The #metoo movement is gaining momentum and so many smart, tallented, and strong women have spoken out about their own dealings with abusive people who felt they had a right to their body.
I struggle, I’m not sure if I am deeply proud of it, or really triggered by it. Probably equal parts of both. You see, I struggle every single day of my life with my own distress, I’ve struggled every day since I was just 8 years old!
Eight years old. An age of curious innocence, rock collecting, daydreaming about the future, bug catching, star gazing, joy and laughter, or so it should be, in a world where children are able to be young and carefree… That wasn’t my world. Like so many others, my innocence was torn away along with my dignity, I was robbed of the carefree joyfulness of most little children, years more of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse left me feeling totally broken and worthless, terrified and hiding away inside a vivacious exterior.
There is comfort in some ways of knowing you are not alone in your trauma, but there is also pain. The pain of remembering things you would sooner put behind you is bad enough, but too, there is the pain of comparason. “If they had that and they still went on to become who they are, why didn’t I do better?” or “Their story is worse than mine, I don’t have the right to be upset”.
I am in two minds about #metoo. While I am so thankful that women are feeling strong enough as a united group to speak up, I also find myself hurting from it too, the constant stories are hard to cope with, as an empath I hurt for them, and as a woman, I hurt for me.