Hi. My name is Amber, and I’m an incest survivor.
That sounds so after-school special, but it’s something that’s kind of been a serious thing most of my life. I hate it. I hate almost everything about it. The only good that’s come of it so far is the strength that all the stuff I hate about it has crystallized in me. Otherwise, I just have a list of things I hate: I hate the isolation, the anger, the feeling like a freak. I hate the long, lonely nights where I just hurt and I can’t express why. I hate the depression, the fact that I can’t be giddy and flippant and silly. I hate that I actually have to work to not flinch around men. I hate that I.. yeah, just hate it.
My dad died in a motorcycle accident earlier this year. I was on the train, on my way to work while my dad was riding a motorcycle into an accident on a major highway in Dallas. It shouldn’t affect me. After all, we haven’t spoken in 16 years, literally half of my entire lifetime… and yet. Here I am, being affected. Logically, the source of my painful childhood and frustrated teenage years is dead, I should want to party. There should be a lightening, life should be easier and prettier and.. just more. Logically, I should be stoked that I’m getting a better car out of the deal and my brother’s taken care of – for life… and I am. Sort of.
What pisses me off beyond belief is not that it happened. Honestly, I thank God that if it had to happen, that it happened to me, that it happened to someone who can talk about it; that he didn’t only have my brother or my mom to pick on all the time. What just seriously chaps my hide is that I can’t seemingly escape it.
Every time I meet anyone new – friend of a friend, at work, anywhere, anyone – I freeze, not sure how to act or behave. Am I too friendly? Not friendly enough? Did I shake too hard? Hold the hand too long? Is my eye contact too intense? Will they see? Will they know? Does it always have to be just so ever-present?!
I hate that. I know they’re lies, and still.. I listen! I run my hands through my hair, feeling like a poor kid at a private school – unkempt, unruly, and too untaught to do anything but soil the carpet I stand on just by standing on it. I want to hide, to lash out, to… just not hurt.
My name is Amber. I am an incest survivor. I start counseling tomorrow.Every time I see a cute guy – and I can actually form the words to speak around him, this insidious voice slyly suggests he’ll hurt me. Or that he’s a freak that’d get off on hurting me. That I’m a freak, and if he knew what happened to me, he’d think me too crazy to want to deal with.Every time I see a father with a daughter, I’m not sure how to respond. My body numbs, my mind searches for something familiar to compare this scene to, and my tongue gets thick. It’s beautiful and natural and… I have no reference for it. I feel stupid and thick, and I somehow bemourn some loss.But my name is Amber, and I am an incest survivor. Life is rarely simple and never easy.
That sounds so after-school special, but it’s something that’s kind of been a serious thing most of my life. I hate it. I hate almost everything about it. The only good that’s come of it so far is the strength that all the stuff I hate about it has crystallized in me. Otherwise, I just have a list of things I hate: I hate the isolation, the anger, the feeling like a freak. I hate the long, lonely nights where I just hurt and I can’t express why. I hate the depression, the fact that I can’t be giddy and flippant and silly. I hate that I actually have to work to not flinch around men. I hate that I.. yeah, just hate it.
My dad died in a motorcycle accident earlier this year. I was on the train, on my way to work while my dad was riding a motorcycle into an accident on a major highway in Dallas. It shouldn’t affect me. After all, we haven’t spoken in 16 years, literally half of my entire lifetime… and yet. Here I am, being affected. Logically, the source of my painful childhood and frustrated teenage years is dead, I should want to party. There should be a lightening, life should be easier and prettier and.. just more. Logically, I should be stoked that I’m getting a better car out of the deal and my brother’s taken care of – for life… and I am. Sort of.
What pisses me off beyond belief is not that it happened. Honestly, I thank God that if it had to happen, that it happened to me, that it happened to someone who can talk about it; that he didn’t only have my brother or my mom to pick on all the time. What just seriously chaps my hide is that I can’t seemingly escape it.
Every time I meet anyone new – friend of a friend, at work, anywhere, anyone – I freeze, not sure how to act or behave. Am I too friendly? Not friendly enough? Did I shake too hard? Hold the hand too long? Is my eye contact too intense? Will they see? Will they know? Does it always have to be just so ever-present?!
I hate that. I know they’re lies, and still.. I listen! I run my hands through my hair, feeling like a poor kid at a private school – unkempt, unruly, and too untaught to do anything but soil the carpet I stand on just by standing on it. I want to hide, to lash out, to… just not hurt.
My name is Amber. I am an incest survivor. I start counseling tomorrow.Every time I see a cute guy – and I can actually form the words to speak around him, this insidious voice slyly suggests he’ll hurt me. Or that he’s a freak that’d get off on hurting me. That I’m a freak, and if he knew what happened to me, he’d think me too crazy to want to deal with.Every time I see a father with a daughter, I’m not sure how to respond. My body numbs, my mind searches for something familiar to compare this scene to, and my tongue gets thick. It’s beautiful and natural and… I have no reference for it. I feel stupid and thick, and I somehow bemourn some loss.But my name is Amber, and I am an incest survivor. Life is rarely simple and never easy.
