#81 Writing My Story

My mother is dead.
My story is dead.
I am dead.

When my mother died, I was afraid that my story had died with her. My chances of a confession from her or some understanding of why she did this to me or an apology were gone forever.

Pain in my body is an echo of what was done to my body and it reassures me that I am not crazy and that my body did not die when I left it. If I ever feel safe enough to lift up the trap door and go downstairs again, my body is still there.

My body needed to keep the story alive. It needed to store the evidence and to show the scars. My mind carried the shame and humiliation but my body stored the memory. The scars from my self-injuries are a recording. Without my being aware of it, my body was writing my history...
Dear Diary; today my mother beat me black and blue and red all over. This is what it looked like.