There are days when I get sad and I don’t know why. I think this is one of those days. I have a feeling that it has to do with reading my old journals last week. I was deep in hell when I wrote those entries. It was almost a foregone conclusion that I’d suicide. Anyone would under the circumstances.
My experience with abuse is long and horrid thanks to the pedophile my mother married. It was so horrible that I had to blank out to endure it. “Blanking out” is called “dissociation.” We all do it at one time or another. The spectrum goes from daydreaming at one end to “dissociative identity disorder,” AKA “multiple personality disorder,” at the other. I don’t remember most of my childhood. I don’t remember most of what was done to me. What I do remember tortures me with flashes and, either when I feel safe or feel extremely vulnerable, I get full-fledged flashbacks. I also get body memories. I think those are the worst. That’s what happened when I began reading the journal entries. I knew that I was in my bedroom–the room where I did my best to end the torture I’d experienced–but I felt the agony that befell me that nightmarish night. For a moment, I seriously thought about suiciding again. Then, I realized that I was in the present, ten years later. Still, I had to scratch and claw my way out of The Pit.
I tried to do the right thing by TEWSNBN and told him what was coming. Since he swore he didn’t remember, I dug out the journals, read them, scanned them and realized it was going to take more time because I was even more prolific then than I am now. I was in the process of a complete meltdown when I wrote those journal entries. The scars on my arms are a testament to the pain I was in. I couldn’t scream, so I burned my arm with a lit cigarette almost down to the bone again and again and again. In addition, I’d cut. Unlike the burn scars, the razor’s scars are barely visible. The irony is that I can blame those on either the cats we had or my dogs because they all have/had sharp claws.
I am so angry that these people thought nothing of what they did then nor today. What was done was so insignificant that it wasn’t even remembered. I don’t know who was at the keyboard that last time, true. However, TEWSNBN was still a huge part of the trap. When I told him what happened, he couldn’t have cared less. What the hell happened to him? Now, I’m just plain curious. It really doesn’t matter because he can’t be “saved.” I’m curious because that’s my nature. I’ll never get an answer because he’s too much of a coward to talk. Oh well.
I am so tired of abusive men. I’m tired of abusive people period. My mother, partly due to physical illness and partially due to mental illness she refused to get treated, was very abusive all too frequently. There were times when I had to hide out in my bedroom with the door locked because she’d charge at me like a pissed off bull. She definitely had physical abuse on her mind. I sometimes kept a knife under the pillow because I was afraid of her. She’d come in when I wasn’t around and take it away. Needless to say, she triggered PTSD episodes, as did her brother, Ted, who walked into my house and started going off on me for something he thought I’d said about him. I hadn’t said anything about him at all. Do you think my mother stood up for me? Nope! The only thing she cared about was that I told him to “Fuck off!” She didn’t care about what he said and did to get me to that point. For example, he said, “That’s why no one likes you!” and a bunch of other stuff. But to come into someone’s home and go off on them about something he thought he heard is inappropriate times two. According to my mother, I was supposed to just stand there, take his shit and endure. No! ! No way!! Why do people think that I’m never supposed to defend myself as if the abuse is acceptable? It isn’t acceptable at all.
I can’t write anymore. I have things that must be done today. I don’t feel like doing anything. I’m tired. I’m just so, so tired.