I think (and sometimes people think) 'She's so calm about it, it can't have been that bad.'
No one but Mark (sometimes Mark) saw me trying to scrub away the memories.
You never saw me beating my legs and body, screaming, crying, sobbing, hating all that I was because of every memory that kept flashing through like an unwelcome phone jarring me awake at 03:00.
You never felt the shame, the 'why me' especially after so many times. Someone told me I must have owed the Karma. Couldn't it instead be that I chose to make myself stronger from this insanity?
How many years of dreams before I was able to control them more? And still, the urge to beat the flesh and break things bubbles brightly beneath the surface some days stronger than others.
I would cut my flesh, but that pain is to sharp for what you put me through. For this, I should be black and blue from head to toe. A walking horror story made from the fingerprints of everyone who ever violated my body and so, my mind.