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The Word Survivor Is a Lie

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I was born in a little town in mid-America in 1953. I am now fifty-six years old. I never lived past the age of five. Five, that was the year I died. I was sexually, mentally, and physically abused from five until fifteen. I’d like to think my story is unique. I used to feel it was when I was young. I was, and am still, lone in the world, this Hell I couldn’t understand. I was an alien among humans. My greatest fear was that some human would see my true form. So I hid from the world. Hid my true face, the one that was created for me by my abuser. I know there are others like me. Perhaps they and they alone, will understand what I am writing about.

Truly what’s the point in writing any of this? I’m not really certain. I don’t know whether I’m writing this story for the “survivors”, myself, or those that never suffered all that we have lived through. Perhaps, in some very small way, it will help the spouses of “survivors”. If you read this story I want you to understand something about us, all your love, all your caring, all your forgiveness, all the study and worry and tears, for us ... are for all intents and purposes, useless! I know you don’t want to believe that. We don’t want to believe that ourselves. Most of us “survivors” won’t face that fact; but the truth is ... we are not human beings. We never will be. The spouses of victims of abuse, I’m positive, don’t want to believe it. The victims, will never tell you that, sadly ... it’s the simple truth. We are aliens among human beings. We want to be human, like you. We want to be normal husbands and wives. We aren’t, we know it, we can never be “normal”.

I’m fifty-six years old and have lived with this ... I was going to say problem. That wouldn’t be correct. That’s a white washed word that some clinical phsychologist would use. It isn’t a problem. Problems have solutions. We have no solutions. No matter, what help we try to get to become human. It stays with us, it haunts us ...hunts us. I’m going to give you a secret to us. Perhaps, the only thing about us, that you can understand. There was a line in the movie, The Devils Advocate. It went something like this. “Ya know the wings of a butterfly? The will of man is like the wings of a butterfly. Touch them once and they’ll never fly.”
We were touched as innocent children, sexually, physically, emotionally, mentally. Our wings were touched. We will never fly ... never. There is nothing you can do to make us fly. If you throw us into the air with all your love and all your might an all you will ...we will fall. We had wings once. Unlike the butterfly our wings weren’t just touched they were torn from our bodies. We aren’t Human ... we never will be.

We stand outside the window of life’s great restaurant, looking in at all the wonderful people. We want to be one of you! We so envy you! We see you eating all the things that life has for you. We press our faces next to the glass and wish with all our hearts and minds to be normal. We search for the door to enter. We find it, BUT he’s there ... the guardian that pushes us away, our abusers. Notice that word? The “our” it means ownership. The ownership is complete in us. We own it! It’s in our minds. It’s not just our past. It’s our present. It’s our future. “Ours”. It’s part of us! That part, that normal people can never understand. I’ll try to help you.

I’m fifty-six years old. I’m an alien among human beings. I died at Five years old. The title of this piece is, “The Word Survivor Is a Lie.” The truth is, no one survives that horror. There was promise in us, when we had wings. The life that we could have had is unknown. That life is gone. Life has been ripped away. There is no life. I hate that word Survivor, there are no Survivors. What’s left behind after the abuser is done, is a grossly wounded soul. There is not a day that goes by that some insignificant bit of nothing, ... a smell ... a sound ... footsteps, don’t take me back to the abuse! See, he still has me. He always will! There’s no escape from him! I wish I could forget. I wish I could be normal. But he twisted my face into something that isn’t normal. So I wear a mask of normality. I don’t let people get too close. The mask might slip off. There is no help for us ... not really. He has us, he always will have us. It hurts to write this. Hurts in places you don’t have and can’t understand. Love us if you can. But don’t tell us we survived!


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