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.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
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"
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"
Monday, October 12, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
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.
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.
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