I've decided that since the only people who read this are people I know, and that I use this space to yell at my parents, but I do so ambiguously sometimes (because I often project their perceived intentions onto the general populace), and that I am too afraid to speak lest I hurt someone's feelings, I am going to move locations to a truly anonymous place.

I write this shit online because I imagine that if a younger me found something like this, it would help me discover my own truth, and if I have to suffer every day from the effects of past incest and abuse I may as well help someone with it.  But it's not worth it if people who are in my life perceive that I am yelling at them.

Good luck, and never lose hope.

I still hate being me

You'd think knowing why would help.  And I guess it does, in the long term sort of way, but not right now.  I shouldn't have picked up that trendwhore rag.  I shouldn't have read what you had to say about portland.  because I hate the way you talk and it evokes a smell and it makes me hate myself.  I don't like hating myself.

I hate talking to people, to anyone, because I hear about their lives and their problems and the answers seem so easy to me.  "it's child abuse.  you feel shitty because your mom used to yell at you."  or "your dad left when you were small, so of course you feel like no one will love you.  of course you don't think of it in those terms, because your mom would yell at you when you cried.  so you just think, this depression comes from no where.  and you never find a girl you can love."

usually I keep my mouth shut because I don't want to be one of those presumptuous people, a self-declared guru or shrink, but really it's because I am afraid of the backlash, of the dismissal, of the scorn in their voices.

sometimes I say something and get in a fight.  that's how I lose friends.  (and gain stronger ones)

haha, I cheered myself up.

I will not let you be narcissus seeds, I promise.

rrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
sometimes it feels like the whole world, ever word, every bit wants to come down on my head and poop on it.
sometimes it feels slimy like chicken egg, and sometimes it makes me laugh because it is ridiculous.  sometimes there is so much hate I laugh.

dear narcissus,
you do not deserve to talk to my husband you do not deserve to talk to me you do not deserve your daughters.  what is the opposite of "dear"?

loathed narcissus,
you do not deserve his time you do not deserve his breath you do not deserve our love you do not deserve our children.

pained narcissus,
you have fallen and fallen and you like it down there.  you like the muck and the cold.  you like being hungry all the time.  you like what you take as sympathy.  you suck everyone dry.

abhorrent, false narcissus,
you you you you you.

each petal is a head and I am tearing it off.  I do not want to care what the outcome is.  I do not want to think "he loves me (not)".  I do not want to smell you anymore.

I have little molecules, little seeds in my belly and I can feel them sometimes.  they do not speak and they do not feel the way I feel.  the way people feel.  they are seeds.  but I feel that I need to protect them.  I need to protect me not just for me but for the seeds.  they comfort me and that makes me feel dirty.  I am afraid I am using the seeds the same way grown ups used me when I was small.  for comfort, for love.  at least they do not have sex organs so I cannot use them that way.

I am afraid I will leave my body completely, that a force that is evil and cold will take it over, with all the little seeds, and hurt little sprouts.  I am afraid I made myself go away so that I don't know I hurt people.  I am afraid I am like my parents.  amaranth says I am afraid of this because I still think my parents weren't in their bodies when they hurt me.  rather, I think that they weren't themselves.  that they didn't mean it.

yesterday I spent some time with a friends' daughter.  she was so sweet and cute and adorable.  us three young women were delighted.  I was putting her in her car seat, and it was the first time I had held her, and I was terrified.  I didn't want the baby to know I was terrified, and I was so zoned out, my vision was blurry.
my vision was so blurry that I hit the baby's head on the car door.

I was deeply ashamed.  the baby was alright (I mean, I did hurt her, but she cried and we cooed and she forgave me, and reached her little arms up to be held again, and I said "no baby remember last time?" but she insisted and I held her and was so so careful).  I was so angry.  not at the child!  of course not.  not even at myself (though that was a hard battle to fight in my head.  I didn't want to sink into utter depression, not around a child.  I feel like it's my duty to keep on as much of a smile as I can around a child.  that doesn't mean fake it... oh well, it's hard to explain.  maybe you'll understand).  I was so pissed at my dad for raising me that way.  he was so scared of molesting me that (he did) he was always zoned out.  just gone.  he didn't hear me calling him half the time.  and I got injured a lot too; he was always accidentally shutting doors on my hands, or bumping my head when he would carry me. 

why didn't he do something about it?  why didn't he heal so he could-- oh it doesn't matter.  what matters is that I heal so I don't bump any baby heads on doors any more.

because I know I won't molest children, I am aware of the danger of being a sex abuse survivor and so I won't.  and I won't ever hit a child, I was hit as a child and I would never do that.  but can I guarantee I won't be so out of my body with fear that I neglect children?  no.  I can't guarantee that.  and until I can, I won't have children.

and you shouldn't either, mean people I see on the street.  mean people who used to be in my life.  mean people who raised my friends (though I love my friends, and I'm glad you started their "seeds," even if you are terrible gardeners).  even nice people.  superficially nice people, I discover more and more, can harbour vitriol towards themselves that shows when they have babies.

so please don't, people.  please love yourself first.  and please stop yelling at me because I love myself first.

anniversary

my dad added me on facebook (and sent me a message about how much he loved me) and lo!  IMMEDIATELY I backed out, I thought "he didn't do those things to me, he didn't  mean it, he loves me, he just wants to help me, I'm ungrateful, I'm mean," so I didn't read the whole message, I deleted it, I blocked him, and I removed all of his friends from access to my page.

saw his picture and the anger came back, I realised that the "dad" I think of in my head when I tell myself he loves me and all this shit, doesn't exist, and the real person my dad is irritates me at best.  there is no reason for me to receive contact from him.

then I realised that this is the anniversary of his molesting me.  happy fucking anniversary you sad sack of shit.  I loved you and got my heart broke over and over for your selfish aims.

I hate the pressure

I hate the pressure for trauma survivors to get over it.

Even if someone doesn't say the exact words, "get over it," the implication is EVERYWHERE.   It's there for people who admit that they were abused and those who don't and those who weren't abused.  It is a foundation of our (American) culture.  It is poison and it kills me.

Programs set up to "help" people-- the homeless, the drug addicted, the suicidal, the homicidal, the neurotics and the psychotics-- are set up to "integrate" people.  That means truss us up, drug us up, and send us out into the world to Get a Job.

I have a few things to say about Getting a Job.

First of all!  I am not against supporting my society, but Getting a Job does not do that.  I am sick of people trying to tell me that there are intricate-- INFALLABLE- nuances in economics that mean that whether or not I work at McDonald's dictates the state of the Union, the WORLD.  It doesn't.  Even if our economy were set up that way, there are OTHER WAYS TO SET UP ECONOMIES.  WAYS THAT DON'T UNDERMINE PEOPLES' PSYCHES.  WAYS THAT FEED.  EVERYONE.

The American system is and has been since its inception in the 1600s designed to keep the rich affluent, and the poor either starving or complacent-- because either way, they're not going to take excess money from the rich.  (I am talking about the upper 1% RICH here.  If you think you are included in the Rich Club and you make less than a million a year, I've got news for you-- ya ain't in it.)
I DIGRESS.

I have a full time fucking job and so does every other trauma survivor I know.  That job is healing.  Healing means taking the pieces left from being ripped apart over and over and figuring out where they go, and what glue I need to stick them back together.  Healing means spending most of my time on me and people who matter to me.  Healing means sometimes I have panic attacks so severe I can't leave my house, much less walk.
Healing means no I cannot go get a minimum wage job where I am going to be abused by my coworkers and boss who are so fucked in the head they can't sort their own shit out, and think it's okay to push their vitriolic CRAP on any person who comes within a five-foot radius, ESPECIALLY if they are someone who is working to NOT be a fucking failure leech on humanity because people who are GENUINE really FREAK THEM OUT.

It means No I am not going to subject myself to fifteen panic attacks in an eight hour day so that I can jump through a hoop that was placed there by someone who has no interest in my or anyone's heart and soul.

No I am not going to go to a place every day where I have to deal with being thought of as a lesser human being because I am mixed race, or a woman, or WHATEVER, on TOP of flashbacks of my father humping me as a small child and my mother slapping me so hard I fall to the floor--

NO I am ESPECIALLY not going to take BARELY-TESTED PHARMACUTICAL DRUGS that are shoved down my throat by cruel doctors who just want me to shut up and get out because I am uninsured, who have no interest in bettering the world, who are only interested in their money and their distractions after work, who are only prescribing these drugs because the drug companies who MADE them PAID their companies to do so.

If I need assistance from the government that I pay taxes to, I am not going to be bribed into taking these pills in the off chance that they will numb and dumb me down enough to be a good little worker.

My goal is not to re-integrate myself into the workforce.  My goal is to be an artist and a lover and a mother and a GOOD.  WHOLE.  PERSON.  a loving, compassionate human being who works for the betterment of our whole fucking species.

anyone in my way is there because they are afraid of the work required to get where I am going.  and they can be afraid, that is fine because it doesn't need to affect me.  I can look forward and not wallow by being honest and true and remembering remembering remembering even if it means I can't "function" like you fucking normal, mean spirited, childish people who call yourselves adults.

stop telling me to be someone I'm not.  stop telling my LOVED ONES to be people they're not.  they are kind and good and whole and you are just a hole.  you are jealous and I will never, EVER grow up to be like you.

this post is dedicated to the social workers who look down on us, the psych ward, the therapist who wants us to forgtive and forget, the random people who threaten us, the smirking co-workers who just want us to "look on the bright side"
oh and every person who ever said "but your parents love you"

i won't eat my friends or enemies and I'll ask for help when I need it

The dreams have been getting worse and worse.  I hope that's a good thing.  I've been isolating myself in my blankets because having someone else in the bed is too much sometimes.  I feel like I owe him something and we both know I don't.  So it helps me to be isolated, but I am also lonely.  Maybe I should trudge through the inside out feeling?  When I get close to someone physically or emotionally I feel like I'm being torn out through my birth canal.  Vagina, vagina, genitals are not words we should be afraid of.  I miss crowds but I freeze in them.  This town is full of fear.  Everyones' face is plastered with it.  Sometimes I tell myself that that is a construct of my own abuse talking but I think I know better than that.

It's funny to me now, but sad.  Because the mountains are right there, and the ocean is right there and I don't think many people care.  They look at the sidewalk and go through life one step at a time.  Which I think sometimes should be admired as I am not very good at it; my neck hurts when I look at the sidewalk and I want to lift my head even if it's to look at gross things, but of course like anyone the gross things make me cry, and it's hard to cry if you've been told it's a bad thing to do.  It's not a bad thing to do.  I feel like it clears out the spots I see in my eyes.  On days I cry, I don't see spots.

I've been angry a lot lately.  I wake up so stiff I want to punch a hole in the wall, but then the cold air would have an even easier time getting in.  I feel guilty for the things that bring me the most pleasure.  I don't think life should be so cruel for anyone.  I'll keep trying to make it easy for me and for others.

We learned that the pilgrims in Jamestown ate corpses and excrement rather than going to the nearby "savage" indians for help.  One man even killed his wife while she slept and ate her.  I don't feel like most people have changed much since then.

the full moon

so I don't know how I feel.  sad I guess.  I've been having a lot of dreams about my dad.  last night I was happy with him.  but then I was in a baseball field with [amaranth] and [eglantine], and there was a UFO in the sky.  I have been scared of aliens since I was maybe five.  it was bobbing in the sky.  I was terrified that it would see us.  but also strangely exhilarated.  I noted how strange it was to be excited and kept it to myself.  I knew [amaranth] and [eglantine] well enough to know they knew how scared I was.  [amaranth] kept turning into my best friend [fennel].  we watched the UFO disappear and a small biplane replace it, realising that the UFO was attempting to cloak itself.  it turned into seven different planes.  dusk was falling and it was beginning to get very dark.  I asked [eglantine] and [amaranth]/[fennel] to be on each side of me in case aliens came out of the UFO.  they held my hands and led me to the bus station, which was actually an MRT station.  the train/bus came and we got on but I didn't have fare.  (the not fare thing happened three times in my dreams last night; in each dream I would get on a bus but not have any money).

before I fell asleep I remembered my dad coming into our room (we used to share a bed because i was too scared to sleep alone after my mama left) the night I asked what sex was.  I could see him in my room, here and now.  I knew no one was there but I was terrified anyway.  I wasn't able to move my limbs the way I wanted, or talk right.  I could only make moans and grunts though i was trying to say words.  I was terrified.

and then when I fell asleep I had good dreams about him. I can't remember them but I feel a little guilty now.  what if I made all of this up and he really was a good dad?  and then i remember his cutting his balls off and that helps.  so I guess it's a good thing he did that, in a way, because it snaps me out of my dream.

misunderstandings and vomit

I feel profoundly misunderstood. I'm prone to this emotion. Like I'm an alien for dissection. A frog maybe, something for people to take apart and look at so that they understand themselves better.

And the anger. Is it only justified if I stuff it in? Like he does and he does and he does. If I raise my voice I am dismissable; of course. Women are excitable. I am excitable. That means you shouldn't listen to me when I have the words. That means you shouldn't look in my eyes. That means you shouldn't believe I put every careful thought into what I say when I think something you've said is fucked up. That means I don't have compassion for you.

I have so much compassion, it spills over and burns into anger spots on the floor. it bleeds from me. I vomit compassion. I burst with it when I'm home alone and finally cry and cry and cry.

and when I try to explain myself, I see these looks on peoples' faces, like I'm talking about penis infections or an ugly rash or something so gross you just don't want to think about it. They say things like "I think you're just taking this too hard" and I say "you're probably right" because if I get mad then I'm a bitch again. and then no one will listen again. and I'm at best a frog on the table again.

I'm sick of editing every god. damn. thing. I fucking say for people.

I believe in compassion and communication. I try my very best to be kind, to be understanding; to phrase things in a way people will maybe get, to be gentle. To take everyone's situation-- as far as I can understand it-- into account. To be full of love and honesty as I am and have always been at my core.

but sometimes
it just falls flat on its face.

I am a human being just like you and I deserve respect too
and I'm not wrong about the way I feel about you

I can't think right. it feels like there's an immense pressure on me all the time. the weight of a full grown man on a child. my muscles start to cramp, like a charlie horse, rip rip rip. I can't sleep. everything smells like shit, literally, like feces. the air is too thick to breathe. or is it the weight on my chest? I can't breathe but I'm trying not to freak out. I know I COULD breathe if I really wanted to. so this is my fault? no no no shh. okay. I can't get a grip on things. I can't think right.

I always get stuck at "because"

Saturday 7/11/09 14:40

Dear Daddy, you always treated me like I thought you were evil slime. It was the opposite. I loved you more than anyone. And it's messing things up, because...because...now I love my husband as much as I loved you. And I can't sleep with him, because it reminds me of you, and how you were never who I thought you were. It's so hard to believe. I can't sometimes. I thought you were good and strong and loved me more than anything but it was lies. that's not even... the words aren't enough. I disassociate and can't say it right. You weren't just a bad example; you'd get drunk and say the most cutting things. When I was alone in the desert of my mother I never blamed you. I kept your letters on my person. I treasured every gift you gave me... it wasn't until I was 13 when I figured out how easy it would have been to save me-- if you had just talked to me-- and I still gave you the benefit of the doubt. I thought, he's busy. He... it was too hard, or something. I couldn't believe you didn't love me as much as I thought. And every time you touched me and I felt gross, like a fever dream in my muladhara, or you said something about my breasts and I'd feel rotten inside with stifled anger, I told myself I only felt this way because-- because of someone else, my mother, later [my mother's friend who molested me], later [a family member who molested me]. These people hurt me too, I think, but it was you who made me feel this way. And then I ran away again and remembered how I learned about sex and your stifled anger and your resentment and how you were ALWAYS a mean drunk, not just after you started taking hormones, and how you were rarely there and whenever I tried to talk about my feelings which I thought was good, you'd corner me and yell at me.
And yet, I'll sit and stare and think about how much I love you and remember all these things-- stories you told me about your reckless youth and I thought you were so cool daddy.
I'm glad you castrated yourself because it was violent and loud enough to shake me out of my defense of you. I can always remember how that felt, thinking you were dead and fainting when you related the graphic details, how you thanked them for me and how you blamed me after, told me you had done it for me and
good riddance.
You're not the daddy from 'a little princess'. He died and you are dead to me now, too, because the man you actually are doesn't deserve to call himself my 'father'.

today, just today

I felt like someone felt it. But I also felt so alone
I just... I couldn't sleep, I was convinced that someone was going to come in and rape me, even though the door was locked. And I felt like there were ghosts all around and demons and they were waiting for me to let my guard down so they could fucking bite me and rip me to shreds, but slowly, so inconcievably slowly.
So I read books, I had to hop from book to book because I was so upset and delirious and I tried to calm down and it just wouldn't work
I guess I finally fell asleep, but I woke up at 8:30 am and even though it was daytime, I felt completely terrified
已寄出 (星期五 ，下午 01:47)
so I read and read and finally mustered up the courage to eat and ate a little and then mustered up the courage to shower and I just felt so hopeless and small and I knew it was because I was little once and everything was awful but it felt like the end of the world and I thought "how can I bear being alone the rest of this week? how can I bear ANOTHER fucking week? how the fuck am I going to be able to work[....]on my own for a week? I'm never gonna get to go home," and then I thought "maybe [my husband] will send me home with the money he made this week," and then I imagined being in [our home country] without him and I felt so desolate and then I felt disgusting for being so codependent but then I thought "love isn't bad, I'm figuring it out" but then I read one of his journal entries about [....] I remembered how he used to be super retarded about his dad [....] and he's not retarded [....] anymore but he's retarded about how he was retarded, he hates talking about it because he feels like if he breaks any modicum of my trust even once he doesn't deserve me, because he was my "兄 ちゃん" and he's supposed to be more honourable than that, and I hate it because I hate how he'll just give up and decide he doesn't deserve me, it makes me sick, and then I thought I hated him for leaving me here, even though I'm the one who sent him and we need this money, to get home, and I thought .... that's a lot of text. haha
eventually I thought "I am being negative because I am hungry and about to bleed, it's okay, it's gonna be okay, just go out and eat." so I went out, and it's so beautiful today, it breaks my heart in a good way,
and I got on the bus, and was feeling much better though still very vulnerable and there was this guy I've seen before, he looks about 17 and his cell phone rang and he talked to the person in english, American english
and I got really excited but it took me 10 minutes to muster up the courage to say anything and I did and I walked him to the MRT and it felt so, so good to talk to someone in person about anything and I felt dumb and big and fat and ugly but I didn't care, and I went to 50Lan for some tea but was upset already, and I didn't know how to tell them "I want something fruity but not passionfruit." I mean, I did tell them that in chinese but they were like "uhhhh crap we don't know english" so they yelled at each other for a while, and then the nice nice boss lady came out and was like, "oh hey sweetie what's up" but in chinese and I was like "hurrr" and they laughed and I brought out my DS and looked up "lemon" (檸檬) and showed them so they made me a lemon tea and then the boss lady gave me a cheatsheet of all their teas in english. so that was nice.
and then I went to the bakery in the basement of trendy ass [mall] and bought some garlic bread, a "french egg sandwich" and a donut. and I've only eaten one tiny garlic bread but I read an email from [oxeye] and one from [kincaid] and I feel better now, but I know once I have to go back up to that awful [house] and be all alone in the dark I'll feel awful again.
and [eglantine]'s stupid phone is dead, and I know they
're probably not dead but what if [amaranth] is? and why do I care so much? why do I feel like my life would be over if he were dead? and I think "he's your husband, aren't you supposed to think things like that?" and then I think "well people who are dependent and don't love themselves super annoy me" and then I think "BUT I DON'T FEEL LOVED I NEED TO FEEL LOVED HE LOVES ME HE'S GONNA DIE" and then I scream and sob and sob and sob.


已寄出 (星期五 ，下午 02:25)
a thunderstorm is coming I think...
maybe I'll bleed when it bursts


I dreamed that there was a yellowed skeleton on my wall, and it was creeping slowly slowly towards me, and as it creeped it grew more flesh. It moved like a spider weaving its web. I watched it for many days and when it finally grew near me....somehow I stopped it. It dropped to the floor, dead. But my stepmother entered my room and fussed and said things like "oh this won't do" and hung it back up, on the door so that it was looking right at me. I watched as its dead papery flesh began to shift and grow once more.

I feel guilty and small

I feel awful, in waves. Things are going well and I feel like I'm going to get into trouble. I wake up feeling guilty. Cripplingly guilty, like my very existence is blasphemous to god. I smell bad. I am ugly. My face is fat. My hair is frizzy. My shoulders hurt. I am hungry. I am thirsty. These things are all my fault. It's my fault that I'm too scared (I call myself "stupid" instead) to get up and fix these things, to nurture myself. The downstairs is dirty and I didn't make it that way, but I feel guilty for it. The grime and the flies and the mysterious fridge that has been unplugged for months but no one's touched it remind me of being a small child. Filth reminds me of being little. Carrots remind me of being little. Being hungry and tired reminds me of being little. My stomach hurting reminds me of being little. I don't get nostalgic, I get sick. I think I'm on top of something and then it feels like it falls back on me and I'm suffocating. I keep cutting off my parents but both they and I know I can't keep it up for long. I know that the biggest reason I am attached to them is because I desire their love, or rather the child inside me desires their love and nurturing because the adult I have become would be disgusted if they treated me that way (proof that they aren't really capable of such things, or I wouldn't feel like they were molesting me with them). My mother keeps sending me an "e-card" and the only reason I can think that she keeps sending it to me is that I haven't responded to it and she wants me to for some reason. I feel guilty about this. I changed my email address so that I never have to hear from them and I feel guilty about it. It's all I can think about. It makes me break out in rashes and my back hurts. I don't know how to get rid of the self-loathing and hatred and guilt, guilt, guilt! I walk down the street and am terrified I am going to have my ears boxed, or be raped when I go to the bathroom. I don't get any rest, I wake up with sharp pains. I know it's all in my head and I'm trying to be nice to myself. It feels like it will never go away! It feels like there's no such thing as hope, as a happy or calm life. I feel like everyone else in the world is trying to impress this upon me, with their bad attitudes and meanness. I just want to be happy. I deserve that, right? Why do I feel like I owe my parents anything when all they gave me was incest and pain? It makes me... it makes me so angry!

I checked out a forum related to poisonous pedagogy, with the intent of finding some like-minded people and perhaps an outlet for my grief and panic. But I realised upon finding it that it would probably be full of people who are my parents' age, people with children who are working on themselves and while I find this admirable, I really don't want to talk to them, to interact with them in any way. The idea of talking to people over 30 about what I'm going through sounds like hell. Not that I assume they would be unsupportive. It's just.... my view is different.

I want to talk to other people my age about this sort of thing but I'm afraid of alienating them. Sometimes it's okay, but I don't think my friends understand just how much I am constantly thinking about my childhood and the effects of poisonous parents.... I get embarrassed.

Meanwhile, I'm in a state of constant fear. I'm completely paranoid and .... I can't think of a word other than "schizophrenic." Life is like a boiling pot of bad memories right now.

And still I sympathise with my parents and that makes me really angry because they don't deserve it.

letter to a friend

I remembered , well, I'm not sure if I remember. Something awful, well, some awful things, about my dad, and I don't think I can even say them yet. But I feel stupid and gross and awful and I don't know what to do. It's hard to not .. give up I guess. I'm so sad and I don't feel able to be sad. But I talked to [eglantine] some while we were making lunch and that helped. I think my favourite part about [oxeye] being here so far is that [eglantine] and I have had two intimate conversations. I feel like he's my friend, I guess. but I miss you a lot. today I've been getting hit with intense loathing, it's hard to describe. the feeling I used to get when I was little. it's like being hit with a molested truck. sometimes it's so bad I feel like I'm going to vomit.there was a guy on the bus who made me feel awful, it was hard not to zip up my sweater to hide my breasts. and the way he smelled-- it wasn't like shit, or stale sweat or anything like that-- he smelled like being raped. like he wanted to do that to someone. I got off the bus and then I felt overwhelmingly like I was going to barf.
oingo boingo makes me feel a lot better. I feel kind of distracted and I don't know how to continue. I'm afraid I'm being mean to you by writing this. I wish ... it sounds weird but I wish a girl would hug me. That's. I feel like an asshole for wanting that.

anorexia

I went to the hospital when I was four, because I wasn't eating. My dad always told me he suspected that I was anorexic because my mom had left. But I finally remembered why. Well, it's not really a conscious "why," because I was four and because anorexia isn't like that. Maybe some forms are. But for me, and as far as I've read, it's not something you think about, like "hey, you know what sounds awesome? Not eating. Maybe then I'll get the attention I deserve." Food just becomes sand. Flavours don't exist. Everything is grey. Nothing has animation. I do not wish to eat because I am not hungry.

I've always remembered the feeling, but never the cause (as I write this a part of me is trying to escape, it feels like I have a fever or I'm underwater, and my ears are ringing high pitched, and I feel nauseous). I realized that (I'm so scared of writing this, it's so stupid!) that that that my dad, my dad never paid attention to me. There. It doesn't sound like a big deal. My mom left so I already felt unsure of myself. My dad didn't hold me, didn't comfort me, didn't talk to me very often. I remember all the times he talked to me and I loved them, I loved him, I clung onto those moments. I thought it was normal, to be four and live in a silent home. My dad was usually drunk. He drank and sat and stared, or watched television or typed.

There were other people, but no one who gave me the nourishing communication and love I desired: there was my aunt, who molested me, and my babysitter, who was insane. My mom was gone and my dad never spoke. Sometimes I'd get angry and once I hit him and he shut himself in his room until I apologized. I was crying so hard he couldn't hear me.

I always thought my dad was my friend, my saviour from dark places. When I was a little older, after the divorce, and my mom would yell at me and hit me, and I wished I was dead, I would remember my dad and I thought he would save me. I told him this later, when I was 17 or 18, I said "I have to tell you, I'm mad at you because you never saved me." And he was very defensive, snapping that he did, that I had no idea what he went through blah blah blah. Both of my parents love the "you have no idea what I went through" "defence". It's insulting, to assume that one's child isn't paying attention, for one thing. It always hurt my feelings that they thought I never watched them. I was always watching. And for another thing, my parents are two of the most self-centered, whiny people I have ever known. It was impossible to live in their home and not know their most intimate business. My mother told me everything, well, yelled me everything. And my dad told me things I never wanted to know as a teenager, about his sex life, or his genitals, or hormone levels.

It took me a few months away from them to realize that I was still a child, as a teenager. I always thought I was so grown up. I blamed myself for most of their shortcomings.

It's only now that I'm realizing how damaging my relationship with my father was. I knew my mom was abusive, because I had adults who told me, and because it was much more tangible; I could tell which actions of hers had made me feel humilated, dirty, miserable. Worthless. But with my dad, I thought it was all me.

I have to write this down because if I don't, I don't think of it, and then I forget it. I want to remember, because I need to live.

diary entries

January 30th, 2008. Arbitrary time. Couldn't sleep, so I come out into my room and eat sugar?! I feel like there's something --many things-- fundamentally wrong with me. I'm aching to do the "right thing". I don't want any more reminders of what _____ [my mother] wants, I look at myself and see it. My brain recycles music over and over and what is success, anyway? Purely subjective, and therefore... no, see, my heart wants to calm down and enjoy life, and I can do that on my own, without joining anyone's cult. It just requires calming down. And enjoying life. Enjoying... the pain, too. Or rather, accepting it. I accept that I am in pain right now, that I am panicked and scared and a little hungry. My lips are dry, I'm afraid that everything some things I do are wrong, I'm afraid that people will notice and hate me, I fear disgust. Who do I know that feels that way about me? No one who matters. I'm afraid of being a lesbian. I'm afraid I'll leave my honey for a new one with a vagina and then I won't like it and will be a scary middle-aged panicked dyke with emotional problems. What a silly fear! I take it apart and it antagonizes me until it morphs into an overwhelming-crushing-fat-man-breathing-heavy-on-top-of-me feeling, and an unpleasant odor, of fart and bacteria and sweat and vinyl, a trace of those smells teases me. And my supposed dualism; an astrological curse to be a certain way. I'm caught in the age-old dilemma of wondering how much control I really have. I try to mimic _______ but that makes me angry. I don't want to mimic anyone. I want to be myself, and unique. I want to be lovable to myself, self-sufficient, but able to ask for help when I need it; smart, but not snotty, beautiful, loving. And calm.

March 5th? 2008....All this backlash, all this frozen terror and numb self-hatred is flinging in its last throes. It is difficult, and there are times in which I feel hell catch me and drown me and rape me but it passes and I'm me again. And I'll always be ______ [me]. I'm a little worried that I'll lose awareness; become insensitive to others once I find my security, but I don't think that's possible. I've got a good idea of what and how I want to be. I believe again that my body will heal. And though sometimes I don't, I believe my heart will heal up, too. I deserve my love and health. Still sometimes I get terribly sad, wanting my mommy, but the older I get, the less it eats at me. That is not to say that it doesn't, or rather, not to minimize my pain. Ultimately, I know everything will be just fine, lovely in fact. I have the strength and the willpower not to panic myself into a bad place. I have my friends and my self and my _______, whom I've been waking next to every morning....he helps me--no, when we are bound together it silly--the whole heavy bleeding angsty world becomes light, silly, loving, heavy, pregnant; we can use that possibility because we ARE that possibility and I am safe. That concept has been hardest for me to grasp but I believe-- I am safe in my own body, out of my own body, and no matter what happens, I will be able to protect myself and those I love. I love so much, it trickles down my skull, my spine, into my lungs...

coping mechanisms and re-memberances

I cut my parents off after watching Once Upon a Time in the West because of the rape scene.

That was a few months ago? I'd like to say I'm feeling better, because in some ways I am. But in a lot of ways I feel awful.

Right now I'm working on the Courage to Heal workbook.
I'm learning about coping mechanisms. I circled the ones that I use and wrote down some more. Then, following the book's direction, I organized them into ones I'm ashamed of and ones I'm not.

coping mechanisms I'm ashamed of:
-fantasizing
-self-mutilation
-avoiding intimacy
-creating new personalities
-leaving my body
-anorexia (baby's first coping mechanism!)
-hiding from my partner
-suicide attempts
-avoiding sex
-spacing out

coping mechanisms I'm not ashamed of:
-denial
-rationalization
-perfectionism
-forgetting
-staying in control
-minimizing
-staying busy
-taking care of others
-looking on the "bright" side

I realized the difference between the first list and the second is that I think others expect and want me to do the things in the second list.
I think some of them do. I've hopefully cut all of those people out of my life.

Oh. Now I remember what else I was going to say.
I remembered my pastor raping me when I was sixteen and having sex with my boyfriend. Rather, when I was sixteen I remembered my pastor raping me when I was seven? eight? nine and ten?
I worked on it as well as I could at the time, and finally told my estranged mother during one of my rare visits to her home.
I thought she was supportive, but she asked, delicately, if I was sure he had raped me, since she did my laundry when I was small and never noticed the blood that would have shown.
That was disturbing enough to hear but the answer to her panty-problem was "no" as far as I could remember and I only realized the other night that ever since she asked that, I stopped thinking he "raped" me.
I tried to minimize it to "molested" (not that I would ever tell another person that being "molested" is somehow better than being "raped"), but then it just sort of slipped into denial. I started having a hard time saying his name when I had learned at 16-17 to do it, started telling myself and others that I must be making it up, must be, because I couldn't REMEMBER ANYTHING

then the other night I had a dream:
I was in a long corridor with all of the people I loved, all my friends and they were dancing around cleaning the place up. they started to pull the partitions down that made the long room lots of little rooms and I realized that we were in my old church, where my pastor used to touch me and tell me gross things about how he loved me and I was little and pretty and bad and beautiful and sex was good and he would teach me, and that I had so much potential--
so, in the dream, I hunched into a ball and tried to scream but I couldn't, and some of my friends noticed and tried to help me up and asked "what's the matter" but all I could say was "ffff fffff ffffff ffffffff" and then I woke up.

I decided after this transparent metaphor that I should just act like he DID sexually abuse me, because if I was wrong, it didn't matter. who did it hurt? it was just my head.

and then the memories started coming back. but I didn't want them to. so I shook for a week. my heart began to have arrythmias. I went to the doctor and they gave me medicine to sleep. eventually I asked my friend if he would like to give me an orgasm, and he did, and I remembered my pastor giving me an orgasm, and it was awful, awful, awful, awful, awful, awful, awful

but at least I remember? at least I can heal now? can I? ugh. I'm going to work in my book some more.

god is your parents

god, I just ...
for years, maybe my whole life I can't sleep. like, I can, but I can't just fucking lay down and rest when it's time to. I fuss and toss and think horrible things, imagine horrible scenarios of people I love licking me when I don't want them to and my friends dying in horrible ways and horrible horrible horrible.

I am exhausted.

debating cutting off both of my parents, by which I basically mean ignoring them, and it's ....difficult.... because I am afraid. in a book that has been very kind to me, the body never lies, doctor alice miller speaks on... ugh I can't think. my heart is clogged and I can't (breathe) think.

okay.

my mom and dad talk to me. I'm an ocean away now and I feel closer to them than I have in a while. I liked it when I lived in my boyfriend's basement with no phone and no internet so I could feign ignorance of their attempts to contact me. it's not that I am afraid of telling them they're fucked up and wrong and manipulative and cruel. I tell them these things and then I'm afraid, okay maybe I am afraid, because every time I tell them they .... they.... they....fuck. they um, god, fuck, okay, they... what do they do?

my mom... fuck you know what? I can look this up.
she says we should forget the past and make new memories. I have to remind myself that she said this because on cue when I read it I forget. but I don't make new memories, I wallow in old pains.

my dad's face turns sour and he tells me I don't understand and that he tried his best

and all I hear from them is
"you're complaining about nothing. i didn't do anything wrong
i love you."
when they say they love me my clitoris tingles like... it's being electrocuted. it's not pleasant. and my back aches. my shoulders ache. my neck aches. my heart pulses irregularly....
when I read over past emails from them, I feel like there's something wrong with ME and not them. because I can't remember what they did to me right now.

i feel terrible, god

a bad dream

I had a dream that I've had before~

and in it, my father is fucking me, fucking me, and I am insane; I am running to friends saying "something is wrong, I feel it and I can't shake it, what is happening to me?" and then I remember, my father and I had sex, he wanted to show me how it could be done right, and I agreed, so it's partially my fault. He couldn't keep it up, and I kept wondering what was wrong with the situation, but I let it continue and let my father stick his wrinkly Pepperidge-farm sausage dick in me. It smells sickly and wet.

End dream, and I don't remember it until later in the day. I tell my friends and they don't seem to realize how upsetting this is to me. It's not like I think this is a memory, but why don't they understand how I feel?

I realize why I had this dream, and realizing why doesn't help. At the same time I fear I don't know the real reason why; that the real reason is staring me in the face and there's nothing I can do but swallow it eventually.

love/hate

An old friend of mine violated a girl I used to love/hate.

And it makes me think. It reminds me of old feelings. Bubbling on top is anger-- at those who say the lady I love/hated is lying. Well, I say "say," but this is (city) and people don't say things here-- they imply things. I have been hearing some heavy implications that my love/hate-lady is at fault somehow, for being sexed upon without permission.

I see and hear all these reactions from people, and I wonder (not necessarily about them, but I wonder), are the statistics I have heard true? Have nine out of ten women been sexually abused before the age of consent in the US? Because nine out of ten women certainly act that way.

And how many men, I wonder? It seems to me that in order to impose something as horrible as rape on another, another must have imposed something as horrible as rape on the perpetrator.

But we don't talk about that. It's too painful; too difficult. Even I'm hiding. I'm scared to talk.

Another human being has been molested, and all I can think of is my own incest.

do you remember your childhood?

I mean every part. I've been remembering bits and pieces more and more as I continue to grow up. As I continue to let myself cry, and really feel the things that hide deep in my subconscious.

Last night I felt encased; encroached upon; molested and sick. This is a common feeling for me. There's a heavy stone in my stomach, and my neck and shoulders feel tighter than usual. I feel sexually aroused in a literally nauseating way.

Yesterday was the day my husband and I signed our marriage licence. I had an overwhelming feeling that he was going to leave or die. These feelings are also not uncommon, and I've gotten better at expressing them so I don't act completely insane. As I told my husband my fears of his sudden departure, I tried to remember the first time I had felt this way. I remembered something I hadn't thought of in about 15 years.

When I was little, about 2 or 3, my mom's friend Jill and her toddler Brandon lived in our tiny, trashy apartment with us. I thought Brandon was my brother. Jill killed herself, Brandon's dad came to take him away, and then my mom left us.