Goodbye Horses

The depression seems to be worsening... infecting my sleep with images I'd rather avoid and see replaced with the nightmares. I've been thinking a lot about the verbal abuse I suffered as a child... wondering what type of person I would be if it had never happened. It's not some infected swell of bitterness swarming inside, I am truly past the anger phase... it's more like the realization that this sucking chest wound effects me deeper than I'd thought before. I suppose in a lot of ways, the verbal abuse cut deeper than the routine beatings, the social isolation, the torture and mind games, the sexual molestation, incest and rape... all of those things were hard, but in some ways not so infecting. Events came, we experienced them, they ended, and we've moved on... the same can't be said about being degraded everyday, all day, for many, many years. The more I think about it, I really think this idea about taking the daily photos could be healing... the fear encases my chest and the air thickens like bitter, pasty saliva. What if I can't handle this project? Would the end result only make things worse for me... knowing I've failed at yet another thing in my life? Would I find the courage to stomach the mocking and hurtful comments from the people that witnessed this spectacle... witnessing my disarray, lack of hygiene, and unkempt appearance? That is amusing... how someone with no self-esteem can still suffer from vanity. Life is rich. At my next therapy appointment, we will bring up this idea an see what he has to offer in opinion and advice. Richard says no, but he delights in the idea of failure. Diana is in support of the idea and wants to see some closure. The Choir is split... some just want to be left alone, others are in absolute refusal, some think it's a waste of resources and the time should be spent entertaining themselves, and the rest think it is acceptable. I wish my opinion had some merit in this discussion, I remember a simpler time when my voice had meaning... I suppose it's been so long now, that I forgot the sound of my own voice and the weight it carried. A simpler time, when no meant no and yes meant yes. It's beginning to weigh me down, all of the opinions and rules... the fear that chokes me and the dangling carrot of freedom. There is something inside that painted, black box that rests in the corner... something deeper than remembering, something stronger than fear, some purpose, a beacon of time, a vigil. Where have the horses gone, the hills, and children... the table was set, with dirty plates, and soiled panties as napkins.