Say Something: Pt. 5 The Worth of Fear

Side Note

I know all of these are heavy stories, perhaps making you feel what I myself feel for others rarely myself–hurt, sad, angry, for all those touched by abuse.

This story will get better I promise, but in the meantime I speak so that others may feel freedom to speak if even a little bit. It is, anything is a start that will lead to help if you but ask a therapist or a close friend. And I am certainly available for questions about my experience, not for counseling, through my email for those honestly seeking help.

Intro from Pt. 4 The Worth of Silence

When he says I would break up the family if I told, I imagine a deep black void where my family, where my life is. I won’t say anything. What would happen if I broke up the family? Again, I see only a dark empty space in place of my family and my four walls of a house and my life outside of these walls and away from them at school.

Whether or not I might tell or not was a moot point though. I had already learned that my problems were my problems. I am ashamed of what happens when Daddy sits with me or comes to my bedroom at night, but I couldn’t say anything.

The Worth of Fear

I was thinking of dreams just now. I remember this time when I was in grade school when I had one of my first couple of what I today call my grey dreams. I usually dream in color, brilliant when I was younger and dimmer now, but sometimes I have these terrible dreams that are all in shades of grey and the night. One of them from recent years goes like this. I am in bed when shrouded figures with a dark void where the faces should be come. I struggle and realize that I am pinned spread eagle on the bed. One shrouded figure is hovering at my feet, and the other shrouded figure stands off to my left. I struggle and I try and try to scream, but the scream is strangled in my throat. They don’t speak. I sense their malevolence and I am mad with fright. I am desperate and suddenly they are gone, and I am curled up under my blankets, lying very still, because I know the shrouded figures are still there in the grey light of my room. I don’t want them to notice me. These dreams are always in my bedroom in whatever place and position of bed I am in reality sleeping, so I am still afraid as I slowly realize I am awake. In my dreams and for a bit after, I couldn’t say anything.

Despite knowing my parents were of no help to me, one of these grey dreams frightened my grade school mind so much that I felt I needed to go to my parents for help. It was one of those times growing up, I learned to fear Satan and to steel myself for whatever came. The trailer house was dark. I was still afraid from the dream, but I was also afraid that if Satan knew I was afraid of going across the house in the dark, he would know my weakness and use it against me later. I didn’t turn on lights and I forced myself to walk calmly down the hallway past the bathroom, a second bedroom; through the living room; through the kitchen; and around the corner down to my parents’ room. At that moment it didn’t matter which parent I got. My father’s broad back faced me, and he was snoring loudly, but I got a hold of myself and tapped him lightly on the shoulder, afraid of his reaction without realizing it, until he was awake and turned over on his back. I whispered I had a very bad dream and I was afraid. He simply told me to go back to bed. I walked back through the dark house all the way to my bed. I didn’t even know what anyone could do about my fear. I did know I couldn’t say anything.

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