I'm not scared of It anymore.
It is not a mythical beast sent to conquer.
Don't get too close. It might be the end of you.
You are too close to It's risk. A sad statistic.
You are just like them. It will snatch you soon. He whispers this our one last time.
His familiar heaviness makes It real. The forbidden rhythm numbs the pain.
The only tears I cry are as his life drips with sticky shame.
Just like that. They are gone. It pulled them under. Freshly gone; we are left.
Like daggers he speaks. I have you all. To myself. Just like we always wanted.
Together; until It soils you too.
How might you do It?
Different than they.
Take my belt. And when you do It. Feel my final hands remove the life that only I could give.
I still have the belt. Well worn. A staple of my life.
The gatekeeper of his piercing.
The weapon fashioned making skin so raw.
Crammed away I hear It taunt. It teases with It's destiny.
I remain after him but his hold lives on in leather form.
Too afraid to touch It. His belt is my own It. The last connection.
My pieces. Myself. We beg to throw It away.
That belt. It. His final grip.
I can only hope that courage wins to turn It over. To will It gone. Forever.
Until It is just a distant, formless it.
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Contrast
I had "the talk" with my daughter yesterday. She's eight and has been asking a ton of questions over the past few months and I had a lot of catching up to do.
I have very much fallen down on the job... I have never called body parts anything. At all. I've never talked about normal functions of our bodies; especially what happens as we grow up.
I'm very uncomfortable with all of it. However, it wasn't the discomfort that I dreaded the most. I was so afraid that I would bring it up and it would reveal that something had happened to her. That was my worst fear.
If someone had sat me down at eight, I probably could have told them more than they knew as an adult. It would have been very clear that things were happening to me. Not surprising though, nothing was ever explained to me. It was demonstrated instead.
So when we started talking I was so relieved to hear that she knew virtually nothing other than a few details that she has picked up on from other kids and TV. I used a book to explain everything; books are my cure-all for anything I don't know how to do. Most of this topic, terms, body parts, etc are upsetting and can flood me with bad memories. Thankfully the book kept me on track.
Everything was fine until she started asking me how old I was when I found out about all of this. I didn't know how to answer her. It had been such good conversations until then and I didn't want to taint her own memory with my garbage bags. The best answer I knew to give was that I didn't remember. We finished the conversation and went about our day.
I put on a smile for everyone but on the inside there was a deep and burning grief in the pit of my stomach that has yet to leave. In trying to do the right things as a parent I often get blindsided by the very simple, very wrong actions of my parents. And it hurts.
I would be lying if I said that I don't get jealous of my daughter at times. I know that's a terrible thing to think let alone say but it makes me wonder what was so bad about me. I want to do the best that I can by her yet my parents couldn't muster much more than not killing me.
It's an intolerable contrast that I can't seem to wrap my mind around.
My daughter is a good kid with a kind heart. She can also be very challenging. But even at her worst I can't imagine doing what they did. And that makes me wonder just how horrible I must have been.
My parents were bad people and I loved them. I still do. So how can my daughter be such a good person coming from such a bad person for a mother?
Another intolerable contrast except this one is one that I can't wrap my heart around.
I have very much fallen down on the job... I have never called body parts anything. At all. I've never talked about normal functions of our bodies; especially what happens as we grow up.
I'm very uncomfortable with all of it. However, it wasn't the discomfort that I dreaded the most. I was so afraid that I would bring it up and it would reveal that something had happened to her. That was my worst fear.
If someone had sat me down at eight, I probably could have told them more than they knew as an adult. It would have been very clear that things were happening to me. Not surprising though, nothing was ever explained to me. It was demonstrated instead.
So when we started talking I was so relieved to hear that she knew virtually nothing other than a few details that she has picked up on from other kids and TV. I used a book to explain everything; books are my cure-all for anything I don't know how to do. Most of this topic, terms, body parts, etc are upsetting and can flood me with bad memories. Thankfully the book kept me on track.
Everything was fine until she started asking me how old I was when I found out about all of this. I didn't know how to answer her. It had been such good conversations until then and I didn't want to taint her own memory with my garbage bags. The best answer I knew to give was that I didn't remember. We finished the conversation and went about our day.
I put on a smile for everyone but on the inside there was a deep and burning grief in the pit of my stomach that has yet to leave. In trying to do the right things as a parent I often get blindsided by the very simple, very wrong actions of my parents. And it hurts.
I would be lying if I said that I don't get jealous of my daughter at times. I know that's a terrible thing to think let alone say but it makes me wonder what was so bad about me. I want to do the best that I can by her yet my parents couldn't muster much more than not killing me.
It's an intolerable contrast that I can't seem to wrap my mind around.
My daughter is a good kid with a kind heart. She can also be very challenging. But even at her worst I can't imagine doing what they did. And that makes me wonder just how horrible I must have been.
My parents were bad people and I loved them. I still do. So how can my daughter be such a good person coming from such a bad person for a mother?
Another intolerable contrast except this one is one that I can't wrap my heart around.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Joe
Burned, bruised and broken. One split lip on top of another. A line of bruises march up your back like a second spine.
You cut your lip walking up some stairs. The bruises come from childish horseplay.
Nothing big. Not for a tough kid. Accidents happen because I'm clumsy.
Don't touch my neck. Don't touch my shoulders. Don't touch my back. They all hurt but it's no big deal.
It's hidden why I can't sit down. Why I wince as a blister pops when my shirt shifts just so.
Such a hot burn leaves such a cold bubble behind. It's funny how that happens as if the fluid is the blister's way of saying sorry for hurting as it sizzled and later puffed with defiant pride. A protective way to hide the tears.
As the liquid seeps on past my skin I straighten stiff to keep my uniform shirt from touching. If I feel the coolness reach my waist I have a chance to hide the tears my ugly back always cries.
These are the tears that I do not have to cry. They are locked within my skin reserved for burning. Silent, secret sobs as my skin heaves with pain.
Bruises heal and skin always knits. But my scars, they weep forever.
You cut your lip walking up some stairs. The bruises come from childish horseplay.
Nothing big. Not for a tough kid. Accidents happen because I'm clumsy.
Don't touch my neck. Don't touch my shoulders. Don't touch my back. They all hurt but it's no big deal.
It's hidden why I can't sit down. Why I wince as a blister pops when my shirt shifts just so.
Such a hot burn leaves such a cold bubble behind. It's funny how that happens as if the fluid is the blister's way of saying sorry for hurting as it sizzled and later puffed with defiant pride. A protective way to hide the tears.
As the liquid seeps on past my skin I straighten stiff to keep my uniform shirt from touching. If I feel the coolness reach my waist I have a chance to hide the tears my ugly back always cries.
These are the tears that I do not have to cry. They are locked within my skin reserved for burning. Silent, secret sobs as my skin heaves with pain.
Bruises heal and skin always knits. But my scars, they weep forever.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Jill
I see you so small. Pink and purple hair screaming for attention.
Tiny flecks of glitter just enough to sparkle in his darkness.
A camera says that you are pretty. He orders you to touch your shame. Muffled threats I cannot hear but your fear speaks louder than a human word.
bad dad. bad dad. bad dad.
Purple spots behind the eyes as his hands wrap around my neck. Orange rope takes their place as his hands move to hurt me. Nearly falling asleep makes it better. For him. The excitement and the power are his to do as he wants.
A reminder of those special times. A cold and stringent splash burns my nose and then my eyes. Liquid to clean a dirty girl. The faintest smell of dirt as I run my fingers along and catch a splinter of a forever home. Buried with his scent forever lingering as more glitter runs away with every pour.
No more sparkle. Just the dirt.
His suffocating smell calls out to Afraid. If I wake I live another day in his darkness. If I die I am afraid.
Afraid no one will miss me. Afraid of a funeral with no flowers.
Tiny flecks of glitter just enough to sparkle in his darkness.
A camera says that you are pretty. He orders you to touch your shame. Muffled threats I cannot hear but your fear speaks louder than a human word.
bad dad. bad dad. bad dad.
Purple spots behind the eyes as his hands wrap around my neck. Orange rope takes their place as his hands move to hurt me. Nearly falling asleep makes it better. For him. The excitement and the power are his to do as he wants.
A reminder of those special times. A cold and stringent splash burns my nose and then my eyes. Liquid to clean a dirty girl. The faintest smell of dirt as I run my fingers along and catch a splinter of a forever home. Buried with his scent forever lingering as more glitter runs away with every pour.
No more sparkle. Just the dirt.
His suffocating smell calls out to Afraid. If I wake I live another day in his darkness. If I die I am afraid.
Afraid no one will miss me. Afraid of a funeral with no flowers.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Family
After Christmas we went to visit family. My fathers two sisters and their families.
I agonized over going or not going. I've lost so much of my family so I get a little weird about what I have left. As the time got closer I really began to worry. I didn't make the final decision until the morning we were due to leave.
I didn't spend a lot of time with them growing up. The majority of holidays were spent with my mothers family. I have fond memories of his sister just a few years younger than him. She married a very nice man and they had two daughters. I always watched in amazement at how they were with their dad. They weren't scared of him and he was nice, but not too nice, to them. And then their mom; she hugged them, spoke kindly to them, and it was obvious that she loved them. I remember secretly wishing that they could be my parents.
His youngest sister; not so many good memories. She, my father and I all look alike. I have always despised looking like him and I'm pretty sure she hates it too. She has always been a little on the crazy side. But I also know and understand what is wrong with her.
him.
We stayed with the oldest sister and stayed up late talking each night. A lot of the conversations were nice but there were others that left me with the wind knocked out of me. Her husband went to high school with my father and said that he was the meanest person he has ever known. Because of that, combined with my mother, he didn't think I had a chance in hell to turn out even halfway OK. Given that, they weren't surprised about my sister.
My aunt began the first night with an apology because they knew that things were going on but didn't say much or do anything about it.
I told her that it was fine. It's really not but what good does it do to cause her more distress over something that cannot be changed?
My uncle talked about walking in on my father with me. He wasn't sure exactly what he saw but my father quickly told him that he was putting me to bed. My uncle wondered how that was since I had been put to bed three hours before. He never said anything.
My aunt told us about one conversation with my father. She was concerned with how rough he was with my sister and me. She made the observation that it looked like he was trying to raise little soldiers. Robots would have been more accurate. He got mad and they didn't see us again for three or four years.
There were other things too... my bruises, scars, behavior, strange fears, and just odd behavior in general. I was not a typical kid.
I was also told how my father was sent to live with their grandparents because he kept hurting his sisters and their family pets. He was sick from very early on.
I had little interaction with his other sister and that is probably best. She's nice enough but she is also drunk most of the time and hasn't been the best of mothers to her own children. She is on her third marriage after marrying two abusive creeps.
On one of the nights, her daughter approached me because she needed to ask some questions. She told me some horrible things that her mother said to her about not wanting her when she was pregnant. It all sounded very familiar but all I could tell her was that I was very sorry.
Then she asked about her biological father. She wanted to know if I remembered him messing with me or my sister. The short answer was yes. The longer answer was that my father found out and almost killed him. And not for the right reasons either. We didn't see them for awhile and I never saw that uncle again. He eventually terminated his rights to my cousin and her older brother.
She told me that her biological father abused her and that she was in counseling. She said that she was making progress but she needed to hear it from someone else that he really was a monster. Her mother has never been supportive of her and always dismissed it as she was imagining things, making things up, or just crazy. That also sounded very familiar.
I also understood her need to hear the confirmation from something other than her own memory. I have always held on to that tiny bit of denial that I was just crazy or imagined it happening. I received that same confirmation on this trip.
Does it make me feel better?
Not really.
I've lost the security I had in my tiny piece of denial. In the past when I have really felt bad, I would make myself feel better by using that denial. Now I don't have that safety net and that is frightening. I am also forced to accept what happened and who they really were.
And then there is the obvious reason that none of this made me feel better.
If they knew that things were going on.
Witnessed things with their own eyes and ears.
Knew what he was capable of.
Knew that my mother was crazy too.
Why the fuck didn't they do anything?!?
I get that they were scared and maybe even intimidated but shit, they have two daughters of their own. Wouldn't they want someone to speak up if something had been happening to their girls??
It's always nice to reconnect with family over the holidays. Especially the part when they tell you they knew that their brother, your father, was fucking you all along.
Fuck them.
I agonized over going or not going. I've lost so much of my family so I get a little weird about what I have left. As the time got closer I really began to worry. I didn't make the final decision until the morning we were due to leave.
I didn't spend a lot of time with them growing up. The majority of holidays were spent with my mothers family. I have fond memories of his sister just a few years younger than him. She married a very nice man and they had two daughters. I always watched in amazement at how they were with their dad. They weren't scared of him and he was nice, but not too nice, to them. And then their mom; she hugged them, spoke kindly to them, and it was obvious that she loved them. I remember secretly wishing that they could be my parents.
His youngest sister; not so many good memories. She, my father and I all look alike. I have always despised looking like him and I'm pretty sure she hates it too. She has always been a little on the crazy side. But I also know and understand what is wrong with her.
him.
We stayed with the oldest sister and stayed up late talking each night. A lot of the conversations were nice but there were others that left me with the wind knocked out of me. Her husband went to high school with my father and said that he was the meanest person he has ever known. Because of that, combined with my mother, he didn't think I had a chance in hell to turn out even halfway OK. Given that, they weren't surprised about my sister.
My aunt began the first night with an apology because they knew that things were going on but didn't say much or do anything about it.
I told her that it was fine. It's really not but what good does it do to cause her more distress over something that cannot be changed?
My uncle talked about walking in on my father with me. He wasn't sure exactly what he saw but my father quickly told him that he was putting me to bed. My uncle wondered how that was since I had been put to bed three hours before. He never said anything.
My aunt told us about one conversation with my father. She was concerned with how rough he was with my sister and me. She made the observation that it looked like he was trying to raise little soldiers. Robots would have been more accurate. He got mad and they didn't see us again for three or four years.
There were other things too... my bruises, scars, behavior, strange fears, and just odd behavior in general. I was not a typical kid.
I was also told how my father was sent to live with their grandparents because he kept hurting his sisters and their family pets. He was sick from very early on.
I had little interaction with his other sister and that is probably best. She's nice enough but she is also drunk most of the time and hasn't been the best of mothers to her own children. She is on her third marriage after marrying two abusive creeps.
On one of the nights, her daughter approached me because she needed to ask some questions. She told me some horrible things that her mother said to her about not wanting her when she was pregnant. It all sounded very familiar but all I could tell her was that I was very sorry.
Then she asked about her biological father. She wanted to know if I remembered him messing with me or my sister. The short answer was yes. The longer answer was that my father found out and almost killed him. And not for the right reasons either. We didn't see them for awhile and I never saw that uncle again. He eventually terminated his rights to my cousin and her older brother.
She told me that her biological father abused her and that she was in counseling. She said that she was making progress but she needed to hear it from someone else that he really was a monster. Her mother has never been supportive of her and always dismissed it as she was imagining things, making things up, or just crazy. That also sounded very familiar.
I also understood her need to hear the confirmation from something other than her own memory. I have always held on to that tiny bit of denial that I was just crazy or imagined it happening. I received that same confirmation on this trip.
Does it make me feel better?
Not really.
I've lost the security I had in my tiny piece of denial. In the past when I have really felt bad, I would make myself feel better by using that denial. Now I don't have that safety net and that is frightening. I am also forced to accept what happened and who they really were.
And then there is the obvious reason that none of this made me feel better.
If they knew that things were going on.
Witnessed things with their own eyes and ears.
Knew what he was capable of.
Knew that my mother was crazy too.
Why the fuck didn't they do anything?!?
I get that they were scared and maybe even intimidated but shit, they have two daughters of their own. Wouldn't they want someone to speak up if something had been happening to their girls??
It's always nice to reconnect with family over the holidays. Especially the part when they tell you they knew that their brother, your father, was fucking you all along.
Fuck them.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Forbidden
There are things I shouldn't talk about. Because most love animals with whole hearts.
There are things I shouldn't tell. Because dirty can be silently detected.
There are things I should never do. Because in doing I am searing a piece of soul.
A single quiver of fear escapes through my fingers. I pet the dog in front of me and he licks my trembling fear away. Such a reassuring wiggle as his tail paints the air with a smile. I find a tiny smile of my own to give in exchange for hope.
A cold fist pushes me on my back and my pink shame is exposed. I reach for my new found comfort but then he pulls him back. I cry for his wagging smile. Instead a furry paw is placed in my tiny hand.
Move your hand... he growls as his rigid fingers are tightly curled around my wrist. Forward and backward. He moves my hand to pet the paw. I open my my smashed shut eyes to see the dog standing nearly next to me.
One. Two. Three. Four. I am not petting a paw at all.
There are things I shouldn't write about. Because this pain is more than forbidden.
There are things I shouldn't tell. Because dirty can be silently detected.
There are things I should never do. Because in doing I am searing a piece of soul.
A single quiver of fear escapes through my fingers. I pet the dog in front of me and he licks my trembling fear away. Such a reassuring wiggle as his tail paints the air with a smile. I find a tiny smile of my own to give in exchange for hope.
A cold fist pushes me on my back and my pink shame is exposed. I reach for my new found comfort but then he pulls him back. I cry for his wagging smile. Instead a furry paw is placed in my tiny hand.
Move your hand... he growls as his rigid fingers are tightly curled around my wrist. Forward and backward. He moves my hand to pet the paw. I open my my smashed shut eyes to see the dog standing nearly next to me.
One. Two. Three. Four. I am not petting a paw at all.
There are things I shouldn't write about. Because this pain is more than forbidden.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Shame
I take it all back. The part about not being bad. The part about not being dirty. The part about them being bad.
It's all me.
I wanted to believe that I'm none of the horrible things they said I was but the actions do not lie. I can normally write about what hurts but I'm too ashamed to even do that. When it appears in black and white it is real and ripe to be judged.
If I lock it in my head then it happened to the others. Not me.
I used to believe that anger was the worst emotion. I was wrong about that too.
It's shame. And it makes you feel less than human.
It's all me.
I wanted to believe that I'm none of the horrible things they said I was but the actions do not lie. I can normally write about what hurts but I'm too ashamed to even do that. When it appears in black and white it is real and ripe to be judged.
If I lock it in my head then it happened to the others. Not me.
I used to believe that anger was the worst emotion. I was wrong about that too.
It's shame. And it makes you feel less than human.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Chaos
Growing up in a never ending cycle of chaos, I came to expect it. Of course there was always the calm before the storm but the more pronounced, the more prolonged the calm; the worse the storm was.
I think my father had his ways to keep us guessing. Everything was fine and then someone would commit an offense that had always provoked him in the past. But this time he wouldn't explode. No fists. No belts. No starry shakes of my head. No angry touching.
The artificial calm was almost more than I could take. Predictable chaos is better than uncertain explosions.
It was then my mission to make him angry. I was in control if I could chose the moment of his anger and the consequences. I continued this behavior into my dating and first marriage. We lived the comfort of the vicious cycle. I didn't believe that I deserved to live in anything but an abusive home so that is what I accepted.
In my re-marriage, there have still been times that I have tried to invoke the chaos. Problem is, my husband never bites. He doesn't hit. He doesn't break things. He doesn't do horribly passive/aggressive things either. It doesn't push him away. He never even leaves.
Sometime I wonder what it must feel like to be my daughter. To come home to a clean and peaceful home. To never have to clean up broken glass. To never know the sound of leather hitting skin. To have parents who can disagree and work it out without violence. It must be wonderful.
I am far from the perfect mother. I have issues. And God know that I have hang ups.
But I hope that I will never teach her chaos. I hope instead that I teach her that peaceful is good.
And unlike chaos, there is no need to control peace.
I think my father had his ways to keep us guessing. Everything was fine and then someone would commit an offense that had always provoked him in the past. But this time he wouldn't explode. No fists. No belts. No starry shakes of my head. No angry touching.
The artificial calm was almost more than I could take. Predictable chaos is better than uncertain explosions.
It was then my mission to make him angry. I was in control if I could chose the moment of his anger and the consequences. I continued this behavior into my dating and first marriage. We lived the comfort of the vicious cycle. I didn't believe that I deserved to live in anything but an abusive home so that is what I accepted.
In my re-marriage, there have still been times that I have tried to invoke the chaos. Problem is, my husband never bites. He doesn't hit. He doesn't break things. He doesn't do horribly passive/aggressive things either. It doesn't push him away. He never even leaves.
Sometime I wonder what it must feel like to be my daughter. To come home to a clean and peaceful home. To never have to clean up broken glass. To never know the sound of leather hitting skin. To have parents who can disagree and work it out without violence. It must be wonderful.
I am far from the perfect mother. I have issues. And God know that I have hang ups.
But I hope that I will never teach her chaos. I hope instead that I teach her that peaceful is good.
And unlike chaos, there is no need to control peace.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Why
Like many who have survived abuse, I struggle with God. To compound that, I grew up in a Christian home with well respected parents. That is both good and bad.
Good because I truly believe that I would have died had I not been able to draw on my beliefs that there was God and He was bigger, stronger, and somehow in the midst of my mess of a home.
Bad because there were elements of abuse that twisted those same beliefs into everything that they were not. The result left me unable to get past the why of what was happening to me.
My conclusion: that I was bad. Otherwise, I would have been saved. And because of my badness, I became so focused on the why.
Why did God allow this?
Why was I so bad?
Why wouldn't He help me be good?
Why did they hurt me?
It must be because I was bad; why else?
I have struggled in a figure eight pattern for years. It's entirely predictable. The circular logic of the why... a possible answer of why... no, that's not the answer and then I'm headed into another pointless loop of questioning. A vicious cycle.
Somehow I have kept my belief in God intact. It hasn't been and probably won't ever be pretty. But it's there. We attend church weekly; a miracle to explain on a different day. This past weekend someone spoke about asking what instead of why. What has many more answers than why.
What happened? I can answer that if I tell the truth of what they did.
What was wrong with them? They were mean people.
What could I have done differently? Not a lot. I was a kid.
What do I feel about what happened? I can name the feelings if I think hard enough.
What did God do back then? He created a way for a child's mind to cope. He kept me alive.
What is different now? Everything.
What can I learn about myself? I'm stronger than they thought. I'm stronger than I thought.
What can I learn from my childhood? This one is harder to answer but I have some theories...
Questions are good. But answers are almost always better.
Good because I truly believe that I would have died had I not been able to draw on my beliefs that there was God and He was bigger, stronger, and somehow in the midst of my mess of a home.
Bad because there were elements of abuse that twisted those same beliefs into everything that they were not. The result left me unable to get past the why of what was happening to me.
My conclusion: that I was bad. Otherwise, I would have been saved. And because of my badness, I became so focused on the why.
Why did God allow this?
Why was I so bad?
Why wouldn't He help me be good?
Why did they hurt me?
It must be because I was bad; why else?
I have struggled in a figure eight pattern for years. It's entirely predictable. The circular logic of the why... a possible answer of why... no, that's not the answer and then I'm headed into another pointless loop of questioning. A vicious cycle.
Somehow I have kept my belief in God intact. It hasn't been and probably won't ever be pretty. But it's there. We attend church weekly; a miracle to explain on a different day. This past weekend someone spoke about asking what instead of why. What has many more answers than why.
What happened? I can answer that if I tell the truth of what they did.
What was wrong with them? They were mean people.
What could I have done differently? Not a lot. I was a kid.
What do I feel about what happened? I can name the feelings if I think hard enough.
What did God do back then? He created a way for a child's mind to cope. He kept me alive.
What is different now? Everything.
What can I learn about myself? I'm stronger than they thought. I'm stronger than I thought.
What can I learn from my childhood? This one is harder to answer but I have some theories...
Questions are good. But answers are almost always better.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Afraid
My husband recently referred to me as a neurotic freak who is afraid of everything.
He is a good man and infinitely patient but this was probably not his shining moment of spousal support or encouragement. But I took from it what I needed.
The truth hurts. I can either be upset and bitter at his words or I can work things out. Because he's right.
I am afraid of nearly everything. When you grow up in a house like I did, nearly everything becomes an instrument of torment. I started making a mental list and now that I really can't sleep, I thought that I would continue here.
Just the things or situations... the reasons aren't as important anymore.
Clothes hangers
Hair brush
Curling iron
House slippers
Milk
Pudding
Cats
Closets
Deep-freeze freezer
The dark
Whole bananas
The dentist
Needles
Liquid medications
Most colognes
Old Spice aftershave
Ants
Spiders
Rope
Loud noises
Screaming and yelling
Slamming doors
Glass breaking
Popping balloons
Scaring me
Mirrors
Electrical cords
Belts
Men crossing their legs
Touching me
Pillows
Vaseline
Baby dolls
Tight spaces
Smell of latex
Knives
Bathtubs
Water
Masks
Duct tape
Bright lights
Using the restroom
Hands
Garden hoses
Cemeteries
Smell of gasoline
Boiling water
Bouquets of flowers
Like I said, nearly everything.
I could go on but I'll save myself the smallest amount of dignity.
As I read through the list some are rational. Some make sense to me. Some are irrational. Some you could figure out with a bit of imagination but I really don't recommend that.
I'll own up to the afraid part. I'll even own the neurotic part. I don't care much for the freak part. They were the freaks. Not me. I'm just the unfortunate byproduct.
Another fear; passing my fears on to my daughter. She doesn't deserve to live in my fearful shadow. There is no such thing as a fear-free life but I don't want her be afraid of bananas just because her mom wilts at the sight of one. I want her to be a kid, have her own experiences and even develop a few fear of her own.
I'm not sure what I will do with this list. Maybe I'll work through it one by one. Maybe I'll ignore it all together. Maybe I'll print it and give it to my husband; tangible proof that I'm not afraid of everything.
I'm not afraid of apples.
He is a good man and infinitely patient but this was probably not his shining moment of spousal support or encouragement. But I took from it what I needed.
The truth hurts. I can either be upset and bitter at his words or I can work things out. Because he's right.
I am afraid of nearly everything. When you grow up in a house like I did, nearly everything becomes an instrument of torment. I started making a mental list and now that I really can't sleep, I thought that I would continue here.
Just the things or situations... the reasons aren't as important anymore.
Clothes hangers
Hair brush
Curling iron
House slippers
Milk
Pudding
Cats
Closets
Deep-freeze freezer
The dark
Whole bananas
The dentist
Needles
Liquid medications
Most colognes
Old Spice aftershave
Ants
Spiders
Rope
Loud noises
Screaming and yelling
Slamming doors
Glass breaking
Popping balloons
Scaring me
Mirrors
Electrical cords
Belts
Men crossing their legs
Touching me
Pillows
Vaseline
Baby dolls
Tight spaces
Smell of latex
Knives
Bathtubs
Water
Masks
Duct tape
Bright lights
Using the restroom
Hands
Garden hoses
Cemeteries
Smell of gasoline
Boiling water
Bouquets of flowers
Like I said, nearly everything.
I could go on but I'll save myself the smallest amount of dignity.
As I read through the list some are rational. Some make sense to me. Some are irrational. Some you could figure out with a bit of imagination but I really don't recommend that.
I'll own up to the afraid part. I'll even own the neurotic part. I don't care much for the freak part. They were the freaks. Not me. I'm just the unfortunate byproduct.
Another fear; passing my fears on to my daughter. She doesn't deserve to live in my fearful shadow. There is no such thing as a fear-free life but I don't want her be afraid of bananas just because her mom wilts at the sight of one. I want her to be a kid, have her own experiences and even develop a few fear of her own.
I'm not sure what I will do with this list. Maybe I'll work through it one by one. Maybe I'll ignore it all together. Maybe I'll print it and give it to my husband; tangible proof that I'm not afraid of everything.
I'm not afraid of apples.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Circles
Hula hoops. Basketballs. Baseballs. Bubbles of gum. My favorite kinds of circles.
Symmetry in raw form. A perfect circle can be nothing but a symmetrical shape of beautiful numbers.
Rings. Dog collars. Breaking plates. Imperfect soap bubbles that never scrub enough. These are the circles that I hate.
I make myself small. Into a brave ball of tortoise shell. I am tough. I am rugged. I am slower than them. But I have an impossible field of strength around me. An impenetrable bubble. The ultimate circle.
Don't look. Not even peek. If I don't see them they don't see me. A wingtip shoe cracks into my side. I was wrong. They do see me.
It's just a crack. My shell is still intact. I am safe. Don't look. Don't look.
Another shoe. It cracks my lip. Again and my chin is split. The pain draws my head out of my shell and I look. It's the worst kind of circle.
Man-like pride has swelled. So big. So ugly. Arrows growing that will pierce my childish shell. Their feet. Their shoes. They crowd around me.
Still the crudest circle.
And the cruelest.
The groans. The sighs. The arrows being drawn with fast moving hands. Angry, selfish hands of pleasure. Arrows dipped in milky poison; I watch a precious, rancid drop drip into a circle.
The arrows begin to fall. My shell is there. I am safe. And then it begins to melt. Childish strength is no match for poisoned shame.
The groans turn into laughs. Their poison erodes me in a flash. I am nothing but a lustful target. Warm embarrassment runs down my face. My missing tears are a magic bandage but I have no more to spare.
I accept my silent place within their circle until it is soft and they turn away. My stupid shell is in the corner. Cast away with a laugh.
Next time I will have a perfect circle. A better bubble so I can float away.
Symmetry in raw form. A perfect circle can be nothing but a symmetrical shape of beautiful numbers.
Rings. Dog collars. Breaking plates. Imperfect soap bubbles that never scrub enough. These are the circles that I hate.
I make myself small. Into a brave ball of tortoise shell. I am tough. I am rugged. I am slower than them. But I have an impossible field of strength around me. An impenetrable bubble. The ultimate circle.
Don't look. Not even peek. If I don't see them they don't see me. A wingtip shoe cracks into my side. I was wrong. They do see me.
It's just a crack. My shell is still intact. I am safe. Don't look. Don't look.
Another shoe. It cracks my lip. Again and my chin is split. The pain draws my head out of my shell and I look. It's the worst kind of circle.
Man-like pride has swelled. So big. So ugly. Arrows growing that will pierce my childish shell. Their feet. Their shoes. They crowd around me.
Still the crudest circle.
And the cruelest.
The groans. The sighs. The arrows being drawn with fast moving hands. Angry, selfish hands of pleasure. Arrows dipped in milky poison; I watch a precious, rancid drop drip into a circle.
The arrows begin to fall. My shell is there. I am safe. And then it begins to melt. Childish strength is no match for poisoned shame.
The groans turn into laughs. Their poison erodes me in a flash. I am nothing but a lustful target. Warm embarrassment runs down my face. My missing tears are a magic bandage but I have no more to spare.
I accept my silent place within their circle until it is soft and they turn away. My stupid shell is in the corner. Cast away with a laugh.
Next time I will have a perfect circle. A better bubble so I can float away.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Different
I am different. I always have been.
A little girl is crying in the corner. Her tears are on the inside. Long, tired streaks down the dirty windows of her soul. Her soul is old. Her soul is different.
Shame. Her t-shirt is never quite enough. It stretches over her knees just short to cover her shame. Exposed. Her shame; it burns. Her shame is different.
Her hair. Long and twisted; a curtain to hide the pain behind. His scent lingers as it curls her hair into knots of hate. Her hair; it would be beautiful. Instead her hair is different.
A little girl. She is still to let the corner hug her. A plaster embrace will have to do. A wall that hugs; it's not so bad. This corner is safe. Her hug is different.
A grown up girl stands in another corner. Afraid to touch the pain across the room. The tears are gone. Clothes are hers. Her hair is short. That different corner still remains.
Go to her.
Clean her up.
Dress her shame.
Give her human comfort.
Any other girl. But this one is different.
She is me. And I am different.
Undeserving. And indifferent.
A little girl is crying in the corner. Her tears are on the inside. Long, tired streaks down the dirty windows of her soul. Her soul is old. Her soul is different.
Shame. Her t-shirt is never quite enough. It stretches over her knees just short to cover her shame. Exposed. Her shame; it burns. Her shame is different.
Her hair. Long and twisted; a curtain to hide the pain behind. His scent lingers as it curls her hair into knots of hate. Her hair; it would be beautiful. Instead her hair is different.
A little girl. She is still to let the corner hug her. A plaster embrace will have to do. A wall that hugs; it's not so bad. This corner is safe. Her hug is different.
A grown up girl stands in another corner. Afraid to touch the pain across the room. The tears are gone. Clothes are hers. Her hair is short. That different corner still remains.
Go to her.
Clean her up.
Dress her shame.
Give her human comfort.
Any other girl. But this one is different.
She is me. And I am different.
Undeserving. And indifferent.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Prolonging
I need a break. A respite from my feelings. I know that must sound strange assuming that most like to feel; it's how they know that they are alive. Me, my feelings taunt me and remind me that I'm not dead. Flashback after flashback invade my frazzled mind and body until my pounding heart is breaking in the wake of no relief.
How long have you felt depressed?
I don't remember not feeling depressed...
When was the last time you felt happy?
I have fleeting moments of happiness...
When did the abuse begin?
I don't remember not being abused...
I started seeing a new shrink and those were some of her questions and then some of my answers. There was a rhythm to my replies which involved prolonged misery.
I want to feel better so I go to a shrink. I take medication. I see my therapist. I feel and it hurts like hell but I think that I am working hard and at some point it will pay off. But then there is a lingering suspicion he knew that even after he was gone his evil would still haunt and hurt me.
What kind of person brings a child into this world and shapes her childish life to know nothing but confusion, pain and sadness? Terror that she longs to stop even after you are gone. I bet he's laughing now knowing that I'm still pleading with the hurt to end.
How long have you felt depressed?
I don't remember not feeling depressed...
When was the last time you felt happy?
I have fleeting moments of happiness...
When did the abuse begin?
I don't remember not being abused...
I started seeing a new shrink and those were some of her questions and then some of my answers. There was a rhythm to my replies which involved prolonged misery.
I want to feel better so I go to a shrink. I take medication. I see my therapist. I feel and it hurts like hell but I think that I am working hard and at some point it will pay off. But then there is a lingering suspicion he knew that even after he was gone his evil would still haunt and hurt me.
What kind of person brings a child into this world and shapes her childish life to know nothing but confusion, pain and sadness? Terror that she longs to stop even after you are gone. I bet he's laughing now knowing that I'm still pleading with the hurt to end.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Fingers
My mother has the prettiest hands. When she isn't hurting me with them.
Long and slender with perfectly manicured nails. Her fingers always seem so skilled to cook, sew, and play the piano. Those are the things she does when she isn't so crazy and angry.
Today I'm a dirty girl. He has left his stinging warmth behind and it must be washed away. Shame has a color and it's red. I try to hide it but she sees. I can't pretend that she doesn't already know but it's the game I have to play.
Look at you... what a dirty girl... you are getting blood on my bath mat... you disgusting whore.
Her words sting just as bad as he does. I wish her hands would help me. Comfort me. Love me. I stand in the tub of water waiting for her to tell me when it's time to sit. Her calloused hands touch my shoulders as she forces me backwards onto the tiny corner of a ledge where the tub meets the wall. My head hits the tiles and my eyes burn with tears.
I am sitting on that little ledge as her beautiful hands force my legs apart at the knees. Her slender fingers no longer feel so slender. Her manicure is razor sharp as she plunges into my shame. I shift my eyes and work to melt into the calm, white tiles around me.
Look at me... watch what you make me do.
Her manicure is red as she writes my words on the tiles.
dirty...
whore...
I tear my eyes away and feel flush with those tiles. I sink even further as those cold, white tiles become my greatest comfort. I feel her hand but only as a glancing touch. I hear her screams but only as a whisper. I watch that little girl so far away and I am numb to her hate.
I wish that I could stay this way forever.
Long and slender with perfectly manicured nails. Her fingers always seem so skilled to cook, sew, and play the piano. Those are the things she does when she isn't so crazy and angry.
Today I'm a dirty girl. He has left his stinging warmth behind and it must be washed away. Shame has a color and it's red. I try to hide it but she sees. I can't pretend that she doesn't already know but it's the game I have to play.
Look at you... what a dirty girl... you are getting blood on my bath mat... you disgusting whore.
Her words sting just as bad as he does. I wish her hands would help me. Comfort me. Love me. I stand in the tub of water waiting for her to tell me when it's time to sit. Her calloused hands touch my shoulders as she forces me backwards onto the tiny corner of a ledge where the tub meets the wall. My head hits the tiles and my eyes burn with tears.
I am sitting on that little ledge as her beautiful hands force my legs apart at the knees. Her slender fingers no longer feel so slender. Her manicure is razor sharp as she plunges into my shame. I shift my eyes and work to melt into the calm, white tiles around me.
Look at me... watch what you make me do.
Her manicure is red as she writes my words on the tiles.
dirty...
whore...
I tear my eyes away and feel flush with those tiles. I sink even further as those cold, white tiles become my greatest comfort. I feel her hand but only as a glancing touch. I hear her screams but only as a whisper. I watch that little girl so far away and I am numb to her hate.
I wish that I could stay this way forever.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Breath
I have never paid much attention to breathing. It is just something that happens without thought, without reason. This air is hardly important until it ceases. Because then we are dead.
I talk very little about my sister. And even less about those moments prior to her death. I am still racked with grief and guilt if I allow myself the time to submerge my heart beneath the surface of the day-to-day fine.
She used a gun I owned. A gun my sister offered to keep because I was too nervous to have a weapon in my own home with a baby. That perpetual chain of events still takes my own breath away and leaves a putrid grief filled vacuum behind. Guilt laced air is what I breathe now.
In her final day or so she was not much to look at. A piece of her skull removed for swelling left her tragic head misshapen and uninhabitable. It was an unnatural symmetry to watch her chest rise and fall in rhythm with machines. I knew she was gone yet there she was lying in a shallow and selfish grave.
I go back to that moment often. For some strange reason I grasp at the fading memory trying to recall if she ever exhaled the final breath she drew. I do not know why this is important. And never mind that it is certainly of no consequence to the circumstances I find myself within today. But still I wonder.
Did she give something back or did she steal that tiny piece of air never to reciprocate again?
Thinking precisely back to nights in that big, white, and wooden bed I can hear her breathing. Nearly nose to nose I match my breath with hers and we share. We share the space and we share our secret burdens. And we never say a word.
Growing siblings often fight as they learn to share. But we were forced to share and we did so brilliantly. We never fought over who was fucking us. We never fought over who betrayed us. I held her collective breath and she held mine. But in the end we did not share survival and I will always wonder why.
We both grew up and with her final stolen breath our secrets died with her. Every minute of every day I breathe and if I'm mindful I can feel the pangs of the memories lost with her. She should be turning a year older soon but she never recovered from that last breath of toxic shame she took.
I talk very little about my sister. And even less about those moments prior to her death. I am still racked with grief and guilt if I allow myself the time to submerge my heart beneath the surface of the day-to-day fine.
She used a gun I owned. A gun my sister offered to keep because I was too nervous to have a weapon in my own home with a baby. That perpetual chain of events still takes my own breath away and leaves a putrid grief filled vacuum behind. Guilt laced air is what I breathe now.
In her final day or so she was not much to look at. A piece of her skull removed for swelling left her tragic head misshapen and uninhabitable. It was an unnatural symmetry to watch her chest rise and fall in rhythm with machines. I knew she was gone yet there she was lying in a shallow and selfish grave.
I go back to that moment often. For some strange reason I grasp at the fading memory trying to recall if she ever exhaled the final breath she drew. I do not know why this is important. And never mind that it is certainly of no consequence to the circumstances I find myself within today. But still I wonder.
Did she give something back or did she steal that tiny piece of air never to reciprocate again?
Thinking precisely back to nights in that big, white, and wooden bed I can hear her breathing. Nearly nose to nose I match my breath with hers and we share. We share the space and we share our secret burdens. And we never say a word.
Growing siblings often fight as they learn to share. But we were forced to share and we did so brilliantly. We never fought over who was fucking us. We never fought over who betrayed us. I held her collective breath and she held mine. But in the end we did not share survival and I will always wonder why.
We both grew up and with her final stolen breath our secrets died with her. Every minute of every day I breathe and if I'm mindful I can feel the pangs of the memories lost with her. She should be turning a year older soon but she never recovered from that last breath of toxic shame she took.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Lump
I find myself tangled in the lump of my throat. Trapped somewhere between my mind of logic and my twisted and aching heart I am dizzy with conflict. I am worth something. I am worth nothing. I am worth more than words can offer.
That familiar lump squeezes and twists my weary emotions as I grasp for a momentary breath of logic. A thought that reassures what kindness says; an understanding that I am so much more than what they said. But in that moment their words, their actions; they come crashing down on me as the lump threatens to engulf me.
Pain and bitter bile wash over me and the choices seem so non-existent. Why else would their hatred spiral? Why else would a child so young bear such deep and burdened scars?
It must be because I am worth so little.
The secrets that we shared. The secrets that I keep. These are the fuel to ignite a burning lump of torture. I struggle to move on and I struggle to let go while the lump clutches its tiny treasure. How do I feel my worth when all I feel is the pain wiping away even the smallest doubt that they might have been wrong?
I want to breathe. I want to feel the full capacity of worth expand until that lump of disbelief is pushed aside for good. I want to exhale until I know that they were wrong.
That familiar lump squeezes and twists my weary emotions as I grasp for a momentary breath of logic. A thought that reassures what kindness says; an understanding that I am so much more than what they said. But in that moment their words, their actions; they come crashing down on me as the lump threatens to engulf me.
Pain and bitter bile wash over me and the choices seem so non-existent. Why else would their hatred spiral? Why else would a child so young bear such deep and burdened scars?
It must be because I am worth so little.
The secrets that we shared. The secrets that I keep. These are the fuel to ignite a burning lump of torture. I struggle to move on and I struggle to let go while the lump clutches its tiny treasure. How do I feel my worth when all I feel is the pain wiping away even the smallest doubt that they might have been wrong?
I want to breathe. I want to feel the full capacity of worth expand until that lump of disbelief is pushed aside for good. I want to exhale until I know that they were wrong.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Status
Just like everyone else, I am glancing backwards at 2010. Good year. Bad year. Something in between...
My father is dead.
I told some secrets.
I made some quilts.
I was promoted.
I learned a lot.
I cried some more.
I made a friend.
I returned to church.
I integrated broken pieces.
I am alive.
My father is dead.
I told some secrets.
I made some quilts.
I was promoted.
I learned a lot.
I cried some more.
I made a friend.
I returned to church.
I integrated broken pieces.
I am alive.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Locked
I locked myself out of Blogger. I guess that is what I get with too many people trying to run the show around here. But after going around and around with Blogger support, I'm back now.
I'm doing alright. Some days are better than others. Some days are downright awful. And some days are Disneyland.
Now all these years later I am finally trying to wrap my arms around the wrong because my mind cannot comprehend it. And that wrong these days is in my mind, my multitude of crippled friends, because the perpetrators are gone. The wrong is frightening and so many times I want to slam and lock the door on it to take my time to intellectualize the pain. Yet as I analyze my pain the wrong has tiny fists that pound the door. Louder and louder; screaming for embrace until I unlock the door that acts as a threshold between my mind and my heart.
I'm doing alright. Some days are better than others. Some days are downright awful. And some days are Disneyland.
For real.
We went to Disneyland for vacation and my daughter had a blast. It is always so intriguing to watch the world through her eyes and this experience was no different. I went to Disneyland as a kid and I actually have some distinct memories of the trip. But what my childlike thoughts were certainly do not mirror my daughter's thoughts.
Going through "It's a Small World" was a surprise to me as a child. So many beaming kids. All singing the same song. And the real kids on the ride; they were happy. I was not. But I remember painting on a plastic smile to match the characters while thinking... what is happening to me is not happening to these other kids... something is very wrong...
Now all these years later I am finally trying to wrap my arms around the wrong because my mind cannot comprehend it. And that wrong these days is in my mind, my multitude of crippled friends, because the perpetrators are gone. The wrong is frightening and so many times I want to slam and lock the door on it to take my time to intellectualize the pain. Yet as I analyze my pain the wrong has tiny fists that pound the door. Louder and louder; screaming for embrace until I unlock the door that acts as a threshold between my mind and my heart.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Update
I apologize for neglecting my blog. I've been in a weird place as of late and I suppose I've spent some time pretending that all this isn't happening. In my mind, if I don't write here then I must be fine. Right?
Wrong.
I got over the hump of the last integration only to slide downhill into a family mess. I have worked hard to keep my head above water and ignore the worry that comes with this shit. And I was doing a good job until last weekend.
A breach of my intimate trust occurred nearly five years ago when my husband and I were engaged. His relationship with his mother has always been strained for a number of complex reasons. In an attempt to share his life with her he shared with her about me, our relationship, and what seemed to be harmless details.
At least to him.
When he told me about their conversation I learned that he told her about my past and my Dissociative Identity Disorder. I have never believed that he did this with ill intent but I have always worried about her own ignorance of perception. Because she is a truly ignorant person.
And now their conversation, as I have always worried, has come back to bite me in the ass. For a whole other post about the reasons, she is angry with me for something I have no control over: my husband's relationship with his two kids from his previous marriage. To pay me back she has taken my disorder, skewed it's reality, and has shared it in an open email to any family member with an email address. All under the guise of "let's pray for her". Like all good Christians do... and I write those words dripping with truthful sarcasm.
My husband keeps telling me that she looks worse than anyone could ever think of me. I am having a hard time believing that. I'm also having a hard time not being angry with him. I know he didn't do this with the intent to hurt me five years later but the truth is that is exactly what is happening.
I have tried. I really have. But I am out of ideas or delusions that this is OK. It's not and it hurts terribly. I am horribly embarrassed and no matter what I don't see a way out of that feeling.
Wrong.
I got over the hump of the last integration only to slide downhill into a family mess. I have worked hard to keep my head above water and ignore the worry that comes with this shit. And I was doing a good job until last weekend.
A breach of my intimate trust occurred nearly five years ago when my husband and I were engaged. His relationship with his mother has always been strained for a number of complex reasons. In an attempt to share his life with her he shared with her about me, our relationship, and what seemed to be harmless details.
At least to him.
When he told me about their conversation I learned that he told her about my past and my Dissociative Identity Disorder. I have never believed that he did this with ill intent but I have always worried about her own ignorance of perception. Because she is a truly ignorant person.
And now their conversation, as I have always worried, has come back to bite me in the ass. For a whole other post about the reasons, she is angry with me for something I have no control over: my husband's relationship with his two kids from his previous marriage. To pay me back she has taken my disorder, skewed it's reality, and has shared it in an open email to any family member with an email address. All under the guise of "let's pray for her". Like all good Christians do... and I write those words dripping with truthful sarcasm.
My husband keeps telling me that she looks worse than anyone could ever think of me. I am having a hard time believing that. I'm also having a hard time not being angry with him. I know he didn't do this with the intent to hurt me five years later but the truth is that is exactly what is happening.
I have tried. I really have. But I am out of ideas or delusions that this is OK. It's not and it hurts terribly. I am horribly embarrassed and no matter what I don't see a way out of that feeling.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Sick
Broken babies everywhere. Fraught with shredded suffering, nothing soothes or makes them calm. I am so afraid that I have a very sick mind.
They scream. They hurt. My head throbs with psychic suffering and torment. I am so very tired of having this twisted space of devastation within me. Normal is relative but with simple confidence I can say that normal people do not have these images of pain.
Most memories are ones that I can endure but bleeding babies push me towards capacity. Common people smile at me while daily acquaintances are kind and complimentary.
If they only knew...
If they only knew the poison that has washed over my mind. If only they knew the images that I can never shake. The oily suds of sin that froth and foam, they will never wash completely clean.
I wrestle and I twist with these faces until I am overcome with the fear. My bitter stomach churns as I reach for a familiar metal. My hands shake with forward reaching regret until the warmth of release stings when mixed with salty tears.
My mind lurches forward as the flashbacks of the past find me unsuspecting. The mental whiplash leaves me lost as the jarring shock brings me to my knees. I am begging for an end; a present firmly rooted that is able to withstand the forces of his latent life.
I am begging for relief before I am sick like him.
They scream. They hurt. My head throbs with psychic suffering and torment. I am so very tired of having this twisted space of devastation within me. Normal is relative but with simple confidence I can say that normal people do not have these images of pain.
Most memories are ones that I can endure but bleeding babies push me towards capacity. Common people smile at me while daily acquaintances are kind and complimentary.
If they only knew...
If they only knew the poison that has washed over my mind. If only they knew the images that I can never shake. The oily suds of sin that froth and foam, they will never wash completely clean.
I wrestle and I twist with these faces until I am overcome with the fear. My bitter stomach churns as I reach for a familiar metal. My hands shake with forward reaching regret until the warmth of release stings when mixed with salty tears.
My mind lurches forward as the flashbacks of the past find me unsuspecting. The mental whiplash leaves me lost as the jarring shock brings me to my knees. I am begging for an end; a present firmly rooted that is able to withstand the forces of his latent life.
I am begging for relief before I am sick like him.
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