked and started beating me while my grandfather sat and watched. He said thing like “look at those titties.” Then he started twisting them. Not only was it painful, it was humiliating. My grandmother said things like “you’re a fu**ing whore…I am ashamed of you…you disgust me…” My pride and self image took a big hit that night.

I had taken many beatings but this night seemed like the night I internalized the insults that were hurled at me. For many years I truly believed I was a disgusting whore. Shame was a constant companion of mine—my childhood friend. Years of therapy have taught me the lies are just that—lies. I am not a disgusting whore. Sometimes I think a little piece of it sticks with me. It’s like a cancer inside of me that just never goes away. No matter how much I claim to love myself—no matter how much I tell myself I am a worthy person—I have this nagging feeling deep inside my core that I am not worth the oxygen I breath.

How do I shed this last bit of negative energy? I am a cutter. Maybe I cut to try to bleed out the shame and hate. Instead of keeping it locked up inside I try to purge myself of it. Years of cutting has not gotten rid of the horrible feelings—they remain. Why can’t I just get over this? Why has this one night had such a major impact on my psyche?