Journal Entry Nov 6, 1985
"Damaged goods" is the term used in the book to explain how a victims sees herself. In me that brings to mind "defective child!" That's how I've nearly always felt. Somehow not quite right and never knowing what was lacking. Always sure that I was responsible for the defect in me. Defective to a fault...damaged to a fault.........always to a fault......always to MY fault!! So reigns the defective, damaged logic in my child's brain.
Why am I damaged? Who made my defective? Who made me unlovable to me? Was I really defective.....or were they? Was I really damaged? Am I really damaged? You bet your g*d d*mn life I'm damaged!!! Damaged as in crushed, broken, soiled, torn............damaged as in wounded, bleeding, bruised, battered, dying. A damaged child am I, furtively trying to convince the world that I have been untouched! Untouched as in all right, okay, healthy and whole. In reality, that child was untouched as in untouched by a giving and caring love, untouched as in never remembering a loving experience as a child. Untouched as in unloved would damage any child. I am indeed a damaged child!!
Can I exchange the word "wounded" for "damaged?" That might allow me to give that child something to heal the wound. After all, a wounded child might be worthy of some care! What about a damaged child? Would she deserve some care? I can not dare to answer. I can only hope for a way to change that child from "damaged" to "wounded." Right now I have none. The most I can give is damaged not defective, even that is difficult to say.
I've not defined defective. Defective as in lacking, unable to please, unacceptable. Yes, I felt defective. Sometimes I still feel defective. However, I'm learning to accept that I was damaged. "Wounded" I fear is a ways out of my grasp. I have not relinquished enough of "their" responsibility to feel wounded. I know it in my head so I know sometime, some how my heart will feel it but for now damaged certainly feels better than defective ever did!!!
Must I get angrier to allow myself to consider the child as wounded? My anger surprise me. Anger is not strong enough -- I feel a rage growing in me. It is frightening and it's directed at my mother. I've tried for so many years to make her life better. I've protected her from all my disappointment and as much as I could from my failings. I've tried to protect her from her disappointments too! She never acknowledged I was there! When my dad died, I was strong for her. I did not cry in front of anyone. I walked tall and deliberate at his funeral. I fought back the tears as the priest spoke about my dad. I got not acknowledgement. I tried to make it easier for her after he was gone. I worked hard at being perfect, I never quite made it. I worked hard at never talking back even when things seemed unjust. I tolerated Mrs W and the groping disgusting T (blind old pervert) in silence. She (my mother) never knew of his existence. Besides Mrs W would have lied and mom would have believed her instead of me. Why didn't you tell me about D (older brother) ? Why didn't you protect me from him? You knew what he was! How could you have let him have me? The how could you send me to hell?
One of the things I've noticed going back over these old journal entries is there are lots of clues of what is to come. At the time of this entry I was still processing the molestation by my older brother. I had no idea what was to come, yet there are clues in these entries that no one ever saw.