Loss and grief. Loss and anger. Loss, plain and not so simple.
I haven’t written for a long time because I lost my voice. I realise now that I was coming up to the first anniversary of my mother’s death; and of the death of my dog Tikka. My mother caused me so much pain and I felt no love from her. She condoned the sexual abuse that her husband perpetrated (I cannot call him “my father”) I realise now how clever I am at ignoring the signs that tell me I’m on a downward spiral. I realise now, that when I lost my voice and was quite literally unable to utter a word on my blog, I was actually becoming quite unwell.
Dear readers, thank you for sticking around and reading this. I need you all so much. I’ve decided for a while just to write, rather than record my feelings. It just feels right to do this now.
So what does it mean to lose my voice?
It means that I’m a little girl again, hiding biscuits in my bed for comfort. Swallowing rubber bands to make myself sick. Having sleepless nights and dreaming of boiled babies and birds trapped under netting. It means that there’s so much I need to say but cannot say.
I cannot say “I’m hurting” because I’ll be told “Don’t be silly”.
Somewhere deep within me I feel a whisper of love, of warmth and comfort. But I know it’s not for me. So I cannot say “Please, love me” because I’m afraid of what I’ll get
I cannot say “I love you” because I don’t know what it means
I cannot say “Please, help me” because I know that no one will come.
And now, today?
I found a little voice last week. I was preparing food in the kitchen and, seemingly from nowhere, I dared to believe that I am loved. Just for a moment I believed. And the feeling was shockingly sweet.