He hasn't been offered the burden yet

My dreams are weird and thick and on the surface are just abstract craziness. When I wake up, I remember where I am. That's how invloved they have become, they're the way my life is until I wake up. I'm always dissapointed. The other night, Captain Jack was leaving in September and I was telling him how boring life was going to be without him. When I woke up, I realized that three Captain Jacks had already left and life already was boring without them. The night before that, I was Captain Jack in a spaceship chasing the Master around space. Every time I caught up with him, he beat the living shit out of me, but I always crawled back into my spaceship and continued the chase. Last night, I dreamed that I was watching a very cool cartoon movie where this happy goofy brown-haired girl hopped through dimentions and had an adventure. At one point she referenced Doctor Who and popped up wearing one of his suits with a spiked belt in her hair like a headband. I went out and bought the action figure of it. Something funny should be said, but I can't think of it.
I feel like I'm constantly shoving people away from me. In the shelter, a lot of people are trying to be my friend, but I don't want to be theirs because there's something about each of them that sets off my alarms. I don't feel like I'm in danger anymore. I sit on my bed and read or draw all with my ear plugs in, so it kind of feels like my bed is my room. If I'm accepted, I won't move into transitional housing for another three weeks, but it seems like it will be a breeze. I do wish there was something else to do besides hang out at the library. I might start writing a little fiction every day so I don't go crazy with monotony. I did the other night and it felt good. In it, I killed my dad. I've been on the verge of writing that out for quite a while, but I never actually did because I didn't want to spoil the feeling. I wanted to feed off of the idea before writing it down made it a little more real, and sucked all the energy out of the image and spit it out on paper. It was disturbing and my therapist was very happy that I had written it. She asked how I did it and I awkwardly told her. I always worry people will misunderstand and think that I'm a blood-crazed psychopath about to murder everyone and call the whitecoats on me. Really, I'm just pissed off.
Having Framklin helps a lot. Her presence has been integrated into my therapy. My therapist was impressed when I told her that I had basically been treating Framklin like a child and taking care of her and comforting her. I felt like a total lunatic, but my therapist told me that I was on the right track and to continue it. Inner child work and such. I have to admit, it feels really good to say in my mind, "What do you want to do today, Framklin?"
I've decided to avoid the One Big Emotional Trigger group. It doesn't seem like a very good idea to be in a room full of people who have had similar experiences describing how their parents raped them, at least for now. My curiosity with it was morbid, at best. Even as I type, I'm still not sure. I might check it out and leave if it gets to be too much.

The internet wants me gone, so I will be gone.

Reckoner

Four days in a women's shelter, and I don't know how many more to come. I sleep on a top bunk in a room with eight other women, all traumatized, all dealing with their shit. In the next room over there's a few rooms containing mothers and their children. I have moments alone, but my mind is in this weird state where that doesn't seem to do anything. I have to sleep with ear plugs in otherwise the snoring and whispering and arguing and YELLING would keep me up all night. I'm sick of hearing women make their children cry, I'm sick of the fighting that seems right out of ninth grade between women in their thirties and forties. People keep deciding I'm their new special friend, and I don't know how to tell them that they annoy the hell out of me. I won't, at least for the time being. Sharing a room again is hard enough, I wouldn't want to add tension especially with people who don't seem to know how to deal with their shit. I feel like the smartest person in the room sometimes, or the least dumb. I've had the urge over the past couple days to break things and rip them to shreds and scream obscenities in people's faces while I hurt them.
But I don't. I clench my jaw or chew my lip and dig my nails into my pants. I make up fantasy worlds where I'm crazy enough to hurt someone horribly and not even care. When I was a teenager, I used to actively try to make myself crazy enough to do that. I wanted to kill people in horrible, violent ways where they would be in excruciating pain until they finally died. I didn't want to care. Oh god I tried so hard not to. I tried to think of them as things and take away all their humanity, or tell myself that they were nasty enough to deserve it. But it just didn't fucking work. When it comes right down to it, I care. I care a fuck of a lot. I don't want anyone to be in pain or unhappy. It breaks my heart to see them hurt so badly. Maybe that's why I get so mad.
My dad keeps finding his way into my dreams, in disgusting, stomach-churning ways. Though the dreams themselves aren't nearly as bad as they used to be. He isn't tackling me out of nowhere and forcing me to fuck him or grinding his dick into me anymore. He's just there, and we're talking, or I'm defending him against something, but I always feel gross and wrong and it's always my fault that I feel that way. I find that I need to trust myself more and more because the dreams aren't as bad. I no longer have an active reminder of how terrible he was to me, so I have to remind myself. It's difficult. I have the urge to just write all of it off as something I created to make myself unhappy or get attention from people. The old stuff.
Recently, I made what I view to be a huge mistake, but when I really look at it, there was no other way I would have reacted. I got in bed with someone and we touched. Things happened. The first time, it edged on great, but I was on drugs and part of me wasn't getting through to the rest. The second time I was fully sober, and the knot of fear and disgust never left my stomach. It just grew and grew to the point that I was frozen again. I couldn't say "stop". I tried, I tried so hard to enjoy myself and forget that I was terrified, but that soon changed into just trying to survive. It traumatized me. I would think about his hands on me and want so badly to throw up. I would think about it and it would make me shake and berate myself for letting it happen. I felt so disgusting all the time, it never went away, not even when I slept. It felt like I was being raped but instigating things and involving myself. For days afterward, his hands never left my body. There were now two people in my mind, touching me and hurting me. Soon, the feeling faded. I still feel bad for letting it happen. I don't know if I'll ever be able to even look at the person again. It's getting hard to think. My mind is getting clogged with guilt. Oh my fucking god it's all my fault.