What in my mother's life fed her need for silence and denial?
What shame did my father experience as a child?
Only recently, have I really understood that I was not at fault.
Parler est impossible dans une maison pleine de cris et de chuchotements.
Yesterday, my son put his wet hands on my back.
Shocked, I reacted as if the buckle of my father's belt
was hitting me.
Triggered into terror and pain,
I feared my capacity to do damage.
Entendre est impossible dans une maison pleine de cris et de chuchotements.
I have had a difficult relationship with my body.
For years, I lived only in my head - even outside of myself - so as not to feel.
It was the only safe place I could be.
Respirer est impossible dans une maison pleine de cris et de chuchotements.
Believing my own story has been so very difficult.
The worst thing about not having any physical scars is that there is no evidence to prove the wounding, even to myself.
La confiance est impossible dans une maison pleine de cris et de chuchotements.
Having allowed myself to feel (my pain, my fear, my anger, my pleasure),
I could begin to live without the past constantly seeping in like liquid drops of fetid waste.
Être présent est impossible dans une maison pleine de cris et de chuchotements.