How Much I’ve Healed

It was a slow day at work yesterday so I cleaned out my purse.  I found two pieces of paper of writing I’d done and printed to share with Liz when I was in counseling.  The first piece of paper was what I’d written about Fluffy the first time I’d described him.  I remembered that well.  The other piece of paper is something I don’t remember writing.  I know I wrote it because I know the feelings, the words, but I don’t remember having ever put it on paper before.

Damn headache.  Definitely an abuse-induced one.  I *want* to deal with the abuse.  I *want* to start healing.  Dammit.  I have one serious conversation about a certain aspect of it and I wake up with a throbbing, my-head-is-going-to-explode headache.  Maybe this is saying that I’m not as ready to discuss certain things as I *want* to be.  At this point, I almost don’t care.  I need to not have these headaches anymore and I need to deal with this so it no longer has any power over me.  I can’t live for the next however long it takes for my head to be ready to process with headaches that happen whenever I try to take it seriously.  Joking is one thing.  Obsessing in my head is another. But I have an actual conversation with an actual person who understands and I feel like I’m being held hostage by my brain!  

I want to bang my head against the wall because, at this point, that might actually help because it hurts so badly.  And now I’m mad.  I’m mad that this has such power over me.  I’m mad at Bubba for doing this to me thus making it a big, fat, awful issue.  I’m mad that I can’t just put it out of my mind.  I’m mad that this is really the last thing I want to deal with yet I can’t stop thinking about it and haven’t been able to since August.  I’m mad that I feel more broken than ever.  I’m mad that it feels like I’m never going to be normal.  I’m mad that although my head obsesses over this, my body feels dead.

And I think for today, just for today, I’m going to give myself permission to HATE Bubba.  Yes, there, I said it.  I hate him.  I hate him for hurting me.  I hate him for not loving me.  I hate him for taking and taking and taking and not giving a damn about me as a person, a human being, his wife (God, how I hate that term).  I hate him for professing to love me soooooo much yet treating me like his slave.  I hate him for taking something that should’ve been such a beautiful gift from God and perverting it beyond anything I could imagine.  I hate him for breaking me.  I hate him for twisting me up so badly that I’m afraid I’ll never know what it is to make love to a man and have it be that something beautiful.  And I’m furious at myself for letting him do all these things to me.  This morning, I just hate me.

I was really taken aback by my words.  There wasn’t a date on it and the closest date I can figure is about two months after I accepted that Bubba had been raping me.  I think it was less than a month after writing this that I finally started talking to Liz about the rapes in my counseling sessions.  I was at the end of my rope when I wrote this and simply couldn’t put it off much longer.

I read that today and am simply amazed by how far I’m come in the healing process.  I know now that I’m not broken.  I finally got to a point where I could actually work through the sexual aspects of the abuse and I don’t have headaches anymore.  The last headache I had was over two months ago!  It had been a doozy that had sent me to bed in more pain that I ever remember, but it was two months ago!  That alone shows how much healing I’ve done.

I’m very thrown by that last sentence.  That entire paragraph was about hating Bubba then the last sentence is that I hate me.  Did I mean to write that?  Was it an unintentional typo?  I honestly don’t remember hating myself.  Yet, that is what I wrote.  If it was an unintentional typo, I think that says alot about where my head was back then.  Did I really hate me?  I know I went through a period where I blamed myself for not getting out the abuse years and years ago but I don’t remember hating myself.

I see so much pain in what I’d written.  I’m so thankful for the written word.  I processed so much through this, and still do, through my writing.  When my first counselor, Beth, suggested journaling, I thought I’d never be able to do it.  Her purpose was for me to be able to look back after a year and see if things were still the same or if they’d changed.  Considering when I was meeting with her, my intentions were to reconcile after Bubba having a year to get help.  I firmly believed that he’d get into an abuser intervention program and that we’d be back together.  I can clearly see Beth’s purpose now.  If I looked back now and was in the same dynamic I was then, maybe I’d see that things wouldn’t change and I could get out once and for all.  I know that Beth thought I was going to be just another statistic – another woman who went back to the abuse.

I’m so thankful that I can look back at those writings from a year ago and see the amazing amount of growth and healing that has taken place.  I’m not that same woman any longer.  I don’t hate Bubba.  I don’t hate me.  My mosaic is coming together very nicely.  I’m happy with who I am but not content to stay this way.  I know I have a lot more healing to do.  I’m willing to continue the hard work.  I’m willing to fight for my health and for my children.

I like me.



  1. beautiful post! x I so love your posts, you’re so strong. I admire that.

    • Thank you! Most of the time, I don’t feel strong. I just feel like I’m doing what I have to do. Then when someone tells me I’m strong, I really sit and think about it and can see it. I was taught so thoroughly to never take a compliment that I still have trouble believing good things about myself.

  2. Well, you can believe this, because I mean it and it’s true 🙂 x

  3. Maggie

    I am so incredibly proud of you! ❤

    • Thank you! I couldn’t have done any of this without the prayers and support of my friends.

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