I'm not scared of It anymore.
It is not a mythical beast sent to conquer.
Don't get too close. It might be the end of you.
You are too close to It's risk. A sad statistic.
You are just like them. It will snatch you soon. He whispers this our one last time.
His familiar heaviness makes It real. The forbidden rhythm numbs the pain.
The only tears I cry are as his life drips with sticky shame.
Just like that. They are gone. It pulled them under. Freshly gone; we are left.
Like daggers he speaks. I have you all. To myself. Just like we always wanted.
Together; until It soils you too.
How might you do It?
Different than they.
Take my belt. And when you do It. Feel my final hands remove the life that only I could give.
I still have the belt. Well worn. A staple of my life.
The gatekeeper of his piercing.
The weapon fashioned making skin so raw.
Crammed away I hear It taunt. It teases with It's destiny.
I remain after him but his hold lives on in leather form.
Too afraid to touch It. His belt is my own It. The last connection.
My pieces. Myself. We beg to throw It away.
That belt. It. His final grip.
I can only hope that courage wins to turn It over. To will It gone. Forever.
Until It is just a distant, formless it.
Showing posts with label shame. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shame. Show all posts
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Contrast
I had "the talk" with my daughter yesterday. She's eight and has been asking a ton of questions over the past few months and I had a lot of catching up to do.
I have very much fallen down on the job... I have never called body parts anything. At all. I've never talked about normal functions of our bodies; especially what happens as we grow up.
I'm very uncomfortable with all of it. However, it wasn't the discomfort that I dreaded the most. I was so afraid that I would bring it up and it would reveal that something had happened to her. That was my worst fear.
If someone had sat me down at eight, I probably could have told them more than they knew as an adult. It would have been very clear that things were happening to me. Not surprising though, nothing was ever explained to me. It was demonstrated instead.
So when we started talking I was so relieved to hear that she knew virtually nothing other than a few details that she has picked up on from other kids and TV. I used a book to explain everything; books are my cure-all for anything I don't know how to do. Most of this topic, terms, body parts, etc are upsetting and can flood me with bad memories. Thankfully the book kept me on track.
Everything was fine until she started asking me how old I was when I found out about all of this. I didn't know how to answer her. It had been such good conversations until then and I didn't want to taint her own memory with my garbage bags. The best answer I knew to give was that I didn't remember. We finished the conversation and went about our day.
I put on a smile for everyone but on the inside there was a deep and burning grief in the pit of my stomach that has yet to leave. In trying to do the right things as a parent I often get blindsided by the very simple, very wrong actions of my parents. And it hurts.
I would be lying if I said that I don't get jealous of my daughter at times. I know that's a terrible thing to think let alone say but it makes me wonder what was so bad about me. I want to do the best that I can by her yet my parents couldn't muster much more than not killing me.
It's an intolerable contrast that I can't seem to wrap my mind around.
My daughter is a good kid with a kind heart. She can also be very challenging. But even at her worst I can't imagine doing what they did. And that makes me wonder just how horrible I must have been.
My parents were bad people and I loved them. I still do. So how can my daughter be such a good person coming from such a bad person for a mother?
Another intolerable contrast except this one is one that I can't wrap my heart around.
I have very much fallen down on the job... I have never called body parts anything. At all. I've never talked about normal functions of our bodies; especially what happens as we grow up.
I'm very uncomfortable with all of it. However, it wasn't the discomfort that I dreaded the most. I was so afraid that I would bring it up and it would reveal that something had happened to her. That was my worst fear.
If someone had sat me down at eight, I probably could have told them more than they knew as an adult. It would have been very clear that things were happening to me. Not surprising though, nothing was ever explained to me. It was demonstrated instead.
So when we started talking I was so relieved to hear that she knew virtually nothing other than a few details that she has picked up on from other kids and TV. I used a book to explain everything; books are my cure-all for anything I don't know how to do. Most of this topic, terms, body parts, etc are upsetting and can flood me with bad memories. Thankfully the book kept me on track.
Everything was fine until she started asking me how old I was when I found out about all of this. I didn't know how to answer her. It had been such good conversations until then and I didn't want to taint her own memory with my garbage bags. The best answer I knew to give was that I didn't remember. We finished the conversation and went about our day.
I put on a smile for everyone but on the inside there was a deep and burning grief in the pit of my stomach that has yet to leave. In trying to do the right things as a parent I often get blindsided by the very simple, very wrong actions of my parents. And it hurts.
I would be lying if I said that I don't get jealous of my daughter at times. I know that's a terrible thing to think let alone say but it makes me wonder what was so bad about me. I want to do the best that I can by her yet my parents couldn't muster much more than not killing me.
It's an intolerable contrast that I can't seem to wrap my mind around.
My daughter is a good kid with a kind heart. She can also be very challenging. But even at her worst I can't imagine doing what they did. And that makes me wonder just how horrible I must have been.
My parents were bad people and I loved them. I still do. So how can my daughter be such a good person coming from such a bad person for a mother?
Another intolerable contrast except this one is one that I can't wrap my heart around.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Intersect
I see him coming and there is no place for me to go. The one way out is the way that he will walk in.
I can smell him twenty feet away.
Through glass.
Through a door.
The room begins to spin and collapse around me. I tell myself that it's not him; that would be impossible. My mind. My nose. My body. They all betray me.
He walks through my door. I offer a simple handshake. I hope that a brief touch will flood my shattered mind with the calm of reality.
That's not him. He means no harm. And then my reassurance turns into frenzied questions.
A handshake turns into a hug. Too much contact as his cologne seeps into my every sense. Glass shatters as my mind spins in sync with the room.
A painful haze fills the room. My vision narrows into a tiny point. A push. And then a shove. Obscenities spewed propel me backwards as a corner of the room folds me in as protection.
My back slides down the wall as I crouch to hide my face. The two walls meet and wrap their arms around me. I rock as I listen for the silence. The calm.
But instead as the haze lifts I hear the racking sobs of a wounded someone.
Tears like razors spill into my protective hands. They cut my hands as each one drops. I shake and pound my head into the walls.
Those sobs are mine and I can hardly breathe. I squeeze my eyes so tight to stop the tears. They subside but I do not open them afraid that the monster is still there.
A voice calls my name.
Another warns not to touch me.
One eye opens. And then the other. I shiver as I see the worried faces.
No shards of glass. No wounded hands. His smell still lingers but he is gone. The shrinking room has expanded to an endless space of shame.
Another hand offers me a way out of my corner. I brush away my tears but my face burns hot with shame.
It has finally happened. My past has found a way to intersect with my public life.
I can smell him twenty feet away.
Through glass.
Through a door.
The room begins to spin and collapse around me. I tell myself that it's not him; that would be impossible. My mind. My nose. My body. They all betray me.
He walks through my door. I offer a simple handshake. I hope that a brief touch will flood my shattered mind with the calm of reality.
That's not him. He means no harm. And then my reassurance turns into frenzied questions.
A handshake turns into a hug. Too much contact as his cologne seeps into my every sense. Glass shatters as my mind spins in sync with the room.
A painful haze fills the room. My vision narrows into a tiny point. A push. And then a shove. Obscenities spewed propel me backwards as a corner of the room folds me in as protection.
My back slides down the wall as I crouch to hide my face. The two walls meet and wrap their arms around me. I rock as I listen for the silence. The calm.
But instead as the haze lifts I hear the racking sobs of a wounded someone.
Tears like razors spill into my protective hands. They cut my hands as each one drops. I shake and pound my head into the walls.
Those sobs are mine and I can hardly breathe. I squeeze my eyes so tight to stop the tears. They subside but I do not open them afraid that the monster is still there.
A voice calls my name.
Another warns not to touch me.
One eye opens. And then the other. I shiver as I see the worried faces.
No shards of glass. No wounded hands. His smell still lingers but he is gone. The shrinking room has expanded to an endless space of shame.
Another hand offers me a way out of my corner. I brush away my tears but my face burns hot with shame.
It has finally happened. My past has found a way to intersect with my public life.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Skeletons
Two steps forward. One step back. Slam the door on the weeping skeleton.
My last post was horrible to write. I still cringe when I attempt to read it. I have wanted to delete it but I know that wouldn't do much good. It still happened. It still hurts. I am still deeply ashamed.
Shame is a funny thing. Sometimes I can push it to a corner of my mind. Other times I cannot even wrap my mind around it to find a place for it to rest.
Sometimes I wonder if processing and grappling with every memory is meant to be. What would be the harm of burying the horror if a larger amount has been handled?
Everyone has skeletons. So what if mine are a little more fucked than usual.
My last post was horrible to write. I still cringe when I attempt to read it. I have wanted to delete it but I know that wouldn't do much good. It still happened. It still hurts. I am still deeply ashamed.
Shame is a funny thing. Sometimes I can push it to a corner of my mind. Other times I cannot even wrap my mind around it to find a place for it to rest.
Sometimes I wonder if processing and grappling with every memory is meant to be. What would be the harm of burying the horror if a larger amount has been handled?
Everyone has skeletons. So what if mine are a little more fucked than usual.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Shame
I take it all back. The part about not being bad. The part about not being dirty. The part about them being bad.
It's all me.
I wanted to believe that I'm none of the horrible things they said I was but the actions do not lie. I can normally write about what hurts but I'm too ashamed to even do that. When it appears in black and white it is real and ripe to be judged.
If I lock it in my head then it happened to the others. Not me.
I used to believe that anger was the worst emotion. I was wrong about that too.
It's shame. And it makes you feel less than human.
It's all me.
I wanted to believe that I'm none of the horrible things they said I was but the actions do not lie. I can normally write about what hurts but I'm too ashamed to even do that. When it appears in black and white it is real and ripe to be judged.
If I lock it in my head then it happened to the others. Not me.
I used to believe that anger was the worst emotion. I was wrong about that too.
It's shame. And it makes you feel less than human.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Lump
I find myself tangled in the lump of my throat. Trapped somewhere between my mind of logic and my twisted and aching heart I am dizzy with conflict. I am worth something. I am worth nothing. I am worth more than words can offer.
That familiar lump squeezes and twists my weary emotions as I grasp for a momentary breath of logic. A thought that reassures what kindness says; an understanding that I am so much more than what they said. But in that moment their words, their actions; they come crashing down on me as the lump threatens to engulf me.
Pain and bitter bile wash over me and the choices seem so non-existent. Why else would their hatred spiral? Why else would a child so young bear such deep and burdened scars?
It must be because I am worth so little.
The secrets that we shared. The secrets that I keep. These are the fuel to ignite a burning lump of torture. I struggle to move on and I struggle to let go while the lump clutches its tiny treasure. How do I feel my worth when all I feel is the pain wiping away even the smallest doubt that they might have been wrong?
I want to breathe. I want to feel the full capacity of worth expand until that lump of disbelief is pushed aside for good. I want to exhale until I know that they were wrong.
That familiar lump squeezes and twists my weary emotions as I grasp for a momentary breath of logic. A thought that reassures what kindness says; an understanding that I am so much more than what they said. But in that moment their words, their actions; they come crashing down on me as the lump threatens to engulf me.
Pain and bitter bile wash over me and the choices seem so non-existent. Why else would their hatred spiral? Why else would a child so young bear such deep and burdened scars?
It must be because I am worth so little.
The secrets that we shared. The secrets that I keep. These are the fuel to ignite a burning lump of torture. I struggle to move on and I struggle to let go while the lump clutches its tiny treasure. How do I feel my worth when all I feel is the pain wiping away even the smallest doubt that they might have been wrong?
I want to breathe. I want to feel the full capacity of worth expand until that lump of disbelief is pushed aside for good. I want to exhale until I know that they were wrong.
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.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Vices
I started this blog with the need to be honest. Good or bad. I write a lot about my past, my secrets, my hurts, and a little about my feelings.
I have a present tense life as well. However, my present has always been wrapped up in my past. And my future, well I honestly could not imagine one. I have never been one to even dream of a day down the road. I grew up living day to day. Even moment by moment.
My father's death has changed a lot. I held my breath with every phone call, knock at the door, even a familiar cologne or voice. I don't have to do this anymore and it is the strangest feeling. I have a present life. And possibly even a future.
So now as I look at my present I see that it is a tangled mess of feelings, numbness, bad habits and addictions. I have never cared about these things before. Because I had no future.
Here is the ugly truth. My husband told me that I am an alcoholic the other night. I told him that he was full of shit. After discussing my drinking habits in therapy last night I asked my therapist if I was one and without a taking a breath or even a pause his answer was "yes".
Nice.
And another ugly truth. I eat too much. I guess that's called binging. And then I throw up. Purging. And then I won't eat at all. And after that I will binge again. I have done this for years. My food issues run very deep. Food is one of the earliest ways that I remember my parents abusing me.
And yet another. I cut. That one is pretty straightforward.
I know that all these things need to stop. They hurt me. Some worse than others. And worse, these things hurt the people who love me. But I would be lying if I said that replacing these habits doesn't scare me shitless.
Food. Alcohol. A blade. These things have been constants in my life. My friends. What I run to when I'm sad, hurting, numb, lonely. Even happy. So I am looking for some new constants. Healthy ones.
I don't really know what I want by writing this. I suppose I just want to be honest about where I am and where I need to be headed.
I have a present tense life as well. However, my present has always been wrapped up in my past. And my future, well I honestly could not imagine one. I have never been one to even dream of a day down the road. I grew up living day to day. Even moment by moment.
My father's death has changed a lot. I held my breath with every phone call, knock at the door, even a familiar cologne or voice. I don't have to do this anymore and it is the strangest feeling. I have a present life. And possibly even a future.
So now as I look at my present I see that it is a tangled mess of feelings, numbness, bad habits and addictions. I have never cared about these things before. Because I had no future.
Here is the ugly truth. My husband told me that I am an alcoholic the other night. I told him that he was full of shit. After discussing my drinking habits in therapy last night I asked my therapist if I was one and without a taking a breath or even a pause his answer was "yes".
Nice.
And another ugly truth. I eat too much. I guess that's called binging. And then I throw up. Purging. And then I won't eat at all. And after that I will binge again. I have done this for years. My food issues run very deep. Food is one of the earliest ways that I remember my parents abusing me.
And yet another. I cut. That one is pretty straightforward.
I know that all these things need to stop. They hurt me. Some worse than others. And worse, these things hurt the people who love me. But I would be lying if I said that replacing these habits doesn't scare me shitless.
Food. Alcohol. A blade. These things have been constants in my life. My friends. What I run to when I'm sad, hurting, numb, lonely. Even happy. So I am looking for some new constants. Healthy ones.
I don't really know what I want by writing this. I suppose I just want to be honest about where I am and where I need to be headed.
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.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Enmeshed
en·mesh (n-msh) also im·mesh (m-)
tr.v. en·meshed also in·meshed, en·mesh·ing also in·mesh·ing, en·mesh·es also in·mesh·es
To entangle, involve, or catch in or as if in a mesh.
Used in a sentence: Shattered is enmeshed in a complex web of lust, love, and abuse.
Dear Ruth commented on how deeply embedded my parents are in every aspect of my being. And possibly more so than the typical adult child. This thought caught me falling off balance it wasn't until I fell to the ground that I took a hard look at the truth of this idea.
And she was right.
My sense of normal has always been skewed. Well meaning people always insist to me that there is no "normal" and I have always smiled and accepted their offering of kindness.
However, I'm finally going to have to flatly refuse that well meant advice because what sense of normal I have always had is certainly no where close to the typical yet non-existent normal. Ruth brought this thought to the surface when I had to look at the possibility that in many ways, I was more connected to my parents than the typical adult. Just like I used to think that everyone heard voices in their heads; I also thought that this enmeshment was normal.
But it is not. Not even close.
I lived and died by my parents hands. I starved and was fed at their discretion. I was his companion and her demise. I was his lover and her deepest competition.
And all these roles were diametrically opposed to the single role that should have existed. Parent and child.
It is creepy, weird, dirty, strange and wrong but my father was my first lover. And I use the word lover very loosely but to a daughter starving and begging for affection, that is exactly what he was. A sexual bond existed between us that served him well to emit his constant control. For many who read here, one can probably equate this bond to your first love; they are someone you have moved on from but you never quite forget.
My problem is that I never really moved on from him. He was unforgettable. He cast his net wide and though I struggled I never was quite free. I was trapped in his warped lust because I carried a bond of both a child to a parent but also a bond that intimate partners share. But now he has moved on from me. And I would be lying if I said that I didn't feel a deep twinge of impure loss.
No wonder I am so very fucked up and confused. Every single day has been a struggle lately. My only solace is that this is finally over and with each step I take I am walking out on this distorted love.
I hope.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Badness
I am learning there were two versions of truth.
His truth.
And then the truth.
Forgive me because none of this is black or white. Nothing is as it seems and this is so fucking confusing. Ever since I received this news I have had an overwhelming sense of guilt. Shame. In little kid terms... badness.
Small voices repeat... bad people get killed... he was bad... he was our dad... so we are bad... over and over and over. These are anxious words wrapped with fear. Fear that we are next. An irrational fear yet a real anxiety.
How could I be good yet come from them? I get that they were bad. Exceptionally bad. So how did I get here when badness raised me?
Bad little kids don't have parents... If you tell then you will get taken away... And then you won't have parents... Because you were bad.
And now we have no parents.
Quite honestly, I am lost. I pace the floors all night. My chest is full with pounding butterflies. I stare at the food on each plate. A cold sweat overcomes me with each police car I see. My mind wanders through each day waiting for that phone call. The call that makes this all official and I wonder how it will go. I wonder how I will react. And what I fear the most is that I will have no reaction whatsoever.
And in that lack of reaction, my badness will commence.
His truth.
And then the truth.
Forgive me because none of this is black or white. Nothing is as it seems and this is so fucking confusing. Ever since I received this news I have had an overwhelming sense of guilt. Shame. In little kid terms... badness.
Small voices repeat... bad people get killed... he was bad... he was our dad... so we are bad... over and over and over. These are anxious words wrapped with fear. Fear that we are next. An irrational fear yet a real anxiety.
How could I be good yet come from them? I get that they were bad. Exceptionally bad. So how did I get here when badness raised me?
Bad little kids don't have parents... If you tell then you will get taken away... And then you won't have parents... Because you were bad.
And now we have no parents.
Quite honestly, I am lost. I pace the floors all night. My chest is full with pounding butterflies. I stare at the food on each plate. A cold sweat overcomes me with each police car I see. My mind wanders through each day waiting for that phone call. The call that makes this all official and I wonder how it will go. I wonder how I will react. And what I fear the most is that I will have no reaction whatsoever.
And in that lack of reaction, my badness will commence.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Orphan
It is funny how I just wrote about perfection and then I turn around and I'm getting smacked in the face with the unexpected, the uncontrollable, and a definite lack of perfection in my life. And this is the shit I couldn't control even if I wanted to.
I am back on the mental roller coaster of sorts; blindfolded and going backwards while refusing to throw my hands in the air because this is just not fun at all. I cannot write in great details right now but I will say that it appears that something has happened to my father. So sans the details, which are gory, I can write about how I feel.
I would be lying if I said that I wasn't unsettled. I am. In a big way. My head is full of screaming chatter and not one bit of that chatter agrees with the next refrain of chatter. I have always been conflicted over him and this is no different. There are those who love him and proclaim his innocence. There are those who hate him and wish this to be true. And there are plenty more who are just terrified about the situation all together.
As for me, I want it to be true. I want to be free of him and never have his thoughts cross my mind again. When I think, I feel very little. A lump of shame I suppose, because this is my father and I should not wish these things on anyone. And then a single frame of my own torture is smashed into the back of my eyes and I feel an overwhelming helplessness and pain. It appears that he finally got a taste of what he inflicted for so many years and I am at an emotional loss.
If this is true then I am an orphan. In legal terms I would be the sole survivor.
Survivor.
In the singular.
Game over.
I have watched my family fight its demons to the collective death.
I am the last one standing.
Did I win?
I am back on the mental roller coaster of sorts; blindfolded and going backwards while refusing to throw my hands in the air because this is just not fun at all. I cannot write in great details right now but I will say that it appears that something has happened to my father. So sans the details, which are gory, I can write about how I feel.
I would be lying if I said that I wasn't unsettled. I am. In a big way. My head is full of screaming chatter and not one bit of that chatter agrees with the next refrain of chatter. I have always been conflicted over him and this is no different. There are those who love him and proclaim his innocence. There are those who hate him and wish this to be true. And there are plenty more who are just terrified about the situation all together.
As for me, I want it to be true. I want to be free of him and never have his thoughts cross my mind again. When I think, I feel very little. A lump of shame I suppose, because this is my father and I should not wish these things on anyone. And then a single frame of my own torture is smashed into the back of my eyes and I feel an overwhelming helplessness and pain. It appears that he finally got a taste of what he inflicted for so many years and I am at an emotional loss.
If this is true then I am an orphan. In legal terms I would be the sole survivor.
Survivor.
In the singular.
Game over.
I have watched my family fight its demons to the collective death.
I am the last one standing.
Did I win?
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?
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Party
What is a blog in December without a cheery holiday post from a Christmas past?
My blog. Sorry.
I have spent the last several days attempting to conjure up even one sliver of a Christmas memory to smile and roll my eyes at. The bike I always wanted. The puppy in the bow-tied box. The impossible-to-find-toy found under our tree. The antics of out-laws and in-laws. Something. Anything. Nothing.
I can't remember a Christmas in my past; I just know that I have never enjoyed the holidays. The closest I come is in remembering a school party, candy canes, and trashy gifts.
I hate getting notes sent home from the teacher. Whatever is detailed, asked for, or is changing; those things will be ignored. My face red with shame, I will stand and explain to my teacher why the note was not followed and why I am unsigned, empty handed, or out of new guidelines. My parents are too busy to care or too unimpressed with me to help a kid be a productive member of a second grade class.
I am sitting in the carpool line and pinned to my shirt is a note on green paper asking for my contribution to the class Christmas party. Filled in the blank with curly teacher writing are the words candy canes. I like to eat paper and I would have been better off eating this note. I would be less hungry and my mother would have one less item to concern her hatred with.
Walking to the car, I pulled the note off the pin and crammed it in my uniform jumper pocket. I waited for the seemingly right time to ask... after my sister had presented her own classroom party request and had it approved. What better time?
I ran to my room to rescue that green note from a certain death in the washing machine. I took it to my mother and showed her my own request. Quickly she glanced and returned the note to its original creases. I received a conditional "yes".
Behave, keep your room clean, have good manners, don't talk back... these were the conditions pressed upon my behavior in order to receive my candy cane contribution.
The night before the party came and went. That morning, I asked my mother where my Christmas party requirements were and informed me that they were in my bag. Once at school, I opened my bag to find a smaller bag. Inside was one, single peppermint.
One fucking mint to share with my class.
Humiliated, I am sitting at my desk when I hear the morning announcements. The younger kids are having their parties first. There is my one chance. I twist and fret until the younger parties are finished. I ask to go to the restroom and slip into the other wing of the school. Happy kids are leaving hand in hand with their hurried parents. The classrooms are black as I step into each one to forage for my treats.
Digging through cold cups of hot chocolate, sticky red frosting, and squeezed small juice boxes, I find my treasures. Discarded candy canes. I carefully wipe each one off and will the broken ones whole again. I carefully stuff them in my pockets and repeat this process until I have twenty precious canes to share with my friends.
I race back to my own classroom but not before I peer into my sister's room. And there she is. My mother. Smiling, laughing, and enjoying my sister's Christmas party. I hate her at this specific moment.
I return to my seat only to linger a few minutes behind when the recess bell rings. With everyone gone, I retrieve the rescued candies from my pockets and place them on the table with all the other green notes fulfilled.
She didn't come to my party. She never said a word to me. I never said a word to her.
My blog. Sorry.
I have spent the last several days attempting to conjure up even one sliver of a Christmas memory to smile and roll my eyes at. The bike I always wanted. The puppy in the bow-tied box. The impossible-to-find-toy found under our tree. The antics of out-laws and in-laws. Something. Anything. Nothing.
I can't remember a Christmas in my past; I just know that I have never enjoyed the holidays. The closest I come is in remembering a school party, candy canes, and trashy gifts.
I hate getting notes sent home from the teacher. Whatever is detailed, asked for, or is changing; those things will be ignored. My face red with shame, I will stand and explain to my teacher why the note was not followed and why I am unsigned, empty handed, or out of new guidelines. My parents are too busy to care or too unimpressed with me to help a kid be a productive member of a second grade class.
I am sitting in the carpool line and pinned to my shirt is a note on green paper asking for my contribution to the class Christmas party. Filled in the blank with curly teacher writing are the words candy canes. I like to eat paper and I would have been better off eating this note. I would be less hungry and my mother would have one less item to concern her hatred with.
Walking to the car, I pulled the note off the pin and crammed it in my uniform jumper pocket. I waited for the seemingly right time to ask... after my sister had presented her own classroom party request and had it approved. What better time?
I ran to my room to rescue that green note from a certain death in the washing machine. I took it to my mother and showed her my own request. Quickly she glanced and returned the note to its original creases. I received a conditional "yes".
Behave, keep your room clean, have good manners, don't talk back... these were the conditions pressed upon my behavior in order to receive my candy cane contribution.
The night before the party came and went. That morning, I asked my mother where my Christmas party requirements were and informed me that they were in my bag. Once at school, I opened my bag to find a smaller bag. Inside was one, single peppermint.
One fucking mint to share with my class.
Humiliated, I am sitting at my desk when I hear the morning announcements. The younger kids are having their parties first. There is my one chance. I twist and fret until the younger parties are finished. I ask to go to the restroom and slip into the other wing of the school. Happy kids are leaving hand in hand with their hurried parents. The classrooms are black as I step into each one to forage for my treats.
Digging through cold cups of hot chocolate, sticky red frosting, and squeezed small juice boxes, I find my treasures. Discarded candy canes. I carefully wipe each one off and will the broken ones whole again. I carefully stuff them in my pockets and repeat this process until I have twenty precious canes to share with my friends.
I race back to my own classroom but not before I peer into my sister's room. And there she is. My mother. Smiling, laughing, and enjoying my sister's Christmas party. I hate her at this specific moment.
I return to my seat only to linger a few minutes behind when the recess bell rings. With everyone gone, I retrieve the rescued candies from my pockets and place them on the table with all the other green notes fulfilled.
She didn't come to my party. She never said a word to me. I never said a word to her.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Sorry
Good. God. Where to start? I said that I wanted to be honest here so here I go.
I am a perfectionist. Black and white are the boxes I have tried to stuff my feelings, my thoughts, and my life into. It's not working for me anymore.
I am far from perfect. Especially when it comes to being a mother.
I smile and say that I'm not angry but rather I am sad, depressed, tired, etc. Those feelings just sound more polite. But really, I am boiling over with anger, hatred, rage, and just pure poison.
This morning I fucked up. Today I reached the point where I truly was not sure that I could be a parent. Nice. My daughter is a cute little six year old with the vocabulary of a ten year old, and the mouthy sass of a teenager. Mornings before school are tough around our house. My husband leaves before we get up so it is me versus two beagles and a six year old. I lose most mornings.
In typical fashion my daughter fought me on what to wear, what to eat for breakfast and continued to sass me. I had been pretty patient but then I lost it. With the last words of back-talk, I turned around and asked her if she wanted me to go to her Christmas party today at school because she sure wasn't acting like she wanted me around. Then I said something to the effect of "because I can just leave you and not be around at all". And I didn't just say these things. I screamed them.
I watched the tears well up in my daughter's eyes and I saw my own painful grimace worn on her undeserving face. I hurt her and my made her cry before school; two things I swore I would never do.
I salvaged the tears that I could and dropped her off at school. A few hours later I went to her party and as I walked in she looked up and saw me and burst into tears. In those tears I could hear my mother's words taunting me. We talked for a few minutes, she calmed down and I apologized. But really, how does five minutes do anything but put a band-aid on the real problem?
I'm that problem and I am scared to death. There are some people just made to be parents. They are the ones who should be allowed to have kids. I am not one of those people. For a fleeting second this morning, I honestly thought that me walking away would be best for all involved. I hate myself for arriving at that point because I watched my mother flirt and threaten with that point more times than I can count.
After the party was over I got in my car and headed back to work. I ended up turning around and going back to her school but her bio-father had already picked her up to spend the night tonight. So I'm fucked. And worse, my daughter gets to go to bed tonight, in a bed she doesn't really like, turning over in her mind what the hell her mother meant this morning when she said she would leave.
I am sick at my stomach and none of this is OK. Yet another thing I swore I would never do; making my daughter wonder who will be there in the morning.
I am so, so sorry.
I am a perfectionist. Black and white are the boxes I have tried to stuff my feelings, my thoughts, and my life into. It's not working for me anymore.
I am far from perfect. Especially when it comes to being a mother.
I smile and say that I'm not angry but rather I am sad, depressed, tired, etc. Those feelings just sound more polite. But really, I am boiling over with anger, hatred, rage, and just pure poison.
This morning I fucked up. Today I reached the point where I truly was not sure that I could be a parent. Nice. My daughter is a cute little six year old with the vocabulary of a ten year old, and the mouthy sass of a teenager. Mornings before school are tough around our house. My husband leaves before we get up so it is me versus two beagles and a six year old. I lose most mornings.
In typical fashion my daughter fought me on what to wear, what to eat for breakfast and continued to sass me. I had been pretty patient but then I lost it. With the last words of back-talk, I turned around and asked her if she wanted me to go to her Christmas party today at school because she sure wasn't acting like she wanted me around. Then I said something to the effect of "because I can just leave you and not be around at all". And I didn't just say these things. I screamed them.
I watched the tears well up in my daughter's eyes and I saw my own painful grimace worn on her undeserving face. I hurt her and my made her cry before school; two things I swore I would never do.
I salvaged the tears that I could and dropped her off at school. A few hours later I went to her party and as I walked in she looked up and saw me and burst into tears. In those tears I could hear my mother's words taunting me. We talked for a few minutes, she calmed down and I apologized. But really, how does five minutes do anything but put a band-aid on the real problem?
I'm that problem and I am scared to death. There are some people just made to be parents. They are the ones who should be allowed to have kids. I am not one of those people. For a fleeting second this morning, I honestly thought that me walking away would be best for all involved. I hate myself for arriving at that point because I watched my mother flirt and threaten with that point more times than I can count.
After the party was over I got in my car and headed back to work. I ended up turning around and going back to her school but her bio-father had already picked her up to spend the night tonight. So I'm fucked. And worse, my daughter gets to go to bed tonight, in a bed she doesn't really like, turning over in her mind what the hell her mother meant this morning when she said she would leave.
I am sick at my stomach and none of this is OK. Yet another thing I swore I would never do; making my daughter wonder who will be there in the morning.
I am so, so sorry.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Pink
It stings. It burns. I don't want to take a bath but my mother says that I have to. Soap makes it worse.
He is home so I need to hurry. He likes to walk in on accident. I don't understand how it is an accident when the water is running loudly or why he sits down on the toilet lid and stays to rub his pants. That is not an accident. An accident is when I spill my milk and get my face slapped. I don't get to slap him for this accident.
I wish I could.
I turn the water on. Really hot. I am a dirty girl and the hot makes my filthy skin red instead of bad. I turn the light off and peel my clothes into a pile on the floor. In the dark I can't see my bruises, my scars, or my filth.
The tub begins to fill and I jump in. I am standing and I can feel the scalding water turn my feet a mottled red. The doorknob turns and I pray it's my little sister... or even my mother.
It's him. His obligatory and surprised "OH" is exclaimed as he slides through the door an presses it shut with his back. He is not surprised and neither am I.
He flips on the light as he is sneering about me bathing in the dark... how weird it is. He smiles his toothy grin and rubs his hands together in anticipation of his pleasure. I feel my stomach drop into my privates and I loathe that all too common feeling.
The water continues to run and the tub is nearly full. I reach to turn it off as he silently shakes his head "NO". Instead he reaches down and pulls the drain stopper to drain the water simultaneously as it pours from the faucet.
He is not going to sit on the toilet lid this time as he unbuckles his belt. He motions for me to step out of the tub and silently I obey. His clothes are peeled off into a pile next to mine and I do nothing.
I do not scream.
I do not run.
I do not cry.
I slowly turn around the way he likes.
He is heavy as he works to be inside me. In disgust he mumbles about me being dry. My stomach is pressed and pounded over and over into the vanity. The drawer pull rubs me raw.
I open my smashed shut eyes and there I am. In the mirror, face to face with the dirty girl. I focus on her eyes and then I look away to avoid drowning in her dead eyes. I see her freckles and her stubby nose. I look a little closer and then I see it. I see her smile.
She is his happy girl and her name is Sara. She is five and she says she is a princess. Her eyes come alive and sparkle under her blonde eyelashes. I love her hair because it is not like my own dark and curly hair. She smiles again as he groans with pleasure.
She is not happy, I know this. But she is his happy girl.
I am lost in that mirror looking for a way out of those drowning eyes. Quickly I am rescued as I am pulled away and dropped into the still scalding water. Ribbons of burning red stream from where I am sitting. I wince with pain as he rolls his eyes in disgust.
He takes my towel, the only towel, and cleans himself. He dresses quickly. As he buckles his belt he tells me to wash good because I am filthy. I know this already. He returns the drain stopper shut and then the door opens and shuts and he is gone.
I sit there until the water is cold.
My skin is no longer red but my bathwater is pink with shame.
He is home so I need to hurry. He likes to walk in on accident. I don't understand how it is an accident when the water is running loudly or why he sits down on the toilet lid and stays to rub his pants. That is not an accident. An accident is when I spill my milk and get my face slapped. I don't get to slap him for this accident.
I wish I could.
I turn the water on. Really hot. I am a dirty girl and the hot makes my filthy skin red instead of bad. I turn the light off and peel my clothes into a pile on the floor. In the dark I can't see my bruises, my scars, or my filth.
The tub begins to fill and I jump in. I am standing and I can feel the scalding water turn my feet a mottled red. The doorknob turns and I pray it's my little sister... or even my mother.
It's him. His obligatory and surprised "OH" is exclaimed as he slides through the door an presses it shut with his back. He is not surprised and neither am I.
He flips on the light as he is sneering about me bathing in the dark... how weird it is. He smiles his toothy grin and rubs his hands together in anticipation of his pleasure. I feel my stomach drop into my privates and I loathe that all too common feeling.
The water continues to run and the tub is nearly full. I reach to turn it off as he silently shakes his head "NO". Instead he reaches down and pulls the drain stopper to drain the water simultaneously as it pours from the faucet.
He is not going to sit on the toilet lid this time as he unbuckles his belt. He motions for me to step out of the tub and silently I obey. His clothes are peeled off into a pile next to mine and I do nothing.
I do not scream.
I do not run.
I do not cry.
I slowly turn around the way he likes.
He is heavy as he works to be inside me. In disgust he mumbles about me being dry. My stomach is pressed and pounded over and over into the vanity. The drawer pull rubs me raw.
I open my smashed shut eyes and there I am. In the mirror, face to face with the dirty girl. I focus on her eyes and then I look away to avoid drowning in her dead eyes. I see her freckles and her stubby nose. I look a little closer and then I see it. I see her smile.
She is his happy girl and her name is Sara. She is five and she says she is a princess. Her eyes come alive and sparkle under her blonde eyelashes. I love her hair because it is not like my own dark and curly hair. She smiles again as he groans with pleasure.
She is not happy, I know this. But she is his happy girl.
I am lost in that mirror looking for a way out of those drowning eyes. Quickly I am rescued as I am pulled away and dropped into the still scalding water. Ribbons of burning red stream from where I am sitting. I wince with pain as he rolls his eyes in disgust.
He takes my towel, the only towel, and cleans himself. He dresses quickly. As he buckles his belt he tells me to wash good because I am filthy. I know this already. He returns the drain stopper shut and then the door opens and shuts and he is gone.
I sit there until the water is cold.
My skin is no longer red but my bathwater is pink with shame.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Ten
Ten Things I Will Never Tell my Daughter:
- I never thought I wanted children.
- How terrified I was when I was pregnant with you.
- The truth about my parents.
- The truth about my childhood.
- What a wreck I was the first 2 years of your life.
- I bought a pregnancy test and filled a prescription to overdose. You saved my life.
- How much hatred I hold inside.
- I sometimes resent the childhood you have because it makes me grieve for mine.
- The times I cringe when I see his mannerisms in you.
- The truth about your father.
Children are not created to carry adult burdens. I hate my mother for doing this to me. I listened to her rage, was the brunt of her hatred, and I now carry the shame of her truths. These are the things I will never tell my daughter. She deserves better than the truth of who I am and the secrets that I carry.
My mother destroyed herself and in the process, nearly destroyed me. I carry her woundings and hide them as best I can. They don't heal; they only fester.
The inner conflict I feel makes my skin too tight. I love, I hate. I am numb, I feel. I despair, I hope. My heart blisters and I cut. My screams of hate are silent lines and hidden scars.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Pressure
It's all in my head. The pressure is all in my head. I have spent the later part of Monday and all day yesterday with yet another hideous migraine.
I get migraines and then I get migraines. The second version is the pounding, searing, scratching my brain kind of pressure that no medication will touch. I have tried prescription after prescription for migraines and nothing has ever cured them completely. Sometimes a medication will stop a migraine and that is a good day. The rest of the time I endure the pain, counting on someone else inside to work through their unrest to alleviate the mental throbbing.
Coincidentally, or not, the very day I wrote here about control of my feelings and memories, I ended up floored by a whopper of a migraine. By Monday evening, the voices in my head had reached a fevered pitch. With the noise increasing, I began to compensate by telling them to shut up. That didn't work very well and the tension continued to build.
I spent yesterday sleeping in our closet. Not my favorite place to sleep and even upsetting for some to spend anytime in a dark closet, but necessary to shut out the external sounds and light. It was then, and continued today, that I began to actually listen to what the others were saying. A novel idea...
It is the teenager-types this time; upset about our treatment by others. My father and his friends specifically. Almost as if our father grew tired of the monotony of abusing us he invited his friends to enjoy us as well.
Money changing hands. Hushed words and names spoken. Our names. He was telling them how to "work" us.
Say Sara for a blowjob... Cooper if you want a boy... Jasmine if you like to be rough... Lively if you want a bad girl... Sissy if you never want a word spoken...
And so they learned our names and exactly how to get what they wanted. He hurt us so much that he knew that we had different names. He fucking knew.
They take their turns watching and egging each other on. Suggestions of what to try. A fight for who was next. An invitation by him for all to join in towards the end.
A mess is what we are. Humiliation is sticky in our hair. We are dripping with ammonia-smelling shame. Numbing blood covers our legs. We are reduced to a heap of fluids, their laughter, their pleasure. A human hole.
My head is pounding with shame. The screams speak of silent terror. There is no medication to stop this pain. This migraine is wrapped up in silence that is unbearable to hear. The pressure of the secrets, the pressure of the shame is just too much.
I get migraines and then I get migraines. The second version is the pounding, searing, scratching my brain kind of pressure that no medication will touch. I have tried prescription after prescription for migraines and nothing has ever cured them completely. Sometimes a medication will stop a migraine and that is a good day. The rest of the time I endure the pain, counting on someone else inside to work through their unrest to alleviate the mental throbbing.
Coincidentally, or not, the very day I wrote here about control of my feelings and memories, I ended up floored by a whopper of a migraine. By Monday evening, the voices in my head had reached a fevered pitch. With the noise increasing, I began to compensate by telling them to shut up. That didn't work very well and the tension continued to build.
I spent yesterday sleeping in our closet. Not my favorite place to sleep and even upsetting for some to spend anytime in a dark closet, but necessary to shut out the external sounds and light. It was then, and continued today, that I began to actually listen to what the others were saying. A novel idea...
It is the teenager-types this time; upset about our treatment by others. My father and his friends specifically. Almost as if our father grew tired of the monotony of abusing us he invited his friends to enjoy us as well.
Money changing hands. Hushed words and names spoken. Our names. He was telling them how to "work" us.
Say Sara for a blowjob... Cooper if you want a boy... Jasmine if you like to be rough... Lively if you want a bad girl... Sissy if you never want a word spoken...
And so they learned our names and exactly how to get what they wanted. He hurt us so much that he knew that we had different names. He fucking knew.
They take their turns watching and egging each other on. Suggestions of what to try. A fight for who was next. An invitation by him for all to join in towards the end.
A mess is what we are. Humiliation is sticky in our hair. We are dripping with ammonia-smelling shame. Numbing blood covers our legs. We are reduced to a heap of fluids, their laughter, their pleasure. A human hole.
My head is pounding with shame. The screams speak of silent terror. There is no medication to stop this pain. This migraine is wrapped up in silence that is unbearable to hear. The pressure of the secrets, the pressure of the shame is just too much.
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.
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