***Warning, please take care reading this post.***
I have been looking at photos again over the few days. Perhaps that is where the black is coming from. No the black was there before I looked. I seem to do these things when black. Perhaps it is a matter of I feel so bad that it cannot possibly make me feel worse. I had three photo albums of pictures from before we moved here sitting out to be gone through and photos that I wanted to keep pulled out and the rest thrown away. As I sat there last night looking through those photos it just didn't seem like the right time to be throwing them away. They are going to need to be packed away and stored for now. Wonderful psychologist always tells me that I have good instincts and I that I will know when the time is right to do these things.
I don't want to just go ahead and throw everything away. I did that once before, after my mum died, and I regretted some of the things that I threw away. I don't want to have regrets again. Some would say that it is a different situation and I guess in some ways it is but I need to be able to think clearly about these things. It is best to pack it away until I am in a frame of mind where I am not doing it impulsively. Where I am not throwing things out because I am angry but because I need them to go.
A certain phrase he said pierces not only my head but it is like a lightening bolt through my heart. That memory. Sitting on that chair on that soft cushion, his hand on my head. Those words, softly not harsh. Gentle as if not to frighten me but I was already terrified.
I had another memory yesterday. Tiny little me on my bed and him showing me how to do something to him. I did exactly what he told me, even then I wanted to please him, to be his good girl. How is a little girl supposed to understand that? This little girl has never known a daddy before so how is she to know that daddies aren't supposed to do that?
Looking at photos is interesting. I have read some things about behaviour of abuse victims. A lot of the stuff I have read talks about retreating, being sullen or depressed, self-destructive. I look at those photos and I am overt in my displays of my body. In, perhaps, positions that no girl that age should be or maybe my judgement of those things is clouded with what I know was happening. I do know that from a young age, around 10, I was attracted to boys not just a cute little crush but major stuff. I can't remember a time when my little fantasies of my latest crush didn't turn sexual. I would get frustrated, angry and upset when I was rebuffed. I didn't understand why they didn't want to have sex. It wasn't until I was a bit older, 14 or 15, when, while still having major crushes, I didn't want to have sex. I suppose by then I knew that what was happening at home wasn't normal and that I didn't really want to be having sex. That wouldn't have been helped what happened with N.
Then like now though, I craved being touched. I guess it was because that was how I was "trained". Wonderful psychologist often says to me that is what I was taught from a young age. I find it sickening that I wanted so much to be touched. I suppose, if I am honest with myself, it really isn't much different than the how things went with A. How my mind was telling desperate for it to stop but my body was desperate for it to keep going. Perhaps I find it sickening, instead of confusing like with A, because it was my father.