Abuse still haunts me
Sir -- It is 3.40am. I hate this time. Usually the floodgates of my mind become overwhelmed by the tyranny of memories of childhood assaults that happened more than 50 years ago. At that moment, I am at war with the world, wondering when its force is finally going to overwhelm me. For a split second I become once again a victim and not a survivor.
Part of me wants to surrender and finally submit to the embrace of death to rid myself of the echoes of the cries for help that never came. It's too much as the tears flow.
And yet the sound of my wife sleeping keeps me kind of sane. In this way, I survive. Hopefully, it will be light soon to chase away the darkness but not the painful memories of physical and sexual abuse from 1959-1967; of going to bed at night cold, hungry, lice-ridden; of being continually reminded that I was a worthless cur unfit to breathe the air of decent people.