i feel raw, like my skin has been torn off and somebody poured salt over my exposed nerves…
saw “The Passion of Christ”. wrote a news reaction to piece it. it struck some deep and fragile chord inside….difficult to get my act together….filed the story before my 3:30 deadline….at 3:29:27. my prof was worried I wouldn’t be in shape to write the story after seeing the movie.
“I never miss a deadline,” I said.
i felt good about meeting the deadline, but emotionally exhausted from the film.
now he expects me to interview somebody in charge of the reconcillation efforts for sexual abuse victims in the Catholic Church.
I couldn’t breathe in that news room. I think I did a good job hiding my shattered well-being with a professional stride to the bathroom.in the bathoom. cried. someone saw me. she promised not to say anything.
grabbed my gear and left the news room, without saying good-bye.
i don’t know what to do. what to say.
i can’t go through it again. i’m not ready. i don’t want to hear about other people’s experiences with sexual abuse because i don’t want to live it again.
i called mark. cried. he told me he loved me and i hanged on to those words like a raft as i struggled to get back into the sanctuary of my dorm room.
drew the curtains, lit a purple candle. burrowed deep under my bed covers. i whispered to myself that i was decent person, that i’m not tainted. that i’m not a slut. still crying, thinking about how broken i felt. still struggling to believe its true. but mark loves me. i need that. i believe that. it’s a starting point to get back to having faith in myself. i know i haven’t lost any of the power and stablity i have built up inside, over the last few months. i probably need a little time and space to stop crying. i think i just have to let it out. i don’t know how long i can go keeping it button up inside, because now it feels like that shame and horror, those memories, are slipping between the cracks.
i woke up in darkness. i wondered what God would have me do. i wondered if i’m cut out for this program.
i feel betrayed. i told my prof i didn’t want to do these stories. i told him why.
did he forget?