Growing up I had very little of my own space. Someone or something was always in it! The abuse I suffered encroached into everything.
Space was a commodity I didn’t have.
If I wasn’t being sexually abused, my being was forced to gorge on the aftermath. Inside and outside my space had become the playground of others.
I found it so difficult to carve out space in my head for myself. Who was I? What did I want?
What was a choice?
I have two older sisters. I never write about them because I just don’t remember them much. I remember them sitting around the dining room table at dinner time. I can remember them when the family watched a move. But, we had no space or time together to build sisterly bonds.
The design of incestuous homes do not allow for connection to another person unless it is through the means of a sexual encounter. The parental control is through the roof and no one is allowed their autonomy. And, I do mean no one.
Every member of my parent’s household fully complied. A few of my siblings still comply under the old rules of that tragic engagement to this day.
I wish me and my siblings had talked as children. If we had, we might have found a solution or two to the bleak existence we found ourselves in. The problem was we were given no space to grow, to bond, to heal.
The invasion was abrasive and the conclusions were all drawn for us.
The world didn’t seem like a very big place when I was a child. It seemed small and something I needed to learn to defend myself against.
Defense – there wasn’t space for that either.
Today, I demand my space. I take it when I need it, and hopefully, I give it to others when they need it.
I know there is space reserved for me in eternity.