Sometimes I wish I had scars to show the abuse I went through. I know that must sound like a horrible thing to say. So much of the damage my parents (and grandparents and uncles) did was inside of me. On the outside, I appear to be a normal functioning adult. I get up, go to work, have friends. All those things normal (whatever that is) people do. But on the inside I’m crying out and bleeding. Nobody can see it. I can’t let anyone see it. My closest friends know, but my coworkers don’t. That’s not something you share with every Tom, Dick or Harry you meet. Hi. My name is KatM and I was abused. Yes, that’s a lovely way to start a conversation.
There’s so much I’d like to say about this, but the words just won’t come. I hope I haven’t offended anyone. I realize there are so many people out there who do bear real physical scars of their abuse. And it’s not my intention to offend.
*tries to extract foot from mouth now*