I am tired. I live in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation.
get more sleep... that's the recommendation.
Sure. No problem. As if I enjoy defying sleep patterns. I don't stay up all night having a party by myself. I stay awake because it's terrifying to sleep.
I close my eyes. I feel my head on the pillow; my hands touch the sheets. It's dark and my heart starts to pound. The bed begins to spin. My head screams and my chest aches as I wait. Wait for nothing. I am waiting for a dead man who lives on so vividly in my mind. Wait for the night where he does not appear.
I know that a few hours a night isn't good. It's also not good to sleep in the corner on the floor. I do both with freakish mastery.
I go through periods of time where I can tolerate sleeping in a bed. But I can't stomach it right now. So while my anxiety is racing, I wait for my husband to fall asleep. And then I move. Corners are safe. And the floor isn't a bed.
Bad things happen on beds.
After a few hours of hard fought sleep my corner is awake as he approaches in the dark. I stand and slip out of the room where my husband never wakes. I turn on the lights as the dead man begins to fade. He wishes me good night and with a wink he tells me he will see me soon.
I clean. I read. I write. I draw. I make my husband coffee and pretend that I haven't been up all night. The early light melts the terror as dreadful relief lets me know another night has passed with a new day on the brink.
My eyes are clouding with that familiar ache. A dark periphery is depression's single warning. I fight to keep my eyes open; to keep my vision clear. But heavy eyelids pull the sadness in as I contemplate the Sleep.
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Injured
A little cut. A little blood. A little relief. A screaming proof of the injured.
Burn the pads of fingertips with a graze of heat. They lose the painful sensation of memory's touch.
Touch reality and get burned. Burn with a hot whisper and reality loses touch.
The swirls of unique prints become smooth. Aptly numb to feel invisible with no identifying touch.
A burnt sheen of skin just glossed enough as proof you are alive.
It doesn't last forever. But long enough to freely move until the psychic pain resolves. The subtle trick of the injured.
Thin lines of red promise a story beneath the scab.
Numb swirls go unnoticed because some stories should not be told.
Burn the pads of fingertips with a graze of heat. They lose the painful sensation of memory's touch.
Touch reality and get burned. Burn with a hot whisper and reality loses touch.
The swirls of unique prints become smooth. Aptly numb to feel invisible with no identifying touch.
A burnt sheen of skin just glossed enough as proof you are alive.
It doesn't last forever. But long enough to freely move until the psychic pain resolves. The subtle trick of the injured.
Thin lines of red promise a story beneath the scab.
Numb swirls go unnoticed because some stories should not be told.
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.
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
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.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Writing
It is interesting what a life of its own this blog has taken on. I originally began writing here because my husband continually found my written journals in the house, read them, and then became very angry over the content. Anger is not something I handle well.
So here I began to write.
I have taken a few breaks here. Once because it became too hard to spell this shit out; it hurt too much. And another break because of some internal conflicts I had within myself. Those conflicts led me to this conclusion of honesty.
Writing from an honest place has been very freeing. Some of the secrets I have held close, I have shared here. Those held even closer, I have not. Yet. When I write I am writing from raw place. There is no order, rhyme or reason to my posts. It just is. I do not see that I am any sort of writer simply because I sensor and edit what I write very little. I write for myself; to purge the poison I feel inside.
I struggle with self-esteem; I have very little of it. I walk around thinking "if they only knew...", positive that "they" would hate me, despise me, be shocked or even disgusted by me. However, I have learned my lesson here and it is the opposite of what I believed I would learn. I have not had one hateful comment here or even a single hateful email. The things that horrified me the most, horrified me for the wrong reasons. I am not all that horrible. The kindness shown by others here is amazing to me. Perhaps it doesn't surprise the average person who believes that generally people are good. However, that has not been my life experience. But that is changing now.
The last surprise this blog has revealed is the help and awareness it provides. Like other survivors, I have asked "why" over and over and never received an answer. I still do not have a complete answer but I am beginning to believe that what I endured might possibly help another person. Selfishly, I cannot say that it makes it all worth it though.
Maybe someday.
So here I write. I have good days and I have bad days. Some words are what I think and wrestle with. Other words are spilling what has happened; previously unspeakable words. Writing is a way that we all communicate but there is a certain power in the spoken and audible word. I have been encouraged to read outloud what I write here. Verbalizing what I write scares me. But just as writing has been an exercise in freedom; my wish is that speaking these words will take the sting and power out of the tragic while giving life to what is good and hopeful.
So here I began to write.
I have taken a few breaks here. Once because it became too hard to spell this shit out; it hurt too much. And another break because of some internal conflicts I had within myself. Those conflicts led me to this conclusion of honesty.
Writing from an honest place has been very freeing. Some of the secrets I have held close, I have shared here. Those held even closer, I have not. Yet. When I write I am writing from raw place. There is no order, rhyme or reason to my posts. It just is. I do not see that I am any sort of writer simply because I sensor and edit what I write very little. I write for myself; to purge the poison I feel inside.
I struggle with self-esteem; I have very little of it. I walk around thinking "if they only knew...", positive that "they" would hate me, despise me, be shocked or even disgusted by me. However, I have learned my lesson here and it is the opposite of what I believed I would learn. I have not had one hateful comment here or even a single hateful email. The things that horrified me the most, horrified me for the wrong reasons. I am not all that horrible. The kindness shown by others here is amazing to me. Perhaps it doesn't surprise the average person who believes that generally people are good. However, that has not been my life experience. But that is changing now.
The last surprise this blog has revealed is the help and awareness it provides. Like other survivors, I have asked "why" over and over and never received an answer. I still do not have a complete answer but I am beginning to believe that what I endured might possibly help another person. Selfishly, I cannot say that it makes it all worth it though.
Maybe someday.
So here I write. I have good days and I have bad days. Some words are what I think and wrestle with. Other words are spilling what has happened; previously unspeakable words. Writing is a way that we all communicate but there is a certain power in the spoken and audible word. I have been encouraged to read outloud what I write here. Verbalizing what I write scares me. But just as writing has been an exercise in freedom; my wish is that speaking these words will take the sting and power out of the tragic while giving life to what is good and hopeful.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Good
I am making a concerted effort to look for the good in my life and embrace it rather than dreading when that good will come to an end. Pain has been such a staple in my life that sometimes I actually feel more comfortable in pain than I do in celebrating the good. I am much like the career prisoners who cannot thrive in society once they are released from prison so they quickly break the law so they can return to their home and their comfort zone which is behind bars. I seek the pain in my and live behind those bars because my comfort zone is surviving rather than thriving. If I can't find that pain then I self-destruct.
I remember when I was a new mother. I was terrified but bolstered by that fear so I set my mind to my and my daughter's survival. I did the same in my first marriage; I survived the abuse of my ex-husband and never looked further than just existing. I survived my childhood which was an accomplishment. I did thrive in some areas but that was simply how I coped and sought approval. I have never really looked past surviving and I am missing out on a lot.
I have good in my life and instead of being terrified of losing it, I am going to embrace it while I can. I have a wonderful husband and a beautiful daughter. Yes, loss will come but how much more painful will that loss be if I never enjoyed the time I had? And honestly, I am stealing from my family by simply surviving instead of giving all of myself to them.
Now, I know that I cannot ignore my past and the memories either but I am beginning to realize that facing those things will be a little easier if I have a buoy of good to hang on to when things get rough. There is more pain to come but there is even more good, I just have to look for it.
I remember when I was a new mother. I was terrified but bolstered by that fear so I set my mind to my and my daughter's survival. I did the same in my first marriage; I survived the abuse of my ex-husband and never looked further than just existing. I survived my childhood which was an accomplishment. I did thrive in some areas but that was simply how I coped and sought approval. I have never really looked past surviving and I am missing out on a lot.
I have good in my life and instead of being terrified of losing it, I am going to embrace it while I can. I have a wonderful husband and a beautiful daughter. Yes, loss will come but how much more painful will that loss be if I never enjoyed the time I had? And honestly, I am stealing from my family by simply surviving instead of giving all of myself to them.
Now, I know that I cannot ignore my past and the memories either but I am beginning to realize that facing those things will be a little easier if I have a buoy of good to hang on to when things get rough. There is more pain to come but there is even more good, I just have to look for it.
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