I’d finally hit bottom. There was nowhere else to go. The reality I didn’t want to face was now in my face. I’d spent the best part of ten years running away from the pain of my sexual abuse. Finally, at twenty-two years old, my past caught up with me when I had a nervous breakdown and ended up being hospitalised.
It was a succession of bad events and years of avoiding my past that left me at my lowest ebb. My sister told me that she had found suggestive pictures of my mum, dad and nan. I felt sick to my stomach. This revelation made me feel like I was part of some sick child abuse ring and confirmed all my worst fears that they had known all along what my dad was doing. That same week, someone sent me a card on my birthday saying very derogatory things. It was malicious and sent me into a deep depression.
I could not cope and felt worthless. I ended up cutting myself very badly. I just wanted to die. I wanted the pain to go away.
I thought I was a bad person to have ended up being hospitalised. What had I done to deserve this?