just in your mind
just how i show my love
just an innocent kiss
just the way he is
just a childhood
just can't help it
just a stupid kid
just a dream
just a dog
just a touch
just one more time
just a memory
justifying doesn't make it better
signed,
just somebody
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Prolonging
I need a break. A respite from my feelings. I know that must sound strange assuming that most like to feel; it's how they know that they are alive. Me, my feelings taunt me and remind me that I'm not dead. Flashback after flashback invade my frazzled mind and body until my pounding heart is breaking in the wake of no relief.
How long have you felt depressed?
I don't remember not feeling depressed...
When was the last time you felt happy?
I have fleeting moments of happiness...
When did the abuse begin?
I don't remember not being abused...
I started seeing a new shrink and those were some of her questions and then some of my answers. There was a rhythm to my replies which involved prolonged misery.
I want to feel better so I go to a shrink. I take medication. I see my therapist. I feel and it hurts like hell but I think that I am working hard and at some point it will pay off. But then there is a lingering suspicion he knew that even after he was gone his evil would still haunt and hurt me.
What kind of person brings a child into this world and shapes her childish life to know nothing but confusion, pain and sadness? Terror that she longs to stop even after you are gone. I bet he's laughing now knowing that I'm still pleading with the hurt to end.
How long have you felt depressed?
I don't remember not feeling depressed...
When was the last time you felt happy?
I have fleeting moments of happiness...
When did the abuse begin?
I don't remember not being abused...
I started seeing a new shrink and those were some of her questions and then some of my answers. There was a rhythm to my replies which involved prolonged misery.
I want to feel better so I go to a shrink. I take medication. I see my therapist. I feel and it hurts like hell but I think that I am working hard and at some point it will pay off. But then there is a lingering suspicion he knew that even after he was gone his evil would still haunt and hurt me.
What kind of person brings a child into this world and shapes her childish life to know nothing but confusion, pain and sadness? Terror that she longs to stop even after you are gone. I bet he's laughing now knowing that I'm still pleading with the hurt to end.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Feelings
I have been doing a lot of work with my feelings lately. I have avoided them for most of my life because, well the bad ones outweigh the good ones.
The rest of them were fucked or beaten out of me.
I have always believed that my feelings only led to trouble and pain. A simple feeling stated as a child sent me tumbling down a rabbit hole of horrific pain. An innocent smile was interpreted to be nothing but filthy desire. A frown was nothing but blatant rebellion that had to be dealt with.
My thinking is extremely black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. But what I'm learning is that feelings don't fall easily into any of those categories. The classifications that I have used to reason my life into some semblance of order do not work for feelings.
So walking in this grey area is very difficult for me. I cannot make much sense of what I allow myself to feel and if I do, I get stuck. The detachment I have felt to my memories is slowly being bridged by the missing feelings. And that is terrifying.
I have always been able to share, matter of factly, the details I have chosen to disclose. And I'm very afraid that those details were the easy ones; the ones I could disconnect from and push the feelings onto someone else.
Remember those rabbit holes? When I find the feelings associated with that pain it's like falling down that hole bound, gagged, and blindfolded. My logic was my only means of control and I've lost it amongst the feelings. The only way to climb out of that hole?
Literally feel my way out.
The rest of them were fucked or beaten out of me.
I have always believed that my feelings only led to trouble and pain. A simple feeling stated as a child sent me tumbling down a rabbit hole of horrific pain. An innocent smile was interpreted to be nothing but filthy desire. A frown was nothing but blatant rebellion that had to be dealt with.
My thinking is extremely black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. But what I'm learning is that feelings don't fall easily into any of those categories. The classifications that I have used to reason my life into some semblance of order do not work for feelings.
So walking in this grey area is very difficult for me. I cannot make much sense of what I allow myself to feel and if I do, I get stuck. The detachment I have felt to my memories is slowly being bridged by the missing feelings. And that is terrifying.
I have always been able to share, matter of factly, the details I have chosen to disclose. And I'm very afraid that those details were the easy ones; the ones I could disconnect from and push the feelings onto someone else.
Remember those rabbit holes? When I find the feelings associated with that pain it's like falling down that hole bound, gagged, and blindfolded. My logic was my only means of control and I've lost it amongst the feelings. The only way to climb out of that hole?
Literally feel my way out.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Celebrate
Today is the fourth. Every fourth of June we used to celebrate my sister's birthday. But now the fourth is filled is guilt. Hurt. Anger. Sadness. Anything but celebration.
She would want you to celebrate her life...
This is the type of phrase often turned by the grieving left behind. I don't believe that this is true about her and I don't believe she would have ever desired such a celebration. I cannot celebrate a life so shattered, so damaged, so wilted that it funneled down to one eventual option of death.
Our lives closely resembled one another until she shot a hole in that toxic fork in the road. How do you celebrate a life gone by when you can't even celebrate your own? She's dead. I'm alive. I consider myself lucky and nothing more. Not exactly reasons to reflect, release some balloons or even visit the final marking of her earthly existence.
And then the selfish side... I don't want to fucking celebrate a person who placed so much responsibility, need, and cries for soothing squarely upon my shoulders. I gave so much but in the end perhaps I gave too much. When she left she took a piece of me that I cannot recover. Now I'm left with the scar of death barely stitched together with the thread of hope that I truly did all that I could do.
How do I celebrate a life passed too early? How do I remember her with anything but painful regret?
She would want you to celebrate her life...
This is the type of phrase often turned by the grieving left behind. I don't believe that this is true about her and I don't believe she would have ever desired such a celebration. I cannot celebrate a life so shattered, so damaged, so wilted that it funneled down to one eventual option of death.
Our lives closely resembled one another until she shot a hole in that toxic fork in the road. How do you celebrate a life gone by when you can't even celebrate your own? She's dead. I'm alive. I consider myself lucky and nothing more. Not exactly reasons to reflect, release some balloons or even visit the final marking of her earthly existence.
And then the selfish side... I don't want to fucking celebrate a person who placed so much responsibility, need, and cries for soothing squarely upon my shoulders. I gave so much but in the end perhaps I gave too much. When she left she took a piece of me that I cannot recover. Now I'm left with the scar of death barely stitched together with the thread of hope that I truly did all that I could do.
How do I celebrate a life passed too early? How do I remember her with anything but painful regret?
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Fingers
My mother has the prettiest hands. When she isn't hurting me with them.
Long and slender with perfectly manicured nails. Her fingers always seem so skilled to cook, sew, and play the piano. Those are the things she does when she isn't so crazy and angry.
Today I'm a dirty girl. He has left his stinging warmth behind and it must be washed away. Shame has a color and it's red. I try to hide it but she sees. I can't pretend that she doesn't already know but it's the game I have to play.
Look at you... what a dirty girl... you are getting blood on my bath mat... you disgusting whore.
Her words sting just as bad as he does. I wish her hands would help me. Comfort me. Love me. I stand in the tub of water waiting for her to tell me when it's time to sit. Her calloused hands touch my shoulders as she forces me backwards onto the tiny corner of a ledge where the tub meets the wall. My head hits the tiles and my eyes burn with tears.
I am sitting on that little ledge as her beautiful hands force my legs apart at the knees. Her slender fingers no longer feel so slender. Her manicure is razor sharp as she plunges into my shame. I shift my eyes and work to melt into the calm, white tiles around me.
Look at me... watch what you make me do.
Her manicure is red as she writes my words on the tiles.
dirty...
whore...
I tear my eyes away and feel flush with those tiles. I sink even further as those cold, white tiles become my greatest comfort. I feel her hand but only as a glancing touch. I hear her screams but only as a whisper. I watch that little girl so far away and I am numb to her hate.
I wish that I could stay this way forever.
Long and slender with perfectly manicured nails. Her fingers always seem so skilled to cook, sew, and play the piano. Those are the things she does when she isn't so crazy and angry.
Today I'm a dirty girl. He has left his stinging warmth behind and it must be washed away. Shame has a color and it's red. I try to hide it but she sees. I can't pretend that she doesn't already know but it's the game I have to play.
Look at you... what a dirty girl... you are getting blood on my bath mat... you disgusting whore.
Her words sting just as bad as he does. I wish her hands would help me. Comfort me. Love me. I stand in the tub of water waiting for her to tell me when it's time to sit. Her calloused hands touch my shoulders as she forces me backwards onto the tiny corner of a ledge where the tub meets the wall. My head hits the tiles and my eyes burn with tears.
I am sitting on that little ledge as her beautiful hands force my legs apart at the knees. Her slender fingers no longer feel so slender. Her manicure is razor sharp as she plunges into my shame. I shift my eyes and work to melt into the calm, white tiles around me.
Look at me... watch what you make me do.
Her manicure is red as she writes my words on the tiles.
dirty...
whore...
I tear my eyes away and feel flush with those tiles. I sink even further as those cold, white tiles become my greatest comfort. I feel her hand but only as a glancing touch. I hear her screams but only as a whisper. I watch that little girl so far away and I am numb to her hate.
I wish that I could stay this way forever.
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