Whiny Fucking Baby

I feel guilty.

I feel guilty about having a dissociative disorder because the more I think about it, the more I think that nothing THAT terrible has happened to me. So I can only conclude that I am a whiny fucking baby and I have just been unable to confront minor every day life struggles.

Is incest a normal every day life struggle?

Maybe I’ve just blown everything out of proportion. My father’s suicide, my mother running out on me, the molestation, the child pornography,  the rape in college, the suicide attempts, the drug binging.

I really don’t have anything to complain about, or be “broken by”- I made it out alive and there are others with actual, real issues. Yet, here I am, continuing to self-harm because I blame myself for my parents leaving, for my cousin sticking himself in me, for allowing myself to be raped and abused.

Whiny, selfish, dramatic, stupid, and worthless waste of space.

The Pretty Blue Bows

Every now and then
I miss the lull
and low buzzing of a good high.
Wow!
What a thrill after you
plug it into your arm.
Liquid lightening climbing
through the empty spaces of
yourself.

All those spaces that mommy
dearest left deserted
void, cut up
like coupons in the garbage.
And father wasn’t much
help at all
taking it away himself
with a heavy load.

That incipient surge
that belts out,
all the while
making the eyes tumble
backwards,
staring off into
the tiny cranial stars
making up
tiny cranial constellations.

Of course I couldn’t
slip the steel into my
own arm at first.
He would tie such beautiful
tourniquets
that would make girl scouts
wet themselves.

Pretty rubber blue bows.

I was kneeling on the
bathroom floor,
bending over like a virgin.
Spreading my legs out
and panting out loud.
I couldn’t tie a pretty blue bow
but a decent one I did.
Minutes carried on and
I heard the child within myself
scream
before I got the guts
to inject it.

I guess it does make me
feel a little bit sad now.

Anyhow,
my hands were wet and
slippery.
I didn’t know what the fuck
I was doing
but knew what would happen
if I wasn’t doing it.
In it went and off I went
into this land where I
drool on the outside
but blissfully float internally.

Anyone that tells you that
drugs aren’t worth it
has never ridden the heroin dragon
over snowy peaks of china white.
And how lovely you become,
about thirty pounds lighter
than August,
eyes about five shades darker,
lips beautifully cracked, bleeding,
unkissable.

I am the Reverend
of my own ritual.
Delivering the wine into
my thirsty throat,
but the bread never comes.
I just kneel at the pew
and worship.
Prayer makes to forget .
Prayer is better than sleep.
The more saturated I become
the cleaner I become.

It takes away the sin.

I forget how I’ve been
torn apart limb by limb.
I forget the men that came by
the apartment to see me hazy-eyed,
panty-less
propped up in a cheerleader’s
costume.
I forget how he said to smile
and they exchanged money.
above the bed.

Here I go… nodding off.
Prayer is better than…

I forget how old he was
when he sat me on his lap and
pulled my hair back,
pushing into my prepubescence.
I forget how they all denied it
when I came crawling
out for help,
still raw.

Sometimes when I’m praying
I begin to feel that
I am more beautiful
when I am soggy with poison
and bruised from a grip
and broken into.
Kissable.

But then I begin to remember
when all of the fairy dust wears off.

Withdrawal

convulsing and eyes
peeling back on their own.
lips parting exposing white houses
biting at themselves, jawbreakers.
glasses of blood and spit evacuating from the
throat. noises like an angry frog
bubbling from the bell-tower.
one bottle too many.
three pills too many.
sizzling sockets
fevers breaking pencils,
breaking bones and clipboards.
blue tethers tying wrists down-
a preacher exorcising Lucifer from
an atheist schoolgirl.
there are pockets of sick skin exploding
and cries that don’t bellow from infants.
halos are tipping off from the heads
of angels, tumbling like dimes on to
the silver trays.

Ricky Prepped the Needle

Fuck, tiled truck stop, ten-mile eyes
Electric trains push through veins heaping metal
Neon bulbs and dimming, dimming out
Tourniquets in bouquets, syringes from mom
Acid-brain, corroding foil and zip-zap bolts
Never say never here you are, kid
Yelling in foreign baby gurgles and weepy gasps
Lie down and let the ceiling melt on your tongue

24 Wishes That Will Never Matter

there are boxes on the seat of the bay window
I am a child. I know that the presents
are for my birthday.
in the blue box with the fat ribbon
there must be a horse play-set:
the one with the pink brush and the
tiny, silver pale.
wrapped up in a newspaper there
must be the journal I pointed out
in the display at the bookstore.
the kitchen is alive
with scented bursts of maple syrup.
I am wearing my favorite pink dress.
here I sit at the kitchen table.
my father contently reads the paper,
though he absorbs nothing new.
my mother presses the waffle iron.
their arms are clean, unmarked,
unpocked.
their eyes are wet
and white.
the time skirts by illogically
and I go to open my boxes
that have waited for me in March.
my small, bird-like heart trembles
as my hands unwrap my presents.
i am dreaming.
the earth swallows up my horse play-set,
along with the pink brush,
the tiny, silver pale.
the earth swallows my journal.
it eats my socks, my knees, my waist,
my breasts, my lips.
I am kidnapped from the kitchen table.
years later, I blink my eyes open
in front of an audience.
I am no less than twenty-four.
I am an adult. I know that it is my birthday.
the audience goes silent.
I take a deep breath, just as I’ve done for the
past years before,
I blow out the candles
and wish
that somewhere, in my real life,
my mother is making me waffles with her
wet, white eyes.
that my father is reading the paper with his
wet, white eyes.

Rape and Recreation

Rough week.

I had woken up yesterday morning with a feeling of complete despondency. Yikes—that thick depressive sludge. Though, I must admit, I’m doing better at keeping it under control. Tiny slip ups here and there… nothing too drastic. INTENSE cravings for heroin and pills. What’s new?

More on drugs…(brief tangent) through our fun inner journey over the past couple of weeks, we are beginning to see that it’s not so much the drug that I want, but rather it’s the altered-state of mind. I want a jolt. I want to be scared. I want to feel. The adrenaline, the illusion of danger. Like suicide, I don’t want to die. I’ve never wanted to die. I just want to kill myself.

tumblr_msz15to8no1sp3l90o1_400

I push my limits through self-harm (of any kind) because I live for the JOLT. Unfortunately, I tend to cross the line past the point of the “illusion” of danger, because by then, it’s dangerous. I’m working on constructive self-punishment with the end goal of release and growth. It’s working.

Thank God for my therapy appointment yesterday. And for my lesser-professional therapist.. what would I do without you and your sanity? Thank you for keeping my head above water and for the hourly reminders of how fucking badass I am.

I’ve lately been having recurring dreams linked to fertility and pregnancy. Last night, I woke up from a nightmare- or rather, perhaps a flashback- of my D&C. Vivid images of blood and flesh filtered through my thoughts at midnight…my stomach began cramping, I was cold-sweating profusely, and I cried for a very, very long time, huddled in a ball beneath the sheets, clutching onto my stuffed animal.

This entire week has been a series of blurry patchwork. Despite the situational barriers and challenges, I’ve been handling things very, very well. So well, in fact, that Goldie was talking about make me the Protector of the system. That’s pretty fucking huge news. I was excited and I have been preparing myself for it.

Well, I auditioned for a play last night. It’s called “The Rape Show.” It’s an original play written for the college and weaves slam poetry, public speaking, and acting together to raise awareness of the prevalence of rape and rape culture on school campuses.

That being said, this play is damn near perfect for me. Some quotes from the script for you to ponder:

Rape is a coward hiding its face in the make-up of silence.
A murderous fruit, that grows best in the shadows of taboo.
A murmur of bodies left vacant
by the souls that spend years, pills, poems, and death
trying to learn to reclaim them.

Tell Elizabeth Fritzl
How pretty the flame of her skin was,
that turned her Father a torturous moth of incest
‘til she gave birth to 7 choices she never had

From smothering cat-calls,
to quickened pace of trek home
Rape with a dress on.
Rape without a dress on.
Raped as children, who couldn’t even dress themselves.
Tell them how ugly their consent was.
Tell the depression, the post traumatic stress

Humor helps trauma. We just want to know that you are laughing with us.

We can joke about it because it is ours to joke about, similar to how our bruises are ours to poke at, and yours to keep away from.

You’ll be there when I cry (until my eyes get puffy and red).
You won’t be tearing off my lace panties (because they were expensive, and they make me feel like I’m worth something).
Once you figure out that the only time I deep throat is with the feeding tube at the psych ward, you’ll be gone.

So, I auditioned for that last night. Sure…. There’s lots of concern for the state of my psyche. The second I picked up the script and started reading from it, I could feel everyone within me stir.

Then, Goldie took the Protector away from me. I think that’s okay though. I feel like I’ve been through the wringer.

Overall, I’m doing alright. Minor slip ups. Baby steps. I’ll be okay.

 

giphy

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

I’m angry.

I’m angry, disappointed, hurt, and I feel optional to you. I feel like an idiot standing by on the side lines, waiting for you to make some kind of miracle out of your life to come meet the daughter you had 24 years ago. Since speaking to you for the first time, now 3 years ago, I’ve waited for you to show up and surprise me. Just like when I was a child… my first school play, when I made the speech at my graduation, my 16th birthday party… I vividly remember all too well glancing out at the crowds, really thinking that maybe you would come show up out of the blue and just be my mom. I had forgotten you when I was 18 and went to college. My logic finally kicked my ass and I was fine not knowing you. I’m sorry, but I can’t help but think sometimes if we were better off- if I was better off- when you were dead.

And now, 3 years later, I find myself doing the same thing. I even looked out nervously in the audience when I was in my play. I feel stupid.

Do you remember promising me on New Years 2015 that this was our year? You said, “This is our year, babe. I just know it. We’re going to meet.”

I wish I could believe you when you say you’re clean and sober. I wish you could just be my fucking mom. I wish that you could be the mom that I defended all my years as a child. As a CHILD! I was 6 years old and all I was ever told by my grandfather was that you were a street whore and a drug addict- and I defended you. For what?

I wish you would leave your abusive husband: if not for me, then for you. I want you to realize how much you’re worth. I want you to make something out of your life and just be happy for once.

I hate that I’m even in this situation. I hate that I have to worry about you. I hate that I wake up with the feeling that this could be the day you’re going to overdose and die. I hate feeling worried.

Maybe I’m throwing myself a pity party, but I think I deserve one. I want my mom. But you’re not my mom.

It’s easy for me to tell people that I love them. Even if I have just met someone, I feel love and I’m very expressive with it. I wish I felt the love that may or may not be there for you. Mostly, it’s apathy and numbness. Then, it’s sadness, hopelessness. Love is buried there, I’m sure. I can’t feel it.

I can’t do this anymore. It’s not fair to me and on some level, it’s not fair to you. I spent YEARS trying to let you go. When I finally came to peace with letting you go, you came back into my life. I have to let you go again. This time, it’s an option. See, before it was a different story; you were dead. You were gone. I didn’t have a choice. But now, you’re alive and you’re somewhat tangible.

I have to let you go. I am killing myself over you and I can’t do this anymore.

I never let anyone go. If I’m anything like you, Mom, I stay. Regardless of how much shit a person could put me through, I stay like a loyal dog, patient and hopeful that maybe one day that person will realize that they love me.

What a paradox. You were the first person I literally ever had to let go of. You’re the major reason I have such a deep-rooted fear of abandonment. Maybe I’m growing as a person. Maybe I’m stronger now. I let go of you once. I need to do it again, despite the pain and the fear laughing in my face.

I am you. Your eyes, nose, lips, ears, hands, eyebrows and cheekbones. Your addiction, your dark humour, your love for animals. Your resilience, for whatever it’s worth.

I’m so fucking sad. I fought so fucking hard to convince myself that you had a drug problem, that you were younger and more stupid. I had to convince myself that you loved me and that you didn’t just give me away because you didn’t care about me. I literally spent my entire life convincing myself that you wanted me.

You have come into my life and have destroyed that for me. If anything, you have only confirmed that you don’t want me. I am a commodity. I am a bragging right to the little friends you have.

I am the final proof of something that you have touched and have not turned to shit.

I refuse to be vendible.

Now I am left to put my pieces back together. But don’t worry. I have done this before.
I won’t let you ruin me.

I am letting you go. I am letting you go.

I Keep Listening to Trent Reznor

I wish I could give a straight answer.. when she asks me, “What’s wrong?”… I wish I could be certain and say I’m just feeling depressed, or angry, or moody- any definitive answer would be great. It’s frustrating for her. It’s frustrating for me.

I feel like a broken record.

The closest feeling I can think of is empty. My handy thesaurus spits these synonyms out: cold, devoid, hollow, uninhabited, vacant, deflated, depleted, exhausted.

I keep drumming it up to the simple med change I’ve had. Maybe that’s it. It’s not ALL day, either. I feel okay most of the time. Sure, I have moments of wanting to take a pair of scissors to wrist, wanting to jump off of a building, that sort of thing. Fleeting feelings of which I will take no action upon.

Although, the paramedics that came to my aid last night seemed slightly convinced otherwise; they offered several times to drive me over to the hospital for an evaluation. I told them I was fine. I just had a panic attack. No big deal. I passed out and dissociated for a second. No big deal.

I have them quasi-frequently now. No big deal. I had a flashback the other morning of being pulled into a van, forced to go down on some guy. I kept hearing him say, “What did you do? What did you do?” over and over, because I bit down on him. Hard. No big deal.

And remember when I found my best friend in his back house when he tried to hang himself? We were in 8th grade. We’d walk to school together. He lives on the other side of the tracks, literally…. flashbacks.

No big deal.

As long as I keep myself cool, calm, and collected, I can handle anything that pops my way.

Goldie told me that it’s time for me to accept help again from everyone else. I did a fantastic job steering us away from immediate danger after his suicide, but now, I need to take a breath. Let the medication do it’s thing. Go to therapy. Accept help.

I’m having trouble asking for help. Since the very beginning of this month, I handled everything and made it through with minimal assistance. Now I’m experiencing a slight turbulence in regards to anxiety. But, I can do it.

I’m okay. I’m sorry I don’t have any straight answers… I have just felt floopered every now and then. I’m OKAY though. Everything is okay.

Usually, when I feel like this, I want to curl up and be held. Human contact, affection, warmth, love, familiarity. Right now, I want to crawl beneath the earth and bury myself. Do you see my predicament? I feel FINE. I’m not depressed. Yet, I want to simply disappear.

Maybe I just feel angry? Slightly hostile? Angry at what, I’m not entirely sure. Well, fuck, maybe that’s the emotion. I would love to punch something really hard.

It is kind of “that time of the month” as well. My hormones are just all jumbled up. No big deal.

Fuck it, scratch everything I just said. I’m totally okay.

Proteus

Please excuse the silence.

A few nights ago, there was an internal shift which sent me into a seizure. These have happened before; the convulsing, the blood coming from somewhere in my mouth. I’ve been tested numerous times for epilepsy,diabetes, etc. There’s really no medical reason other than stress. I was released from the ER around 6:30 am. My girlfriend and I went back to her apartment, slept for a few hours, then she was off to work and I was off to group.

Yesterday morning as I drove to group, I felt extremely different and movie-like. I feel this quite often. Usually, the movie revolves around a victim and a detective. I’m almost always the victim. However, this time, I was the criminal. I had- or we had?- fleeting homicidal ideation.

There is a security gate to the hospital building. You need to be buzzed in. When we approached the gate, *I* was pulled out of my body and began watching everything as a ghost. The door buzzed. He smirked. Loud music thudded in my head as I watched this. It was as if he had just gotten away with murder as he pushed the gate open and walked through the therapy bungalow.

Whenever this happens, I watch the movie as if I’ve watched it a hundred times before; I always have an idea of how it “ends.” This particular movie was about a serial killer right before a rampage. I don’t get the feeling that it is a pointless rampage. I feel an underlying current of vengeance.

Today I’m speaking to my doctor about Abilify. She recommended Abilify and Latuda to stabilize my paranoia and hallucinations.

I didn’t sleep last night. I was so convinced that someone was in the house with me. I could hear footsteps and breathing. My dogs are here and logically I know that they would notify me if anyone were actually in the house.

Anyways, it’s not all negative news. I do feel that I’m gaining more strength from therapy. My girlfriend came in for a quick family session and I found it to be very beneficial. I also found how strong our relationship actually is. Not that I didn’t know that before, but talking it out aloud really opened my eyes.

Intruders and Injustice

I have been marvelously intrigued, and perhaps a bit preoccupied, with life’s small forms and their humbling moments of death.

My body seems to stumble upon carcasses on the road, limp corpses of moths and other worthy insects caught in the vents of my vehicle. Each and every time, I linger- almost as if I had just received news of a loved one passing on. I pause here in honor of their simple quiddities, laconicly spilling out a prayer so that they may reach their bug heaven, wherever that may be found.

It sounds rather trivial and puerile. Call it a fascination.

I talked to my grandmother this past Friday about my cousin and the incest. The conversation itself was a success. She shared with me that she had encountered a very similar circumstance with a much older male family member. Although justice was nowhere to be found, I did feel validated as her daughter and granddaughter.

The weekend came and went. Friday was difficult for many reasons. I mostly was triggered to relapse on a needle; I had to have my blood drawn for a lithium level check and the needle and rubber ties were too much for me to handle. I went spinning into a panic attack while in group. I could hear Senka crying over the bruised vein (he had to stick me twice). Overall, it was a traumatizing experience.

My appetite is still trying to get back to where it was. Last night I ate more, which is good.

Everything is okay right now.

Well, actually, I sitting here at my desk with a knife at arm’s reach. I came home about 40 minutes ago. I had turned the corner and saw that the backdoor was wide open. So, butcher knife in hand, I quietly swept all the rooms, closets, under-the-beds, and crevices. No one. I could smell my perpetrator’s cologne, but I think that’s just my go-to sensation when I’m scared. Nothing seemed to be missing or out of place. Still, I feel just slightly uneasy.

My debit card for disability finally came in the mail, so I feel very relieved about that.

No more to report for now. One more day of PHP.