So much of my memory is in pieces. I can remember the tiniest detail of some while other are hazy bits that are stronger to my senses than anything else.
I can read a page and have a perfect picture of it in my mind. But ask me what my favorite food is and I will have no way to answer that.
I'm not really a stupid person but most of the time that is exactly how I feel. That and embarrassed.
I wake up to find crayon colored pictures scattered all over the floor of my closet.
I have clothes that I hate and have no idea where they came from.
I come into conversations midstream desperately trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say. My husband calls it my "no one's home look" where I stare off into nothing only to come back having no idea what's going on.
My husband calls me when I'm home alone and asks me what I'm doing... I have no idea because I haven't been around at all so I make up something dumb. Like giving the dogs a bath for the third time in a week.
I have curly hair but I prefer it straightened. Still others love to wear it curly and will do so whenever they have the chance.
I have to concentrate really hard to keep from referring to myself as we, us, our, etc... .
Each day I feel like I wake up watching a movie started in the middle that I've never seen before. If I pay close enough attention I can figure out most of it but I always have this nagging feeling that I'm missing something. Probably because I am.
As a kid I can see how this worked well. I could wake up, brush my teeth and go to school and function having no memory of the hellish night before.
But now it just leaves me stupid. Like when others decide that they don't want to take our medication. They spit it out, hide it or now, they throw the bottles away.
My choices to fix it: call my shrink and verify that I'm absolutely nuts; get new prescriptions filled that will cost me dearly because of how my insurance is set up; or go through the bitch of withdrawals until I can get them filled again at a normal cost.
I rarely cry but this one reduces me to tears. It shouldn't be this hard to take care of myself. I shouldn't have to be baby-sat, watched and followed up with. I'm tired of being embarrassed and I'm tired of being stupid. It shouldn't be this hard.
Showing posts with label dissociation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dissociation. Show all posts
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Madness
I find it easier to talk about my father than my mother. His was such an overt evil that even when I lose myself to denial, I find my way back quickly with the jolt of a single memory. Because they are all bad.
So much is made of the father/daughter and the mother/son relationship and how that connection shapes a person. But what about the mother/daughter relationship?
My mother. I believe that I was the beginning of the end for her. During the holiday with my father's family I learned that I spent time in a mental hospital via my mother. She was pregnant and they found her trying to abort me. I'll spare the details but off to the loony bin she and I went.
How does something like that shape a daughter? I have always known that she did not want me. Even that she wished that I had never been born. Once I was in this world; I forever connected her to him and she was trapped.
That makes me sad for her.
His eyes were always black with rage, lust or something in between. Her eyes danced with madness.
I have always bristled at the assertion that she was crazy. It feels like an excuse for her. But what it really is; it's terrifying.
I remember being in kindergarten waiting for her to pick me up. I was almost always last because she was always late. Fridays were the best though because I got my Weekly Reader hand out. I would sit at the end of the hall and tear tiny pieces away and eat them. A good day was when I only had the time to eat half of the back page.
It started as a good day when she picked me up. The teacher called my name and I crammed my paper into my bag. I always rushed down the hall but each time the doors opened I would slow as I approached her car. I suppose I was trying to gauge her mood but really I just irritated her by being slow.
This day she leaned across the front seat to fling the passenger door open. As the door creaked to let me in I saw her. A gauzy pink robe. Her naked belly bulging with my sister due in early June. Curly hairs that I had to tear my eyes away from.
hurry up. get in the car. it's hotter than hell sitting around waiting on you.
None of this was spoken in her mean voice. This was that scary sing song voice and when she picked me up like this it was the worst. Mean; I knew what to expect. Crazy; I couldn't anticipate a thing.
I scooted across the hot vinyl seat as I heard her say something about ice cream. I wanted to tell her that I wasn't hungry but I did not want to be the one to pull her down in a crashing heap.
She wasn't dressed. Not even close. But as I stole a look I saw perfect make up and perfect hair. These were the hardest days to figure out. Depressed body. Happy hair and face.
Steel blue eyeshadow surrounded her pale blue eyes. Her pupil was the calm eye of the dancing hurricane whirling in her mind. Music blaring. Hot wind blowing my pigtails in my face. She's singing as she lights a cigarette. Between her legs is a pretty bottle hiding in brown paper. Her robe is moving with the air and I can see the cuts and scars on her thighs. Madness.
Baskin Robbins... 31 flavors... what kind of ice cream do you want?
we can't go in. you don't have clothes.
Don't be silly... I can tie my robe... what do you want?
a clown cone.
I can remember thinking... clowns are scary but not as scary as you are. Madness.
I sink down in the seat while she goes in. Looking for something to do, I open the glove box and see her silver bottle. I pull it out and screw the top off as I hear the sound of liquid. I tip it back and my head follows. It burns but I keep on drinking.
I finish it and put it back as quickly as I found it. This isn't my first try. I don't know what it is but I know that it makes me feel weird but better. Calmer. And warm.
I hear her yelling as she storms out of the shop. The tie of her robe is trailing behind her. There she is but not ashamed. In one hand is my clown cone. In the other is a cup of chocolate ice cream; her favorite.
I hate chocolate ice cream.
She gets in the car and practically throws my cone at me. The white wrapper falls to the floor but I save the clown. She is incensed. As I lean down to pick up the paper I peek again at her naked belly and I see the baby moving.
Tried to do something nice for you... this is the thanks I get...
I whisper a thank you and she slaps me across my face. I feel bad about eating the clown. I'm scared to hurt his face. It starts to melt and make a mess. She grabs it and throws it out the window as the car weaves between the cars and lines around us.
Pick your feet up... we are on a magic carpet... feel the hot desert wind... close your eyes to keep the sand out...
There is no sand but I feel really funny so I close my eyes. I lay down on the vinyl seat; as close to her without touching her. Hot ashes sprinkle on my cheek. They sting but I am too tired to care. But then hot fire touches and my scalp begins to burn. I smell the burning flesh and hair and know that another circle will be hidden by my thick brown hair.
A single tear slips out as the madness of the speeding car rocks me to sleep.
I wake up in the dark with the stickiness of the ice cream still on my hands. I'm still in the car. My mom is gone. I don't know where we are. The windows are cracked but I can't get the door open.
I'm not worried about where she is. I'm just scared of what will happen next. I count my fingers to twenty over and over. It's really dark now.
I open up the glove box but remember that I already drank the silver bottle. I shut it. I'm hungry.
I open my bag and find my Weekly Reader. Half of the back page gone; that was a good day. I start to tear pieces off and one by one I feel the tiny papers melt on my tongue. I tear until there's nothing left to tear.
It's a really bad day when I have the time to eat all my Weekly Reader. Madness.
So much is made of the father/daughter and the mother/son relationship and how that connection shapes a person. But what about the mother/daughter relationship?
My mother. I believe that I was the beginning of the end for her. During the holiday with my father's family I learned that I spent time in a mental hospital via my mother. She was pregnant and they found her trying to abort me. I'll spare the details but off to the loony bin she and I went.
How does something like that shape a daughter? I have always known that she did not want me. Even that she wished that I had never been born. Once I was in this world; I forever connected her to him and she was trapped.
That makes me sad for her.
His eyes were always black with rage, lust or something in between. Her eyes danced with madness.
I have always bristled at the assertion that she was crazy. It feels like an excuse for her. But what it really is; it's terrifying.
I remember being in kindergarten waiting for her to pick me up. I was almost always last because she was always late. Fridays were the best though because I got my Weekly Reader hand out. I would sit at the end of the hall and tear tiny pieces away and eat them. A good day was when I only had the time to eat half of the back page.
It started as a good day when she picked me up. The teacher called my name and I crammed my paper into my bag. I always rushed down the hall but each time the doors opened I would slow as I approached her car. I suppose I was trying to gauge her mood but really I just irritated her by being slow.
This day she leaned across the front seat to fling the passenger door open. As the door creaked to let me in I saw her. A gauzy pink robe. Her naked belly bulging with my sister due in early June. Curly hairs that I had to tear my eyes away from.
hurry up. get in the car. it's hotter than hell sitting around waiting on you.
None of this was spoken in her mean voice. This was that scary sing song voice and when she picked me up like this it was the worst. Mean; I knew what to expect. Crazy; I couldn't anticipate a thing.
I scooted across the hot vinyl seat as I heard her say something about ice cream. I wanted to tell her that I wasn't hungry but I did not want to be the one to pull her down in a crashing heap.
She wasn't dressed. Not even close. But as I stole a look I saw perfect make up and perfect hair. These were the hardest days to figure out. Depressed body. Happy hair and face.
Steel blue eyeshadow surrounded her pale blue eyes. Her pupil was the calm eye of the dancing hurricane whirling in her mind. Music blaring. Hot wind blowing my pigtails in my face. She's singing as she lights a cigarette. Between her legs is a pretty bottle hiding in brown paper. Her robe is moving with the air and I can see the cuts and scars on her thighs. Madness.
Baskin Robbins... 31 flavors... what kind of ice cream do you want?
we can't go in. you don't have clothes.
Don't be silly... I can tie my robe... what do you want?
a clown cone.
I can remember thinking... clowns are scary but not as scary as you are. Madness.
I sink down in the seat while she goes in. Looking for something to do, I open the glove box and see her silver bottle. I pull it out and screw the top off as I hear the sound of liquid. I tip it back and my head follows. It burns but I keep on drinking.
I finish it and put it back as quickly as I found it. This isn't my first try. I don't know what it is but I know that it makes me feel weird but better. Calmer. And warm.
I hear her yelling as she storms out of the shop. The tie of her robe is trailing behind her. There she is but not ashamed. In one hand is my clown cone. In the other is a cup of chocolate ice cream; her favorite.
I hate chocolate ice cream.
She gets in the car and practically throws my cone at me. The white wrapper falls to the floor but I save the clown. She is incensed. As I lean down to pick up the paper I peek again at her naked belly and I see the baby moving.
Tried to do something nice for you... this is the thanks I get...
I whisper a thank you and she slaps me across my face. I feel bad about eating the clown. I'm scared to hurt his face. It starts to melt and make a mess. She grabs it and throws it out the window as the car weaves between the cars and lines around us.
Pick your feet up... we are on a magic carpet... feel the hot desert wind... close your eyes to keep the sand out...
There is no sand but I feel really funny so I close my eyes. I lay down on the vinyl seat; as close to her without touching her. Hot ashes sprinkle on my cheek. They sting but I am too tired to care. But then hot fire touches and my scalp begins to burn. I smell the burning flesh and hair and know that another circle will be hidden by my thick brown hair.
A single tear slips out as the madness of the speeding car rocks me to sleep.
I wake up in the dark with the stickiness of the ice cream still on my hands. I'm still in the car. My mom is gone. I don't know where we are. The windows are cracked but I can't get the door open.
I'm not worried about where she is. I'm just scared of what will happen next. I count my fingers to twenty over and over. It's really dark now.
I open up the glove box but remember that I already drank the silver bottle. I shut it. I'm hungry.
I open my bag and find my Weekly Reader. Half of the back page gone; that was a good day. I start to tear pieces off and one by one I feel the tiny papers melt on my tongue. I tear until there's nothing left to tear.
It's a really bad day when I have the time to eat all my Weekly Reader. Madness.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Blocks
Silence. It sings when perfectly still. With the constant banter in my mind it is hard to find a silent spot. But when I do, I find the warmth in being all alone.
Sleeping well evades me as I roam our home. In the dark I am listening for that silent tune where there is no fear. No screams. No pain. No awakened anguish. These times when I'm all alone are few. I cherish them and hope for the next time not so far away.
As a child I loved to be alone. These were moments when I was safe. I could play in my room for hours; always in a corner facing out but alone and content. Even found in a closet, darkness and pieces of air could be a symphony. The whispers of my friends were welcome but even they learned to listen to the music.
Much more pain and many more shattered friends later; the silence has all but disappeared. Each chance to be alone I embrace. I hope that in this time I will hear that peace I loved so much.
But then the chatter starts and builds block upon block. There is no safety in numbers as the distractions are so great. Angry at the peace they have obstructed, I swing to topple those blocks. But as they crash the sounds only grow more intense. I stop and look at what I've done. The damage I myself have created.
I turn my back on them as if they have no voice. But their tiny words pierce my mind. I hold my head. I pound with my fists. I take a pill. Nothing works to drown them out.
In desperation I pick up a block and I see it for what it is. A tiny piece of a careful wall constructed all around me. Protection from the worst.
I listen as the block begins to speak; not a scream yet not a whisper either. I want to throw it back into the pile but instead I pick up another. The more I listen, I realize what I always knew.
These blocks were once the safest corner in which I played. And then he destroyed that protective angle in which I fit so perfectly. Devastation as my childish hands picked up the bits and block by block a wall began to form.
A small stack of blocks behind me show a tiny bit of progress. Many more blocks are scattered. One block. Two blocks. Another and another. Some are heavy. Some are sharp and jagged. Some are big; the cornerstones. And then the tiniest of pieces; shattered as they bore the worst.
As I ask to listen their weight lessens. And a painful yet simple I'm sorry smooths away their exposed rawness. With that they are ready to find their spot in a new and wholly constructed wall.
And my strength is reinforced.
Sleeping well evades me as I roam our home. In the dark I am listening for that silent tune where there is no fear. No screams. No pain. No awakened anguish. These times when I'm all alone are few. I cherish them and hope for the next time not so far away.
As a child I loved to be alone. These were moments when I was safe. I could play in my room for hours; always in a corner facing out but alone and content. Even found in a closet, darkness and pieces of air could be a symphony. The whispers of my friends were welcome but even they learned to listen to the music.
Much more pain and many more shattered friends later; the silence has all but disappeared. Each chance to be alone I embrace. I hope that in this time I will hear that peace I loved so much.
But then the chatter starts and builds block upon block. There is no safety in numbers as the distractions are so great. Angry at the peace they have obstructed, I swing to topple those blocks. But as they crash the sounds only grow more intense. I stop and look at what I've done. The damage I myself have created.
I turn my back on them as if they have no voice. But their tiny words pierce my mind. I hold my head. I pound with my fists. I take a pill. Nothing works to drown them out.
In desperation I pick up a block and I see it for what it is. A tiny piece of a careful wall constructed all around me. Protection from the worst.
I listen as the block begins to speak; not a scream yet not a whisper either. I want to throw it back into the pile but instead I pick up another. The more I listen, I realize what I always knew.
These blocks were once the safest corner in which I played. And then he destroyed that protective angle in which I fit so perfectly. Devastation as my childish hands picked up the bits and block by block a wall began to form.
A small stack of blocks behind me show a tiny bit of progress. Many more blocks are scattered. One block. Two blocks. Another and another. Some are heavy. Some are sharp and jagged. Some are big; the cornerstones. And then the tiniest of pieces; shattered as they bore the worst.
As I ask to listen their weight lessens. And a painful yet simple I'm sorry smooths away their exposed rawness. With that they are ready to find their spot in a new and wholly constructed wall.
And my strength is reinforced.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Integration
This past week has not been an easy one. Not that most of my weeks are easy but this one was a greater struggle.
Part of my healing process involves the integrating of my various personalities or "parts". The easiest way to describe it is in watching a certain part step behind the shadows in my mind; no longer distinguished by a look or a voice. Ever present and audible but as me instead of them. Small fingers lace between my grownup fingers. I squeeze a fragile hand and watch it melt into my own.
As the parts converge I often see a blending of colors. My color is blue. Other times I see numbers and the sum of the parts come together to equal a new whole. But along with these hues and figures also come the tactile memories. Worn and aching to them; fresh and raw to me.
I am flooded with these thoughts of the past and they become my present. Feel the floor beneath my feet. Touch the couch that I am sinking in. I only wish these things beneath me would pull me in and past the hurting surface. A crying child is in the corner. A broken baby alone on the floor. A dirty face is frozen with terror. And he is pulling at my legs as he creeps up to control me.
These desperate children slide behind me as their pain is lifted away. Their stories become my own; a painful anthem no one wants to hear.
Feel the couch and focus on a familiar face. It is not real. Just a memory. But it is real.
Part of my healing process involves the integrating of my various personalities or "parts". The easiest way to describe it is in watching a certain part step behind the shadows in my mind; no longer distinguished by a look or a voice. Ever present and audible but as me instead of them. Small fingers lace between my grownup fingers. I squeeze a fragile hand and watch it melt into my own.
As the parts converge I often see a blending of colors. My color is blue. Other times I see numbers and the sum of the parts come together to equal a new whole. But along with these hues and figures also come the tactile memories. Worn and aching to them; fresh and raw to me.
I am flooded with these thoughts of the past and they become my present. Feel the floor beneath my feet. Touch the couch that I am sinking in. I only wish these things beneath me would pull me in and past the hurting surface. A crying child is in the corner. A broken baby alone on the floor. A dirty face is frozen with terror. And he is pulling at my legs as he creeps up to control me.
These desperate children slide behind me as their pain is lifted away. Their stories become my own; a painful anthem no one wants to hear.
Feel the couch and focus on a familiar face. It is not real. Just a memory. But it is real.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Autopilot
First, thank you all for your kind, helpful, and concerned comments. I promise I will respond to all of them shortly.
Dissociative Identity Disorder has a fascinating side to it and that is its auto-pilot feature. I have been on autopilot these past several days with others sharing the load of my daily life while I have been checked out or dissociated if you want to get fancy with the terminology.
Sounds unfair? They think it is. I take a vacation while everyone else does the work. Not really.
In the past, this has been closer to the case. I would get really overwhelmed and I would check out. Others would maintain the facade of "me" and I would return when I was up to handling life. I am, or I should probably say we, are really, really good at this. After nearly 30 years, this is a pretty seamless presentation.
This time was different though. I didn't take off out of fear. Yes, I got overwhelmed. However, I actually did something healthy. This time I turned my attention inward and took care of those new friends brave enough to surface after learning he was finally dead.
This was not a pleasant experience. These friends are probably some of the worst off. They were hurt, broken, bleeding, and despairing. It will take me some time to put into words what took place. But for now, I can describe that I did my best to care for them like I would my own daughter.
On to something I can explain...
While in autopilot mode, I have also had some time to really think about the process I have found myself in. Most refer to this as a healing process and I am closer now to understanding that than ever before. I hope that is the case at least.
I am a former athlete. I abused my body, pushed myself beyond injury, and never paid attention to pain screaming orders to stop whatever it was that I was doing. And I have paid. And I still pay with arthritis that runs through multiple joints starting when I was in my mid-twenties.
I have had two shoulder surgeries, two knee surgeries, and two foot surgeries. All reconstructive including a shoulder replacement when I was 20. Yeah, I know.
Surgery is never fun. Anesthesia is rough on me; I am slow to wake up. The pain... well, it hurts. You take pills to control that pain that make you nauseous. And then if you are me, you get addicted to those pills and that is an entirely different bitch of a process and another post all on its own.
Day one, surgery day, is a blur.
Day two is better.
Day three... you might as well be dead. That's my experience at least.
Day four is once again better. Point being that the pain typically peaks before the healing process really takes off. And here is where I begin to pray that my father's death was the peak of my pain. Or at least the leading catalyst for real healing.
When I woke up this morning I found myself thinking this is my day four...
I will always have arthritis. I will also always have the dull and painful ache of memories.
I will always have the scars of my athletic career. But if you ask me to show you my surgery scars, with a vague amount of pride I will. I will point to one and tell you how I got it, how I endured, and yeah it hurt but I was tough and made it through.
I will also always have the scars of abuse and reminders of my past. But one day I hope I will be able to point to them with another small sense of pride and tell you how I survived, how tough I was, how I made it through.
And how I began to thrive. Here's to day four.
Dissociative Identity Disorder has a fascinating side to it and that is its auto-pilot feature. I have been on autopilot these past several days with others sharing the load of my daily life while I have been checked out or dissociated if you want to get fancy with the terminology.
Sounds unfair? They think it is. I take a vacation while everyone else does the work. Not really.
In the past, this has been closer to the case. I would get really overwhelmed and I would check out. Others would maintain the facade of "me" and I would return when I was up to handling life. I am, or I should probably say we, are really, really good at this. After nearly 30 years, this is a pretty seamless presentation.
This time was different though. I didn't take off out of fear. Yes, I got overwhelmed. However, I actually did something healthy. This time I turned my attention inward and took care of those new friends brave enough to surface after learning he was finally dead.
This was not a pleasant experience. These friends are probably some of the worst off. They were hurt, broken, bleeding, and despairing. It will take me some time to put into words what took place. But for now, I can describe that I did my best to care for them like I would my own daughter.
On to something I can explain...
While in autopilot mode, I have also had some time to really think about the process I have found myself in. Most refer to this as a healing process and I am closer now to understanding that than ever before. I hope that is the case at least.
I am a former athlete. I abused my body, pushed myself beyond injury, and never paid attention to pain screaming orders to stop whatever it was that I was doing. And I have paid. And I still pay with arthritis that runs through multiple joints starting when I was in my mid-twenties.
I have had two shoulder surgeries, two knee surgeries, and two foot surgeries. All reconstructive including a shoulder replacement when I was 20. Yeah, I know.
Surgery is never fun. Anesthesia is rough on me; I am slow to wake up. The pain... well, it hurts. You take pills to control that pain that make you nauseous. And then if you are me, you get addicted to those pills and that is an entirely different bitch of a process and another post all on its own.
Day one, surgery day, is a blur.
Day two is better.
Day three... you might as well be dead. That's my experience at least.
Day four is once again better. Point being that the pain typically peaks before the healing process really takes off. And here is where I begin to pray that my father's death was the peak of my pain. Or at least the leading catalyst for real healing.
When I woke up this morning I found myself thinking this is my day four...
I will always have arthritis. I will also always have the dull and painful ache of memories.
I will always have the scars of my athletic career. But if you ask me to show you my surgery scars, with a vague amount of pride I will. I will point to one and tell you how I got it, how I endured, and yeah it hurt but I was tough and made it through.
I will also always have the scars of abuse and reminders of my past. But one day I hope I will be able to point to them with another small sense of pride and tell you how I survived, how tough I was, how I made it through.
And how I began to thrive. Here's to day four.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Hidden
I thought that being dead, he would no longer haunt me. Tucked away in the corner of my mind are found over fifty hidden children. Nameless, with faces containing nothing but a mouth, they are dirty, bruised, and broken.
He now simple ashes, they are limping... crawling... carrying one another forward. In groups of two they are crossing into my conscious stream. In the light of my mind's eye I am horrified by what I see. A pupil widens and then is fixed with pain. Unresponsive, I do nothing but squeeze a single blink of disbelief.
A razor sharp child slices as I extend a forced, yet hopeful hand. As drops of blood pool, I become the injured helping the walking wounded and I am filled with doubt. I do not know how I will be able to continue this. How does a sick and injured doctor care for an even more ill and disfigured patient?
One single child reaches my feet and as she does she brushes her dirty hair aside and I see one possibility of an eye behind the matted hair. Behind a squint in the light, I see an unmistakable muddied crystal blue eye.
Mine.
Hidden from light for many years. But not from his terror. Hidden from love. Hidden from care. As I look into this eye I am freshly exposed to his ravages. I am no longer hidden but face to face, and I am flooded with his unmistakable memories.
They won't stop.
He now simple ashes, they are limping... crawling... carrying one another forward. In groups of two they are crossing into my conscious stream. In the light of my mind's eye I am horrified by what I see. A pupil widens and then is fixed with pain. Unresponsive, I do nothing but squeeze a single blink of disbelief.
A razor sharp child slices as I extend a forced, yet hopeful hand. As drops of blood pool, I become the injured helping the walking wounded and I am filled with doubt. I do not know how I will be able to continue this. How does a sick and injured doctor care for an even more ill and disfigured patient?
One single child reaches my feet and as she does she brushes her dirty hair aside and I see one possibility of an eye behind the matted hair. Behind a squint in the light, I see an unmistakable muddied crystal blue eye.
Mine.
Hidden from light for many years. But not from his terror. Hidden from love. Hidden from care. As I look into this eye I am freshly exposed to his ravages. I am no longer hidden but face to face, and I am flooded with his unmistakable memories.
They won't stop.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Husband
I have a good husband. I was very fortunate this time around. Husband # 1 was a first class nightmare who also found himself enmeshed with my family from a young age.
We were doomed before we even thought about dating.
My second time around I knew better what I was looking for and I found someone reasonably healthy. No, my husband isn't perfect but I am sure that everyone here also knows that I am far from perfect as well. I wish I could say that I have been an open book with him but I cannot. He knows I have a past. He knows I had a ruthless childhood. He also knows I have D.I.D and he has done enough reading to know what kind of abuse causes such a disorder. Prolonged and severe; he knows these things about me. He "knows" my alters. Some of them like him, some of them don't have much to do with him. Others spend a great deal of energy trying to make him leave us.
Except he doesn't leave. Thank God.
When we were engaged we met with my therapist together and he got the short version of D.I.D, what living with me would look like, things to avoid, and things to do. I was able to tell him that I was abused and that there are things in my past that I do not want to talk about with him. All this he was fine with. And he has remained fine; frustrated at times but still fine.
I used to journal on paper a lot. And then he found one of my journals, read it, and all hell broke loose. So I stopped writing until I began writing on this blog. This has been a lifesaver for me to write here. I have shared excerpts of my writings here with him but I have not freely shared the link. It would not be the end of the world if he found this blog but I like it better knowing that I can write without censoring and having to answer questions about the day's blog post over dinner. Talk about indigestion...
But now I am at a crossroads; my family is gone and with them died a lot of secrets. My husband believes that I do not have a relationship with my father or mother and that my sister passed away... many years ago. Knowing what he knows about D.I.D he has always been fine with us having no contact with them. Now however, why am I still holding on to many of these secrets?
Anger is one reason. My husband will be angry over much of what was done to me. That anger will make me vastly uncomfortable. And further, I have yet to justify causing someone to be angry for no profitable reason. So why make him angry?
I fear what he will think of me; this is another reason. What if he believes that I am a whore? What if he realizes how fucked up I really am? It boils down to my fear that he will believe what I already believe about myself. And if we both believe the worst about me does that then mean that we will be doomed too?
That is my greatest fear.
We were doomed before we even thought about dating.
My second time around I knew better what I was looking for and I found someone reasonably healthy. No, my husband isn't perfect but I am sure that everyone here also knows that I am far from perfect as well. I wish I could say that I have been an open book with him but I cannot. He knows I have a past. He knows I had a ruthless childhood. He also knows I have D.I.D and he has done enough reading to know what kind of abuse causes such a disorder. Prolonged and severe; he knows these things about me. He "knows" my alters. Some of them like him, some of them don't have much to do with him. Others spend a great deal of energy trying to make him leave us.
Except he doesn't leave. Thank God.
When we were engaged we met with my therapist together and he got the short version of D.I.D, what living with me would look like, things to avoid, and things to do. I was able to tell him that I was abused and that there are things in my past that I do not want to talk about with him. All this he was fine with. And he has remained fine; frustrated at times but still fine.
I used to journal on paper a lot. And then he found one of my journals, read it, and all hell broke loose. So I stopped writing until I began writing on this blog. This has been a lifesaver for me to write here. I have shared excerpts of my writings here with him but I have not freely shared the link. It would not be the end of the world if he found this blog but I like it better knowing that I can write without censoring and having to answer questions about the day's blog post over dinner. Talk about indigestion...
But now I am at a crossroads; my family is gone and with them died a lot of secrets. My husband believes that I do not have a relationship with my father or mother and that my sister passed away... many years ago. Knowing what he knows about D.I.D he has always been fine with us having no contact with them. Now however, why am I still holding on to many of these secrets?
Anger is one reason. My husband will be angry over much of what was done to me. That anger will make me vastly uncomfortable. And further, I have yet to justify causing someone to be angry for no profitable reason. So why make him angry?
I fear what he will think of me; this is another reason. What if he believes that I am a whore? What if he realizes how fucked up I really am? It boils down to my fear that he will believe what I already believe about myself. And if we both believe the worst about me does that then mean that we will be doomed too?
That is my greatest fear.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Smile
My chest is pounding quick and frantic lumps. I hear the feet crush the padding of the carpet. It is only a whisper but I feel those steps ring inside my ears. I bury further under my thin and naked sheet in hopes that I will turn invisible before the feet reach my room.
I squish my eyes until I see colors blur behind my eyelids. I love this trick because it makes the darkness not so scary. My door opens and then shuts and a shadowed figure moves towards my too small bed. If my bed was bigger I think I could get away.
A cold and metal finger presses against my tiny, trembling lips. This finger has a jagged edge and as it presses further I feel a pop from my lip and a taste of metallic blood. Shhhhh... is what this finger says without a sound or word. I simply know.
My only screams tonight will echo inside the halls of my head. Echoing because no one hears them. My screams bounce and rattle around, desperate and lonely.
His other hand roams around and past my naked sheet. There is nothing to hide behind. Up one leg and rubbing down the other he moves deliberately and with purpose. His breathing is quick and matches my own fearful panting. With one knee he pins one small leg. And with the other he has now widened my fearful body into a grown-up X.
One sweaty hand. One jagged, steely cold finger.
Don't move an muscle... don't you make a sound... you are too small... going to make you bigger, little girl.
The sharp and jagged finger is cold against my anxious skin. Skin is popping. Widening pain. And my terror is stretched further than ever before. Jasmin slips in front and I fade into James' hurting arms. He is heavy upon me and he smiles a strange and upside down smile.
I will never forget that hateful smile. And I will never see him again. He is dead.
For sure.
I squish my eyes until I see colors blur behind my eyelids. I love this trick because it makes the darkness not so scary. My door opens and then shuts and a shadowed figure moves towards my too small bed. If my bed was bigger I think I could get away.
A cold and metal finger presses against my tiny, trembling lips. This finger has a jagged edge and as it presses further I feel a pop from my lip and a taste of metallic blood. Shhhhh... is what this finger says without a sound or word. I simply know.
My only screams tonight will echo inside the halls of my head. Echoing because no one hears them. My screams bounce and rattle around, desperate and lonely.
His other hand roams around and past my naked sheet. There is nothing to hide behind. Up one leg and rubbing down the other he moves deliberately and with purpose. His breathing is quick and matches my own fearful panting. With one knee he pins one small leg. And with the other he has now widened my fearful body into a grown-up X.
One sweaty hand. One jagged, steely cold finger.
Don't move an muscle... don't you make a sound... you are too small... going to make you bigger, little girl.
The sharp and jagged finger is cold against my anxious skin. Skin is popping. Widening pain. And my terror is stretched further than ever before. Jasmin slips in front and I fade into James' hurting arms. He is heavy upon me and he smiles a strange and upside down smile.
I will never forget that hateful smile. And I will never see him again. He is dead.
For sure.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tears
Dear Tears,
How very sorry I am for what you have lived with. You and I have not spent much time together. I avoid you because I despise crying. You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.
So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another. Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob? Not really. And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.
Over the past few days I have cried. And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears. Tears stockpiled over years of pain. Tears we both did not believe to exist. As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner. You were waiting for him and he did not come. We were both surprised.
No one hit us until we stopped crying. No one fucked us until there were no more tears to cry. Not once was the blood running faster than the tears. In fact, there was no blood at all.
Each tear, it did hurt. Like crying razor blades. But it was a healing kind of hurt. To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly. Or not at all. So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away. I do this while I worry about keeping you safe. It's a role reversal of sorts.
Watching you with intent, I see that you are small. You are a skinny boy younger than my own daughter. She's six. And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain. Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and blonde hair. Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes. No eyes that cry no tears.
No wonder.
I can cry your tears now. And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job. It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.
And neither are you. So go and rest.
Your friend,
Shattered
How very sorry I am for what you have lived with. You and I have not spent much time together. I avoid you because I despise crying. You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.
So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another. Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob? Not really. And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.
Over the past few days I have cried. And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears. Tears stockpiled over years of pain. Tears we both did not believe to exist. As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner. You were waiting for him and he did not come. We were both surprised.
No one hit us until we stopped crying. No one fucked us until there were no more tears to cry. Not once was the blood running faster than the tears. In fact, there was no blood at all.
Each tear, it did hurt. Like crying razor blades. But it was a healing kind of hurt. To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly. Or not at all. So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away. I do this while I worry about keeping you safe. It's a role reversal of sorts.
Watching you with intent, I see that you are small. You are a skinny boy younger than my own daughter. She's six. And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain. Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and blonde hair. Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes. No eyes that cry no tears.
No wonder.
I can cry your tears now. And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job. It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.
And neither are you. So go and rest.
Your friend,
Shattered
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Flat
So today is a new day and I'm trying again. I must sound like a wreck because when readers start asking me if I have a therapist, it's then that I realize how bad I sound. And for my newer readers, yes, I do have a therapist who I have been seeing for quite some time. At least once a week.
Reading over my post from yesterday, I did sound depressed and I was. I still am. And once again I am at the point of retreating to the hills of my head or sticking with the present. I am learning that this is a choice. It is a hard choice too.
But in making that choice I am learning a lot about myself. I don't do stress. I don't do pain. "Flat" was the word that kept coming up in therapy yesterday evening. I've given it a lot of thought between then and now because I argued last night that flat was easier than feeling.
I was wrong.
Flat really is hard. Exhausting. And I think I create a lot more stress and pain, the very things I try to avoid, for myself in trying to be flat. I really thought that this was how people wanted me to be. However, as I look at my emotional responses to others, I can see that my flat response was the last thing they needed or even wanted.
I do not know how to change this overnight. Flat used to my safe. If I showed no emotion, the chances of being hit a lot or worse went down. Flat let me mirror the emotions around me and let me remain invisible. I focused on other's feelings instead of my own. I thought this was safe. But in doing so I added layer upon layer on my own pain which seems to fester into depression.
I have one assignment for the next week. Cry. And cry some more. When I am in the car I am supposed to cry. That is a long way from flat and I am scared. What if people don't like my emotions? My trademarks are levelheaded, calm, logical, a rock... all a nice version of flat.
My next step: call my shrink and tell her that I don't have any of my meds nor have I been taking them because "someone" threw them away. I've been too embarrassed to make that call but I need to. I also need to do some housekeeping in here and figure out "who" threw them out. And after that...
Cry some more.
Reading over my post from yesterday, I did sound depressed and I was. I still am. And once again I am at the point of retreating to the hills of my head or sticking with the present. I am learning that this is a choice. It is a hard choice too.
But in making that choice I am learning a lot about myself. I don't do stress. I don't do pain. "Flat" was the word that kept coming up in therapy yesterday evening. I've given it a lot of thought between then and now because I argued last night that flat was easier than feeling.
I was wrong.
Flat really is hard. Exhausting. And I think I create a lot more stress and pain, the very things I try to avoid, for myself in trying to be flat. I really thought that this was how people wanted me to be. However, as I look at my emotional responses to others, I can see that my flat response was the last thing they needed or even wanted.
I do not know how to change this overnight. Flat used to my safe. If I showed no emotion, the chances of being hit a lot or worse went down. Flat let me mirror the emotions around me and let me remain invisible. I focused on other's feelings instead of my own. I thought this was safe. But in doing so I added layer upon layer on my own pain which seems to fester into depression.
I have one assignment for the next week. Cry. And cry some more. When I am in the car I am supposed to cry. That is a long way from flat and I am scared. What if people don't like my emotions? My trademarks are levelheaded, calm, logical, a rock... all a nice version of flat.
My next step: call my shrink and tell her that I don't have any of my meds nor have I been taking them because "someone" threw them away. I've been too embarrassed to make that call but I need to. I also need to do some housekeeping in here and figure out "who" threw them out. And after that...
Cry some more.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Friend
What's that line... hello, darkness, my old friend...?
My friend is making a raging comeback. Yippee.
I do not know exactly what has brought this on but I am knocked down, sideways and can't get up depressed. Those irritating Cymbalta commercials showing depressed people sucking at living? That's me minus roaming around aimlessly in sweatpants because I don't wear sweatpants.
I just stay in my pajamas.
I don't have the luxury of sleeping the day away or even lying in bed with my eyes open praying that a spontaneous lobotomy will occur. I have a kid, I have a job, I have judo, gymnastics, and swim team to attend, and I have a rather important (to me) husband who occasionally would like to see me out of pajamas and showered with a smile on my face. It's a rough life these days.
The thing is, I do shower, smile and dress nicely. It's my mind that is still wearing pajamas and perhaps that is where the conflict begins. I am fucking exhausted and I honestly believe that there is not a soul on earth that understands where I am coming from. Try as he may, my husband doesn't get it and he substitutes his confusion with anger. I don't do anger so I just shut up and stay quiet. I certainly am not talking to my daughter about this and I don't have any girlfriends to call up and bitch about my fucked up life.
So here I am.
I told my husband this morning that I am a really fucked up person and it is really hard to live. His response was to yell at me that I'm not fucked up. Right. Everyone he meets hears voices, sees people who aren't there, and wishes they could carve the feeling part of their brain right out of their skull. Right. I'm definitely not fucked up.
Love him.
But seriously, I'm tired. I walk a mental high wire, balancing with hate in one hand and sorrow in the other. And then I crash with only my pretend friends to catch me. The reality of my horrors catches up with me on occasion and now is one of those times. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can barely think. The Shelter is screaming and I can't help those babies enough. I am getting that familiar feeling that I am not the one made for this job.
What this boils down to is that I hate my parents. I hate what they did and I hate what they allowed. That hate is consuming me and I feel myself getting angry so I turn the hatred on myself. It is easier to hate me. It is safer.
Until I run out of room for cutting.
And I'm there; I have no more hidden skin available. This is usually where I retreat deep inside but I'm not OK accepting that this time. Problem is, I don't know where to go.
My friend is making a raging comeback. Yippee.
I do not know exactly what has brought this on but I am knocked down, sideways and can't get up depressed. Those irritating Cymbalta commercials showing depressed people sucking at living? That's me minus roaming around aimlessly in sweatpants because I don't wear sweatpants.
I just stay in my pajamas.
I don't have the luxury of sleeping the day away or even lying in bed with my eyes open praying that a spontaneous lobotomy will occur. I have a kid, I have a job, I have judo, gymnastics, and swim team to attend, and I have a rather important (to me) husband who occasionally would like to see me out of pajamas and showered with a smile on my face. It's a rough life these days.
The thing is, I do shower, smile and dress nicely. It's my mind that is still wearing pajamas and perhaps that is where the conflict begins. I am fucking exhausted and I honestly believe that there is not a soul on earth that understands where I am coming from. Try as he may, my husband doesn't get it and he substitutes his confusion with anger. I don't do anger so I just shut up and stay quiet. I certainly am not talking to my daughter about this and I don't have any girlfriends to call up and bitch about my fucked up life.
So here I am.
I told my husband this morning that I am a really fucked up person and it is really hard to live. His response was to yell at me that I'm not fucked up. Right. Everyone he meets hears voices, sees people who aren't there, and wishes they could carve the feeling part of their brain right out of their skull. Right. I'm definitely not fucked up.
Love him.
But seriously, I'm tired. I walk a mental high wire, balancing with hate in one hand and sorrow in the other. And then I crash with only my pretend friends to catch me. The reality of my horrors catches up with me on occasion and now is one of those times. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can barely think. The Shelter is screaming and I can't help those babies enough. I am getting that familiar feeling that I am not the one made for this job.
What this boils down to is that I hate my parents. I hate what they did and I hate what they allowed. That hate is consuming me and I feel myself getting angry so I turn the hatred on myself. It is easier to hate me. It is safer.
Until I run out of room for cutting.
And I'm there; I have no more hidden skin available. This is usually where I retreat deep inside but I'm not OK accepting that this time. Problem is, I don't know where to go.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Lost
I get lost. In my own head.
According to my husband, I have been alarmingly quiet lately. I don't mean to. Really. It just happens.
After a screaming match culminating with said husband telling me to get the fuck out of my head; I told him that I am lost in the darkness of my voices.
I have my friends. Best friends that I have had for years. Our friendships have endured the well-worn time and lately I have been spending an increasing amount of time with them. While I read, sew, crochet, quilt, and even sleep, they are there and we talk. They are my comrades in a perpetual war; one that never stops, one that has wounds that never heal just right. They know me and they understand me.
But they are not real. And that makes me weird and quiet.
I have nothing audible to say. My voice is locked inside my thoughts, my hurts, my scars. I hurt but how does one verbalize horror? Horror in the movies is simply expressed in screams both silent and audible, twisted faces, running, backing into a corner, all until one is consumed completely by the evil.
To say that I am scared is an insult. I am terrified. I am haunted. I live in horror. I have joked before about what kind of writer I could be and I always conclude that I would be one hell of a horror author. I love Stephen King yet I can read very few of his books because ironically, they scare me. However, when I can, I have to wonder what happened to him? Horror does not come naturally to most human minds.
I am struggling at this moment. What I wrote in my previous post has sent me reeling. It is horror in black and white. Black and white that is vivid color in my memory because it is my life. These silent times are when depression grows taller and wraps its dense, dark grip around my mind, my body, my eyes. The darkness is in the corner of my eyes, just out of sight, no matter where I look.
I paint a smile on and talk to people all day long. But in those same dark corners on my eyes I have to wonder what if they only knew. And if they did know would they be as lost as me?
According to my husband, I have been alarmingly quiet lately. I don't mean to. Really. It just happens.
After a screaming match culminating with said husband telling me to get the fuck out of my head; I told him that I am lost in the darkness of my voices.
I have my friends. Best friends that I have had for years. Our friendships have endured the well-worn time and lately I have been spending an increasing amount of time with them. While I read, sew, crochet, quilt, and even sleep, they are there and we talk. They are my comrades in a perpetual war; one that never stops, one that has wounds that never heal just right. They know me and they understand me.
But they are not real. And that makes me weird and quiet.
I have nothing audible to say. My voice is locked inside my thoughts, my hurts, my scars. I hurt but how does one verbalize horror? Horror in the movies is simply expressed in screams both silent and audible, twisted faces, running, backing into a corner, all until one is consumed completely by the evil.
To say that I am scared is an insult. I am terrified. I am haunted. I live in horror. I have joked before about what kind of writer I could be and I always conclude that I would be one hell of a horror author. I love Stephen King yet I can read very few of his books because ironically, they scare me. However, when I can, I have to wonder what happened to him? Horror does not come naturally to most human minds.
I am struggling at this moment. What I wrote in my previous post has sent me reeling. It is horror in black and white. Black and white that is vivid color in my memory because it is my life. These silent times are when depression grows taller and wraps its dense, dark grip around my mind, my body, my eyes. The darkness is in the corner of my eyes, just out of sight, no matter where I look.
I paint a smile on and talk to people all day long. But in those same dark corners on my eyes I have to wonder what if they only knew. And if they did know would they be as lost as me?
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Angels
*I wrote this along with Nobody. We share this experience, with her carrying the bulk of the hurt, so it's only right to let her write and share her part as well*
Dead angels.
I have heard that screamed every day and night for years.
There are three of them. Three dead angels. I was bad; a whore to be exact. Tiny orange pills were to keep me safe. Green ones gave my body a break. I did not take the pills like I should have. They made me sick.
After one dead angel I was supervised. I became the master of the hidden pill. A bitter taste swelling under my tongue was worth the deception of a calm stomach. I didn't really understand the mechanics of the orange and green. Had I known, perhaps the nausea would have made sense.
Sinner... whore... murderer... hell... bloody images...
Their words, their signs, their chants, their pictures; they seared my young heart. Perched on a metal chair, next to my angry mother, I really had no idea what to expect. The room was filled with other anxious women, a few boyfriends, out of date magazines, and somehow all eyes followed a crooked path to me. I did not belong. I was just a kid with a really big secret.
It was my turn as I blindly followed a nurse behind a swinging door. With a hushed and hateful whisper my mother sent me off alone.
You disgust me... I know. Me too.
In another metal chair I said that I understood what had happened and what was going to happen. My mother's hurried signature allowed them to take care of my problem. No one seemed to care how old I was and no one ever wondered how I got into this mess. They knew what I had known for years. I was a whore, no questions asked.
Two dead angels later, I knew what was going on. Tired of metal chairs, The Christians, flimsy gowns, and whispered assumptions, I hid this one. With no real plan I dressed a little bigger and prayed that something would save me. And save the angel.
His wandering eyes and hands caught me this time. She refused to take me. She refused to be humiliated again. It was his turn.
This time it was different. He was caring and concerned. He rubbed my back and I was scared. This angel was older and this was not as easy. Pain... more bleeding... heavier sedation... stay home from school... I pretended not to hear these medical suggestions.
Quietly the room began to shift. The walls began to twist and soon I did not mind the flimsy gown, the bright lamp, or the gasping machine. I was not alone this time. He stood next to me and stroked my hair. I closed my eyes and another angel died.
In the car, we did not go home. I waited in the car and he checked us into a motel. Relieved that I did not have to go back to school this time, I closed my eyes again and woke up in a musty room, naked on a tortured bed.
He was sitting next to me and as my eyes focused, I could squarely see the reason we were there. He stroked my face and placed his hand upon my cramping stomach. The warmth of his hand felt good against my pain. He pressed harder and leaned in closer. The care had left his eyes and though I searched, all I could find was lust and selfishness. I wanted to go back to school.
I closed my eyes again and wished for more sedation.
*I(Nobody) open my eyes and he is fucking me. He likes the sloppy remnants of the day. In and out until his eye squint and lurch up into his head. Bastard. He fucks us up and now this. I fucking hate him. I am Nobody and I have taken her place. Enough is enough and now he gets to deal with me.
He is finished as he withdraws and with a sneer he says that he doesn't have to worry about knocking us up. What a nice day for him. I feel like shit so I close my eyes to rest.
I awake to find his stubby hands running up and down the body. I try to ignore the pain but it is not going to go away. In he is as I wince and grit my teeth with pain. He thrusts harder and I don't know how long I am going to be able to hang on. With my hands I twist the scratchy sheets to cling to something. In a quickened moment he is out as I feel the body's insides collapse into the void he left.
In one more moment his face is buried between our legs as he forces them further apart to make more room for his bastard body. He is there, at the near-center of the pain. We aren't the filthy one; he is. I am becoming more and more upset. I don't do upset but this is just fucking awful. New secrets are being born today, those that I will have to keep for myself.
My mind drifts away as he continues his play. I don't understand the point of this or what pleasure he is getting. He is a freak and I want him to stop. And now, as if he heard my thoughts, he raises up and I am horrified at the sight of what is on his lips. I raise up on my elbows and dig my heels into the lumpy bed only to escape into the headboard. He crawls forward and leans over and towards me. He forces his face upon mine, lips to my quivering lips, and he thrusts his putrid tongue into my mouth.
I feel as though we will suffocate and I begin to hope we will. I twist my head to get away and that makes him fight even harder. After minutes of eternity, he pulls away. Hot tears are streaming down my face and I have lost my cool. I have failed her. He sits back on his heels and smiles a bloody smile. I smear my tears away as he leans in again.
As his lips near mine again, he tells me what I already know.
Taste your baby...
Fuck him.
Dead angels.
I have heard that screamed every day and night for years.
There are three of them. Three dead angels. I was bad; a whore to be exact. Tiny orange pills were to keep me safe. Green ones gave my body a break. I did not take the pills like I should have. They made me sick.
After one dead angel I was supervised. I became the master of the hidden pill. A bitter taste swelling under my tongue was worth the deception of a calm stomach. I didn't really understand the mechanics of the orange and green. Had I known, perhaps the nausea would have made sense.
Sinner... whore... murderer... hell... bloody images...
Their words, their signs, their chants, their pictures; they seared my young heart. Perched on a metal chair, next to my angry mother, I really had no idea what to expect. The room was filled with other anxious women, a few boyfriends, out of date magazines, and somehow all eyes followed a crooked path to me. I did not belong. I was just a kid with a really big secret.
It was my turn as I blindly followed a nurse behind a swinging door. With a hushed and hateful whisper my mother sent me off alone.
You disgust me... I know. Me too.
In another metal chair I said that I understood what had happened and what was going to happen. My mother's hurried signature allowed them to take care of my problem. No one seemed to care how old I was and no one ever wondered how I got into this mess. They knew what I had known for years. I was a whore, no questions asked.
Two dead angels later, I knew what was going on. Tired of metal chairs, The Christians, flimsy gowns, and whispered assumptions, I hid this one. With no real plan I dressed a little bigger and prayed that something would save me. And save the angel.
His wandering eyes and hands caught me this time. She refused to take me. She refused to be humiliated again. It was his turn.
This time it was different. He was caring and concerned. He rubbed my back and I was scared. This angel was older and this was not as easy. Pain... more bleeding... heavier sedation... stay home from school... I pretended not to hear these medical suggestions.
Quietly the room began to shift. The walls began to twist and soon I did not mind the flimsy gown, the bright lamp, or the gasping machine. I was not alone this time. He stood next to me and stroked my hair. I closed my eyes and another angel died.
In the car, we did not go home. I waited in the car and he checked us into a motel. Relieved that I did not have to go back to school this time, I closed my eyes again and woke up in a musty room, naked on a tortured bed.
He was sitting next to me and as my eyes focused, I could squarely see the reason we were there. He stroked my face and placed his hand upon my cramping stomach. The warmth of his hand felt good against my pain. He pressed harder and leaned in closer. The care had left his eyes and though I searched, all I could find was lust and selfishness. I wanted to go back to school.
I closed my eyes again and wished for more sedation.
*I(Nobody) open my eyes and he is fucking me. He likes the sloppy remnants of the day. In and out until his eye squint and lurch up into his head. Bastard. He fucks us up and now this. I fucking hate him. I am Nobody and I have taken her place. Enough is enough and now he gets to deal with me.
He is finished as he withdraws and with a sneer he says that he doesn't have to worry about knocking us up. What a nice day for him. I feel like shit so I close my eyes to rest.
I awake to find his stubby hands running up and down the body. I try to ignore the pain but it is not going to go away. In he is as I wince and grit my teeth with pain. He thrusts harder and I don't know how long I am going to be able to hang on. With my hands I twist the scratchy sheets to cling to something. In a quickened moment he is out as I feel the body's insides collapse into the void he left.
In one more moment his face is buried between our legs as he forces them further apart to make more room for his bastard body. He is there, at the near-center of the pain. We aren't the filthy one; he is. I am becoming more and more upset. I don't do upset but this is just fucking awful. New secrets are being born today, those that I will have to keep for myself.
My mind drifts away as he continues his play. I don't understand the point of this or what pleasure he is getting. He is a freak and I want him to stop. And now, as if he heard my thoughts, he raises up and I am horrified at the sight of what is on his lips. I raise up on my elbows and dig my heels into the lumpy bed only to escape into the headboard. He crawls forward and leans over and towards me. He forces his face upon mine, lips to my quivering lips, and he thrusts his putrid tongue into my mouth.
I feel as though we will suffocate and I begin to hope we will. I twist my head to get away and that makes him fight even harder. After minutes of eternity, he pulls away. Hot tears are streaming down my face and I have lost my cool. I have failed her. He sits back on his heels and smiles a bloody smile. I smear my tears away as he leans in again.
As his lips near mine again, he tells me what I already know.
Taste your baby...
Fuck him.
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