A Hurt that Won’t Quit

Do all children that have been sexually abused, objectified and exploited all grow up into adults that have a hard time feeling loved?

I have a hard time feeling love. A part of me knows I am loved but there is a part of me that can’t quite accept the love of the men in my life. I have a nagging voice in my head and aching anxiety in my heart that makes me feel like I am not loved.

It’s painful, a hurt that won’t quit. No matter how much my father tells me he loves me, no matter what he does for me I still feel unloved by him. Like a child I constantly need his assurance of love and he has to assure me the way I want to be assured. Every day he has to tell me he loves me. Every day I need hugs and validation that I am loved and accepted by my father.

With my boyfriend its even worse. Everyday multiple times a day I tell him I love him with the expectation of him saying it back. After seven years he has said it more times than I can think to remember, but it’s still not enough for me.

I have searched through him, underneath and above him trying to find the answer, trying to feel loved, looking to him for acceptance. But he is only human; there are limits to what he can do. I am emotionally draining because I am emotionally drained myself.

Despite my knowing that nothing was taken from me on the day of the death of my nine year old self, it still feels like a part of me is missing. Something is missing, I can feel it. I feel this painful hole, this void of loveless-ness and unworthiness within my chest.

I sometimes revert back to that girl crying on the shower flow. But it’s more than crying its mourning, it’s a grief that comes from deep within my belly causing my whole body to distort. It is painful. I wrote a letter to my nine year old self trying to make peace, but how can I make peace when my soul is crying out for justice. Where is justice for me? Where is my peace? It’s not in this world of that I am sure.

He sees me crying for hours over the simplest things. But 90 percent of the time the pain I feel has nothing to do with petty, insignificant matters he just happens to scratch the surface of a wound that never healed. And like a wound just a touch, makes it bleed and bleed and bleed. All the tears I never cried I am crying now. All the pain I couldn’t feel I feel it now.

Pain, pain and more pain is what that man gave to me.  He was the first man to use and dump me. He was the first person to make me feel like a pile of garbage, like nothing, like I was not human.

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