First steps up that Mountain.

Recovering from Abuse is like standing at the very bottom of a mountain and not getting even a glimpse at how far the top is. You start to doubt it's even there and if it's not, will you ever make it to the other side? Everyone around you points at it like it's incredibly visible. They tell you to try this or that or if you just choose to act this way or reported this then you'd start moving. But you yell at them and say it's not that simple. Your feet feel stuck in cement and you can't even wiggle your toes without intense agony. Because the abuse is all over you; smothering you. Will you even have enough oxygen to last you? It's a hefty weight to carry up a mountain.

One day you take a breath and in the stifling heat you decide enough is enough. You don't want to remain trapped forever and what's more pain when you're already experiencing a fair bit? So you take a step. It's shaky and you nearly lose your balance. You get an influx of thoughts shouting at you to stop and telling you that there is no chance you'll get to the other side. You have two options; listen to the thoughts or ignore the thoughts. But then you realise there is another option. These thoughts are valid so it's important to validate them. Trauma is difficult to recover from and the fact that you're considering moving towards recovery is a brave step. So you validate them but you choose to keep going. You know what you want even if it's the hardest battle you will ever fight.

I've told many people over the last few months how desperately I want to give up. That he can win. I'm done. Finished. Let me die. But all of them have said to keep going. I'm brave. A fighter. A survivor. And they remind me of the qualities I don't believe I have and they tell me of the future that feels hard to obtain. So they end up carrying a bit of the weight for a while. I suppose this is where being an inpatient softens the blow of trauma now and again. Of course no one can carry it all for me but they can hold my hand through the endless tears. Remind me over and over that I am safe. That no one is going to hurt me here. I'm no longer at home. He's not here. They hug me which feels like a luxury because I missed out on them throughout my childhood. Sure, they can't take the trauma away but they can help me muddle my way through it.

Hospital life can be challenging at times. You are surrounded by people who are very unwell and behaving in ways which can be scary or triggering. It's not a natural environment; it's clinical and regimented. Days are structured by meals and medication. You find your days going by slowly but your months passing too quick. It's isolating from the people on the outside of those locked doors. Having no leave for your safety from the man who has hurt you for 15 years is tough. You feel punished because if he wasn't out there, you'd be out there. It's like the roles are reversed. And this is hard to swallow late at night when you can't sleep. How can an abuser walk free and a victim be locked away? I'm now looking at a further 2 years in hospital. By the time I leave I'll be 27 years old. 17 years after the abuse started.

I could yell and scream that this isn't my fault. That the flashbacks and nightmares shouldn't mean I have to stay inside. That, yes, I dissociate and have multiple personalities, but I don't go around hurting other people other than myself. I didn't deserve this pain. Why me? Why ME? But then I take a breath. I collect my thoughts. I pause at the end of the mountain and I realise that the only way out is to start climbing. To try not to look down but to look up. That maybe I didn't deserve this and this isn't my fault but this is what he's left me with. He chose to prey on a defenceless little girl and that girl had to live with the consequences. But I'm not that little anymore and I have strength I didn't have before. I have courage and a voice and stubbornness. I don't back down from a fight so I won't back down from this.

You know, I might lose my footing and I might fall down but that doesn't mean I'm failing. It means that I'm trying but the climb is tough. The trick is to get back on the path and to not let the knocks and falls stop me from achieving the things everyone reminds me are possible. That having my own family is within my reach. Helping others overcome trauma is achievable. Having my own kind of justice can happen. Living a fulfilling life which doesn't revolve around trauma is likely but only if I try. They remind me that there is a top to this mountain and if there is a top then there is another side. It's a known fact that it's easier walking down a mountain than up one. This is the hardest part of my journey.

 It's not fair and it's not my fault. But the fact is that the abuse happened and I can't erase it. What I can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other to make small steps away from the life that has terrified me since childhood.

And those small steps are something really powerful.