I’ve been thinking about blogging all the time. Really, contemplating blog posts and then realizing I don’t really have anything to say.
Tonight, though, I have to write. And apparently writing tonight is online.
Until today, I was going on retreat in a couple of weeks. A retreat for sexual assault survivors, with a good friend of mine both speaking on and leading the retreat. My dear friend, however, is really struggling in her recovery from a long time ago assault, from before she joined a convent. It hurts my heart that she is struggling with… anything, but especially with this trauma. I feel incredibly selfish for having a rough night tonight, when realizing that while she is taking care of herself, I was looking forward to being able to examine my assault in the company of other survivors. And in the presence of the Church, and examining how trauma has (inevitably) affected my relationship with God.
I was assaulted over six years ago. About 5.75 years ago, my (very good) friends were pretty sick of hearing about it. At 25 years old, I frequently feel that I should be healed. If not healed, at least progressed.
There are certainly days that I feel like I’ve progressed, and learned a lot about myself in the process.
There aren’t days, however, that I don’t feel some hatred toward Him. I can’t let it go. Tonight, it’s killing me. My last serious boyfriend asked me, on another rough night, if I could forgive him. I admitted that I haven’t, that I wasn’t sure if I could. The more I look at that, the more I believe I should be able to forgive him. The more that I hold onto this, the more power he has over me. I know this. I’ve known this for years. And yet, I still find myself having nights like this. Nights that I can’t forget how the next day, week, or year felt like.
The nights that I can’t forgive God for letting me experience this. The reasonable, educated side of me knows that God doesn’t wish harm. I know that God loves me. I do. Really, I do.
And yet. And yet I haven’t been able to sleep through the night in a week. I wake up terrified. The hours in the middle of the night make it easier to hate him. The hours that I can’t get it through my head that I’m safe in my own bed, in my own relationship, in my own sexuality, that he doesn’t affect me anymore. That I’ve made a life despite my trauma.
I need sleep. I really do. And yet, I can’t seem to let go, at least tonight.