Today begins the 5th year of this blog’s existence. I thank every reader whose pathway has crossed its pages, and I thank every commenter who has added their thoughts, feelings and unique perspectives to its posts.
The focus of my research work at this point is into my history as a severe infant-child abuse survivor. I preferred the work when it wasn’t so self-focused. I preferred the external research that enabled me to identify scientific facts about how the great distress abused infants and children live through changes the way their physiology develops. As difficult as those facts were to encounter and to accept, they were simply facts.
I have reversed the direction in which the arrows of my search are flying. Now it seems I face nothing but obstacles and all of them are of my own making. Nearly all of them stem from the understandable but horrendously difficult time I have in TRULY valuing anything about myself.
I write in the face of a seemingly endless onslaught of sadness. I cannot cover up this fact and write the truth. Nearly all pressures I perceive if I look outside of myself appear to cast a vote to the “Nay” about such work as this having any value. In a culture that ever coined in the first place, and then remembered such a phrase as “ignorance is bliss,” I find it difficult to continue forward. The effort can seem equivalent to trying to move a mountain.
Not only is there great mystery and a nearly impenetrable silence about infant and child abuse in this society but there seems to be an unwillingness to value what adult survivors of it have to say. Maybe if the voice that spoke of such agony and horrors belonged to a cute little person someone would care. But I am all grown up. I have made it “over the hill.” Why on earth would anything I have to say matter?
Whose voice do I hear speaking those words in my mind? Do I write in spite of them or because of them?
Internal work does not come with flashing neon recognition or praises. It does not come from any place where there was any recognition at all that the suffering ever even happened. Three little monkeys — see, hear, speak no evil.
I suffered alone. I write alone. Sometimes it is difficult to separate those two processes. The immoveable mountain made of words such as “Let it go and move on with your life” can crush a writer’s words before they have been born.
I close my eyes and look inside. I see the tear-stained faces of many children among whom I was just one. Time disappears as no boundary forms between those children who had no voice then and those children who have no voice now.
The significance of why I write begins to come clear to me. I write because I can.
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