I discovered moments ago that I can't listen to orchestral music on Fuckmas. My chest got tight and my shoulders tensed because in my mind I had walked out of my room to hear it blasting and my mom would be cooking or cleaning or something that made her pissed off. Well, cooking not so much, but seeing her clean was the red alert. Any minute now, she'll pop and...my mind goes blank when I try to think of what came after that. Even now, I usually have to leave the room when people start to clean, or I get all tense and help. But when I'm helping, I'm trying to do enough to avoid getting yelled at, even if the person in question isn't the type.
My mind is moving too fast for me to keep up with. There's too much to talk about and I don't know where to even start. I feel extremely unloved. Someone could be right in front of me, hugging me and saying differently, but at this moment it would have no effect. I would probably feel like they were doing it out of obligation or because they wanted me to stop being upset (though not for my sake). Because in the end, no one really loves me. They all just want me around so they have someone to kick and critisize. Honestly, everything I type just sounds whiny to me, like I'm making a tremendous deal out of absolutely nothing. I remember going down to California with my dad and older sister to see his side of the family this time of year. Most of them are stern assholes who didn't really know how to act around children, even though they themselves were parents. I got yelled at a lot because I was loud and jumpy and talked a lot. I got yelled at for being happy, that's what it comes down to. Who I was and how I expressed myself were always viewed as one big behavoral problem. They gave me crap for my lousy grades and my weight and how much energy I always seemed to have. I envied my sister. She was quiet and skinny and an A student. I saw her get lavished with praise and I tried so damn hard to be like her. I would lay in bed and think, "Tomorrow, I'm not going to eat anything and I'm not going to say anything." Sometimes it was me trying to get their attention, but mostly it was because I wanted those traits in my personality. I wanted to be someone my family could love. Of course, it never worked; breakfast would come around and I would eat three bowls of cereal and talk extensively about what this one kid at school said. At the end of the day, I would beat myself up until I fell asleep for not being able to stick to my plan.
Presents were always a big deal. The only way my parents were ever able to show love was through material things. So I at once loved and detested this holiday, loved because...well, they gave me presents. I was so thirsty for love that when I got less presents than my sister or cousins, I would run off and cry and cry and cry because I felt so extremely unloved. I felt like I was being told that my skinny sister was so much better than I was and I was so low down on the ladder that I didn't deserve even the tiny amount of love I recieved. There was always so much pressure to be good and act like I wasn't in pain. I couldn't get angry, I couldn't talk about sad things. They always cut me off and changed the subject or got mad at me.
My mom had this strange obsession with Fuckmas and acting like a real family. Everything had to be just so or she would fly into a rage and on more than one occasion, tell me that I ruined Christmas. But nothing was ever just so and she always flew into a rage. If I didn't like a present she got me, she would get mad at me. If I didn't get her something she said she had wanted, she would half-heartedly act as if she liked whatever I had gotten her and sulk about what I had missed. She was always just so damn mad. There was so much PRESSURE, from all sides of me. And I was never able to meet expectations. I always somehow ended up expressing my pain and it always got me into trouble. I tried to be good and be what they wanted but I just couldn't do it. No one loves me and it's all my fault.
Everyone asks me if I'm seeing my family today or tomorrow and I just want to put their head through a window, even though they don't know the circumstances. People say "Merry Christmas" and I just want to punch their fucking teeth down their throat. They have No Idea.
My dad raped me and my sister when I was three and she was five. I suspect it was around this time of year. I vaguley remember wearing a festive dress before he took it off of me.
There's been a safety breach in Quadrant One. I no longer feel safe writing about this and need to stop.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Different than what it was supposed to be
I'm listening to Radiohead's Hail To The Thief album. It helps when...
Who am I kidding? Nothing helps, nothing makes the pain go away or even quiet down. Panic mode for three days. If I could be anywhere in the world, it wouldn't be here. I hate this city. Everywhere I go is a reminder of what they did to me, every experience echos with their influence. Or screams with it. Actually, it might always be screaming but I just don't have the patience to listen. If it weren't for them, I'd be able to look in the mirror. I wouldn't get myself into situations like this, where nothing is safe and everything hurts.
A while ago, it was my habit in this sort of time to create an entire world apart from the real one, containing someone who loved me and took me away from my life. Sometimes I invented sweet, wonderful people who were reflections of the best parts of me, but more often they were scary people who "loved" me so much they Couldn't Handle It. In my mind, I was constantly beaten and raped and berated, but somehow it always felt safer than my reality. I remember being fifteen and thinking rape was the ultimate expression of love. I remember thinking about that months ago and shuddering at the realization of where I got that idea.
Part of me used to absolutely hate being a woman. I believed that my life wouldn't have been nearly as bad if I had been born with a dick. People wouldn't care so much that I was fat, people wouldn't take it upon themselves to touch me without permission, I could have avoided being looked down upon like women are in this society. The really sad part of this is I only seemed to change my view when I lost weight. But it was more than that, of course it was.
I made myself lose my train of thought. It's only when I panic like this that the duality I usually feel goes away and I feel totally like one person. I have no idea whether that's good or not. It's gotten really bad when I realize that drugs of any kind would only make the pain worse. Even with experience, I used to never be able to admit that. Even now, I can feel a part of my mind trying to prove that wrong. Even if they made the pain "go away", it would just be a bigger hurt later on. Nothing ever really goes away when you don't look at it, no matter how deeply you shove it down.
Dammit, I wanted to write more but my mind is closing up. I'm sleepy but I don't like the idea of being that vulnerable.
Who am I kidding? Nothing helps, nothing makes the pain go away or even quiet down. Panic mode for three days. If I could be anywhere in the world, it wouldn't be here. I hate this city. Everywhere I go is a reminder of what they did to me, every experience echos with their influence. Or screams with it. Actually, it might always be screaming but I just don't have the patience to listen. If it weren't for them, I'd be able to look in the mirror. I wouldn't get myself into situations like this, where nothing is safe and everything hurts.
A while ago, it was my habit in this sort of time to create an entire world apart from the real one, containing someone who loved me and took me away from my life. Sometimes I invented sweet, wonderful people who were reflections of the best parts of me, but more often they were scary people who "loved" me so much they Couldn't Handle It. In my mind, I was constantly beaten and raped and berated, but somehow it always felt safer than my reality. I remember being fifteen and thinking rape was the ultimate expression of love. I remember thinking about that months ago and shuddering at the realization of where I got that idea.
Part of me used to absolutely hate being a woman. I believed that my life wouldn't have been nearly as bad if I had been born with a dick. People wouldn't care so much that I was fat, people wouldn't take it upon themselves to touch me without permission, I could have avoided being looked down upon like women are in this society. The really sad part of this is I only seemed to change my view when I lost weight. But it was more than that, of course it was.
I made myself lose my train of thought. It's only when I panic like this that the duality I usually feel goes away and I feel totally like one person. I have no idea whether that's good or not. It's gotten really bad when I realize that drugs of any kind would only make the pain worse. Even with experience, I used to never be able to admit that. Even now, I can feel a part of my mind trying to prove that wrong. Even if they made the pain "go away", it would just be a bigger hurt later on. Nothing ever really goes away when you don't look at it, no matter how deeply you shove it down.
Dammit, I wanted to write more but my mind is closing up. I'm sleepy but I don't like the idea of being that vulnerable.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Utter Disgust
There is a man in my mind and we are constantly staring at each other. Sometimes his eyes fill my mind with fear and all I can do is panic and survive. Sometimes I stare at him angrily and it's hard not to throw things and imagine murdering people. But our eyes are always meeting, always. It feels like I never have a moment alone, even when I am physically alone. He's watching me change my clothes, he watches me cry, he's always there and it seems like he'll never go away. A part of my mind is always in a panic because of it.
In therapy a few days ago, my therapist decided to help me create a safe place in my head that I could use to balance myself when things were bad. Outer space was the only place that didn't have a frightening underbelly. The fear of complete isolation kept trying to creep up on me, but I ignored it and continued with the exercise. She asked me to describe the colors I saw, my surroundings. I tried to relax. Suddenly a fog cleared, and my heart swelled and my breathing got shallow. "I'm really scared right now," I said, beginning to hyperventilate. "Why?" my therapist asked. "Because my dad's there." It felt like he had forced himself inside me mentally as well and had never left. I could feel him at my back and I had the urge to jump out of my chair. He had split my mind in two and taken half for himself. I use the past tense, but the feeling is still there.
It's getting hard to think. I need to sleep.
In therapy a few days ago, my therapist decided to help me create a safe place in my head that I could use to balance myself when things were bad. Outer space was the only place that didn't have a frightening underbelly. The fear of complete isolation kept trying to creep up on me, but I ignored it and continued with the exercise. She asked me to describe the colors I saw, my surroundings. I tried to relax. Suddenly a fog cleared, and my heart swelled and my breathing got shallow. "I'm really scared right now," I said, beginning to hyperventilate. "Why?" my therapist asked. "Because my dad's there." It felt like he had forced himself inside me mentally as well and had never left. I could feel him at my back and I had the urge to jump out of my chair. He had split my mind in two and taken half for himself. I use the past tense, but the feeling is still there.
It's getting hard to think. I need to sleep.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
This Is A Low
I first started this blog with the intention of exploring the feelings and trauma I received from my family and the world as I was growing up, a place to express how those times and people hurt me and the effect it had on my life as a whole. Lately though, I've felt the need to widen my view of what this means. I've come to realize that working through my trauma means much, much more than just talking about my parents. So now, along with being "A Graphic Description of Abuse", this blog will also be...well, whatever the fuck I want it to be.
A couple days ago, I visited the shelter that will become my base within the next while, depending on how fast I move up the waiting list. It was probably one of the most depressing places I've ever stepped foot in. Looking around at all the other women there, I quickly realized that a good portion of them were mentally ill, on some sort of drug, or a mix of the two. They were the kind of people that, in the days I spent influenced by my dad's well-to-do side of the family, I would have looked down upon with a knot of disgust in my stomach. I guess that's part of why being homeless has been difficult for me; my dad and his family were never really in need of money. He's owned a house my entire life, though not the same one. We were never hungry, and we never needed to want for much. The things my dad says and the things he actually feels are somewhat in opposition; he would speak of helping people in bad situations where they had no roof over their head, he volunteers at a homeless shelter (or did, it's been a while since I spoke to him), but the standards he held me to in that respect were ridiculous. I can't really describe anything specific at the moment, but he seemed to be telling me that we were better than that, that someone in his family was too good to be homeless. We Were Better Than Them, which is why we needed to help. In this situation, there are times when I feel like I've disappointed someone, but can't really name who. When I walked through the door of the women's shelter, my heart sank. It's come to this, some inner part of my mind thought. I've failed somehow, and this is now my place in the world. I felt like there were a million people in the world who were better than me because they had money. Since I had no money, I had joined the dregs of society and was to be looked down upon. Of course, these thoughts weren't as clear at the time as they are now. They manifested in a need for coffee (which seems more plentiful than food in these places) and a knot in my stomach.
I checked in with the waiting list, got a cup of coffee, and searched for an empty seat. The place was packed; there were women sleeping on chairs, playing cards, watching some musical from the fifties with pirates, talking on cell phones, arguing with each other. It was loud. The florecent lights gave everything a sickly yellow shade. The walls were too white and dirty. It reminded me ever so slightly of the mental ward. I saw a seat next to a woman with a gucci bag and nice clothes who stuck out like a sore thumb. I politely asked her if the seat beside her was taken, and sat down when she said no. She proceeded to make a big show of moving her chair two feet away from me. In my mind I rolled my eyes and wondered what her deal was. I imagined that she was a lot like me, out of place and trying to figure her shit out. Underneath that, I got a very gross, nervous feeling from her. I acted like what she had done didn't bother me and took out my book. Reading took a backseat to the activity bustling around me. Though I felt weird about being there, part of me was just so relieved to be around people, no matter who they were. Though the place was off-putting, I felt an even greater relief that at some point, I would be sleeping there instead of on my friend's bedroom floor. Though of course, most of the feelings I have are double-sided, so I'm also terrified of leaving what is probably the safest sleeping situation I've ever been in and spending most of my time around people I don't know and therefore can't trust. Either way, my alone time will continue to be ziltch. (Said friend is gone for the night, and I couldn't be more grateful.)
My mind is hopping from one subject to another and it's hard to stick with one. I remember my mom when money was tight (or so she told us), speaking ill of mothers who went on welfare or got food stamps. She said that looking for assistance would make her feel...I don't remember the word she used, but it was bad. She was constantly yelling about how we were going to end up homeless and hungry, and even though the resources were there, she refused to use them because she didn't want to be seen as "one of those people". It angered me, but of course I didn't say anything. She was putting her image above feeding her children, and her image wasn't even that great. This was pretty normal with her, views she percieved from other people dictating how she acted and raised her children. When I told her I hated school and going made me feel suicidal, she told me to go anyway because "people look at the parents when their kids have bad attendance."
This time of year is very hard for me. The feeling of being alone and unloved begins to echo through my heart instead of remaining tucked away in my mind. After leaving the shelter, I went to the library to use the internet. The two cups of coffee I had drank were making my reserve of self-hatred boil through me. I wrote an e-mail to myself detailing how I was feeling, which made tears spring to my eyes. I was able to log off and run to the bathroom. I shut myself in a stall, held me knees, and cried and cried and cried like I've needed to for a while but haven't felt able. I mouthed hate and punched myself like I used to when I was crazy. I felt overwhelmingly like no one loved me and that it was entirely my fault. I longed to just be alone so I could cry as loud as I wanted, but that's an impossibility at the moment. I dug my nails into my legs and thought about how much I wanted to kill myself. (I don't mean it anymore. Sometimes, the old feelings get stirred up and I feel echos of the way my mind used to work.) Then someone came in and I acted like I was using the bathroom for its intended purpose. I continued to cry, but much more quietly. When I was alone again I emerged and splashed water on my face. I rubbed my hands on my eyes until I could say I had a cold and left.
I don't talk about my dad nearly as much as I talk about my mom here, but that doesn't mean he was any better than her. In some ways, he was much, much worse. Being their child felt like being twisted around and pulled in two nasty directions. Did I want to deal with my mom and her yelling and shoving, or did I want to deal with my dad's constant critisism and his wandering hands? My dad's eyes are like looking into a void. Making eye contact with him used to make my heart stop. They're hollow, like there's nothing left inside. He never let me set physical boundaries with him. When I tried, he would smile and do whatever it was I was asking him not to, like smacking my ass. Joking. Funny. It felt more disgusting than I can describe. My words never made it through a certain point in his head. If murder were legal, I would kill him, and I'd make it as painful as possible. Unfortunately in this society, that wouldn't make any sense. I'm not throwing away my life just to see his end.
A couple days ago, I visited the shelter that will become my base within the next while, depending on how fast I move up the waiting list. It was probably one of the most depressing places I've ever stepped foot in. Looking around at all the other women there, I quickly realized that a good portion of them were mentally ill, on some sort of drug, or a mix of the two. They were the kind of people that, in the days I spent influenced by my dad's well-to-do side of the family, I would have looked down upon with a knot of disgust in my stomach. I guess that's part of why being homeless has been difficult for me; my dad and his family were never really in need of money. He's owned a house my entire life, though not the same one. We were never hungry, and we never needed to want for much. The things my dad says and the things he actually feels are somewhat in opposition; he would speak of helping people in bad situations where they had no roof over their head, he volunteers at a homeless shelter (or did, it's been a while since I spoke to him), but the standards he held me to in that respect were ridiculous. I can't really describe anything specific at the moment, but he seemed to be telling me that we were better than that, that someone in his family was too good to be homeless. We Were Better Than Them, which is why we needed to help. In this situation, there are times when I feel like I've disappointed someone, but can't really name who. When I walked through the door of the women's shelter, my heart sank. It's come to this, some inner part of my mind thought. I've failed somehow, and this is now my place in the world. I felt like there were a million people in the world who were better than me because they had money. Since I had no money, I had joined the dregs of society and was to be looked down upon. Of course, these thoughts weren't as clear at the time as they are now. They manifested in a need for coffee (which seems more plentiful than food in these places) and a knot in my stomach.
I checked in with the waiting list, got a cup of coffee, and searched for an empty seat. The place was packed; there were women sleeping on chairs, playing cards, watching some musical from the fifties with pirates, talking on cell phones, arguing with each other. It was loud. The florecent lights gave everything a sickly yellow shade. The walls were too white and dirty. It reminded me ever so slightly of the mental ward. I saw a seat next to a woman with a gucci bag and nice clothes who stuck out like a sore thumb. I politely asked her if the seat beside her was taken, and sat down when she said no. She proceeded to make a big show of moving her chair two feet away from me. In my mind I rolled my eyes and wondered what her deal was. I imagined that she was a lot like me, out of place and trying to figure her shit out. Underneath that, I got a very gross, nervous feeling from her. I acted like what she had done didn't bother me and took out my book. Reading took a backseat to the activity bustling around me. Though I felt weird about being there, part of me was just so relieved to be around people, no matter who they were. Though the place was off-putting, I felt an even greater relief that at some point, I would be sleeping there instead of on my friend's bedroom floor. Though of course, most of the feelings I have are double-sided, so I'm also terrified of leaving what is probably the safest sleeping situation I've ever been in and spending most of my time around people I don't know and therefore can't trust. Either way, my alone time will continue to be ziltch. (Said friend is gone for the night, and I couldn't be more grateful.)
My mind is hopping from one subject to another and it's hard to stick with one. I remember my mom when money was tight (or so she told us), speaking ill of mothers who went on welfare or got food stamps. She said that looking for assistance would make her feel...I don't remember the word she used, but it was bad. She was constantly yelling about how we were going to end up homeless and hungry, and even though the resources were there, she refused to use them because she didn't want to be seen as "one of those people". It angered me, but of course I didn't say anything. She was putting her image above feeding her children, and her image wasn't even that great. This was pretty normal with her, views she percieved from other people dictating how she acted and raised her children. When I told her I hated school and going made me feel suicidal, she told me to go anyway because "people look at the parents when their kids have bad attendance."
This time of year is very hard for me. The feeling of being alone and unloved begins to echo through my heart instead of remaining tucked away in my mind. After leaving the shelter, I went to the library to use the internet. The two cups of coffee I had drank were making my reserve of self-hatred boil through me. I wrote an e-mail to myself detailing how I was feeling, which made tears spring to my eyes. I was able to log off and run to the bathroom. I shut myself in a stall, held me knees, and cried and cried and cried like I've needed to for a while but haven't felt able. I mouthed hate and punched myself like I used to when I was crazy. I felt overwhelmingly like no one loved me and that it was entirely my fault. I longed to just be alone so I could cry as loud as I wanted, but that's an impossibility at the moment. I dug my nails into my legs and thought about how much I wanted to kill myself. (I don't mean it anymore. Sometimes, the old feelings get stirred up and I feel echos of the way my mind used to work.) Then someone came in and I acted like I was using the bathroom for its intended purpose. I continued to cry, but much more quietly. When I was alone again I emerged and splashed water on my face. I rubbed my hands on my eyes until I could say I had a cold and left.
I don't talk about my dad nearly as much as I talk about my mom here, but that doesn't mean he was any better than her. In some ways, he was much, much worse. Being their child felt like being twisted around and pulled in two nasty directions. Did I want to deal with my mom and her yelling and shoving, or did I want to deal with my dad's constant critisism and his wandering hands? My dad's eyes are like looking into a void. Making eye contact with him used to make my heart stop. They're hollow, like there's nothing left inside. He never let me set physical boundaries with him. When I tried, he would smile and do whatever it was I was asking him not to, like smacking my ass. Joking. Funny. It felt more disgusting than I can describe. My words never made it through a certain point in his head. If murder were legal, I would kill him, and I'd make it as painful as possible. Unfortunately in this society, that wouldn't make any sense. I'm not throwing away my life just to see his end.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
My head is a series of dead ends
I'm sad. I'm sad because I feel cold and alone. I don't want to be here. I want to be somewhere safe, drowning in distractions. At the moment, I don't care about healing anymore, or being good to myself, I just want OUT of this latticework my mind has created. I feel as if I'm constantly walking into walls. One half of me is in constant disagreement with the other half. My therapist says this duality is my adult self, the person I am presently, and my child self, the one who was there alone and scared through all the abuse. I've come to the same conclusion myself before, but I don't remember when. In this mindset, nothing is safe, nothing is healing. Even if I know logically that fill-in-the-blank will help me, part of me rears back and screams with just how much she doesn't want it.
So what do I do? I take something and zone out on moving pictures when I should be wrapping the scared child in blankets and telling her that she's safe. But I'm angry too, and I don't want to have to lead her out of suffering. She can do that herself. But that's not really me talking, is it? The person I really am, I would hold the child and yell at whomever told her to buck up and deal, to drag herself out of the mire when she doesn't have the means. I'm the child, the one holding her, the one giving her shit. There's too many of me and we're all fighting. My head used to be filled to the brim with people I had created, splinters off the main personality, to keep me safe no matter who I was around. I would match the person's likes and dislikes, wants and needs. If they were tired, I suddenly would feel tired as well. If they liked 80s hair metal, I suddenly did too. I did this so many times with so many different people, and every edited version of myself stuck around to give an opinion. There was always a lot of talking in my head. When I was upset, it became chaos. Each voice was upset and expressing it but getting nowhere. In moments of panic, I would hear screaming, lots and lots of voices screaming in fear and panic.
I want a safe warm place to curl up and sleep in. I want someone to hold me and tell me everything is alright, even if it's a lie. I want to be able to cry until my face is soaked with snot and tears. I want to fight the air and scream in anger and tell that asshole that it was MY body and he had NO DAMN RIGHT to put his hands on it. If my life wouldn't end in prison, I'd kill him. I'd kill him in the most horrific way possible. I'd want the last words he heard before dying to be me telling him just how much I hate him and how despicable of a human being he turned out to be. But that's not enough. It feels like nothing ever will be. I'm stuck with this hole he gouged out of me forever.
Nothing I say anymore sounds sincere. I think I'm finished for now.
So what do I do? I take something and zone out on moving pictures when I should be wrapping the scared child in blankets and telling her that she's safe. But I'm angry too, and I don't want to have to lead her out of suffering. She can do that herself. But that's not really me talking, is it? The person I really am, I would hold the child and yell at whomever told her to buck up and deal, to drag herself out of the mire when she doesn't have the means. I'm the child, the one holding her, the one giving her shit. There's too many of me and we're all fighting. My head used to be filled to the brim with people I had created, splinters off the main personality, to keep me safe no matter who I was around. I would match the person's likes and dislikes, wants and needs. If they were tired, I suddenly would feel tired as well. If they liked 80s hair metal, I suddenly did too. I did this so many times with so many different people, and every edited version of myself stuck around to give an opinion. There was always a lot of talking in my head. When I was upset, it became chaos. Each voice was upset and expressing it but getting nowhere. In moments of panic, I would hear screaming, lots and lots of voices screaming in fear and panic.
I want a safe warm place to curl up and sleep in. I want someone to hold me and tell me everything is alright, even if it's a lie. I want to be able to cry until my face is soaked with snot and tears. I want to fight the air and scream in anger and tell that asshole that it was MY body and he had NO DAMN RIGHT to put his hands on it. If my life wouldn't end in prison, I'd kill him. I'd kill him in the most horrific way possible. I'd want the last words he heard before dying to be me telling him just how much I hate him and how despicable of a human being he turned out to be. But that's not enough. It feels like nothing ever will be. I'm stuck with this hole he gouged out of me forever.
Nothing I say anymore sounds sincere. I think I'm finished for now.
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