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.