Rebecca's story

Survivor of CSA and Narcissistic Abuse

Stories.

I have a few.

If we sat together over tea and you said, "Tell me your story,"

I’d be at a loss.

Do I even have a story?

Was it ever that bad?

Did I imagine it?

Maybe I remember wrong.

Oh, right. CPTSD came from somewhere.

And my body remembers.

I might look away for a moment or three—

And then wonder,

Where do I start?

Which story is the priority?

And second-guess—again.

A tear starts to fall.

My throat closes.

My chest fills with heaviness.

As a survivor of CSA, date rape, narcissistic abuse, abandonment, and rejection…

As a sister who grieves her brother’s suicide…

As the seven-year-old with a knife to her throat,

pinned down by someone stronger…

There are so many stories.

And I don’t know which one you’re here for.

Maybe it’s the story of going no-contact with my mother.

What kind of child does that?

But—what kind of mother chooses the abuser?

Who chooses the man who preyed on her daughter while she slept, whispering his nightly prayers?

Who lets him stay, even after he said he would love them as if they were his?

Stories spatter through my mind.

And my body feels numb.

My story?

It needs a book to tell.

Maybe I will write it someday.

And then I look at you.

And I ask: What’s your story?

I’m here for it.

I see me in you.

And when you share,

my stories feel affirmed.

There’s a community of us, you know.

It’s so vast, I feel nauseous.

But I’ve learned something—

We can heal.

The power has been in us all along.

If this story resonates with you, you’re not alone.

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