Micha- A Disturbance of Lost Memories by Aimee - HTML preview

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Anger has been building all day today and I guess the best thing to do is simply write how I feel.

YOU HAVE GOT TO STOP ASKING ME HOW I FEEL!

YOU HAVE GOT TO STOP ASKING ME DO I WANT TO

SHARE!

I feel awful. I feel pain. I hurt. It is always the same when I do the breathing exercises. So stop asking!

No I don’t want to share how I feel. BECAUSE I CANNOT

EXPLAIN WHAT IS GOING ON!

Little Micha in our dialogue (Bradshaw exercises) says she was sexually abused by her grandfather. I don’t think she was more than four years old. I am not a freak show and I am not about to tell anyone

— complete strangers — about this. It’s bad enough I find I have to tell you just so you’ll leave me alone when we are in a group.

I do not remember. I have no recollection of what Micha describes.

It is completely foreign to me and when she writes (lefthanded) I am completely detached and there is no emotion. I feel emotion during an adjustment or during the breathing — that’s it. But the emotion that I feel is extreme sadness, to the point of pain.

I CANNOT DESCRIBE — I CANNOT SHARE — I CANNOT — I CANNOT.

I would like to turn back and start the month of October all over again and never come to your centre, but it is now too late. I cannot go back. Damn!

I keep thinking this cannot be, and maybe I am just making it all up. I have such an imagination. Maybe all there is in the pit of my stomach is gas. If there is anything at all stored in there, it is a scream, one long guttural scream. I cannot, will not, give people whom I do

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not know, no matter how nice they are, the satisfaction or the opportunity to gloat or to feel pity. But I feel trapped.

Help me. Please.

NOW PLEASE GIVE ME THIS PAPER BACK SO THAT I CAN DESTROY IT. THANK YOU.