A thousand spinning dreams

Some days, i am more floating around my body than in it.  There is absolutely no way i can consider doing any intern work in this shape.  i’m one step away from the goddamned Yellow Wallpaper, crazy lady trapped in the design.

It might be one step, but it’s an important distinction.

My sense of identity and worth are pretty non existent.  Look, Ma, no walls!

i hate going outside.  The weather is unseasonably warm and i want to enjoy it.  i’m just so tired, so bone tired, that doing anything seems overwhelming.  Trying to decide which fork to wash first might be the most mentally challenging decision i can make.  Plus, i seem to be emitting some kind of Ode To Girl, or Hint of Prey, kind of odor.  Men call me princess, not mami.  They touch my frigging hair.  i feel the stares.  It’s  exhausting.

i’ve come to realize-in layers-that the indicators i light up for on autism are also true of the failure-to-thrive kids.  And it would be true of a four year old who had already learned the basic tenent of Stockholm Syndrome: the more you please the Leader, the better your chances of survival.  Thats why i was collecting shiny rocks to please my mother.  i kept them in my socks, all day, and felt them scratching and uncomfortable.  Already, i was wanting to prove my devotion, demonstrate i’d hurt myself to please.

Then i sort of screwed the pooch and spent a couple of years either being dumped out, or running away.  Usually both.  Everyone wanted to have me and no one wanted to keep me.  Each throbbing Dick my mother brought into the house, generally someone she hardly knew, would tell me i’d make a perfect wife one day.

i can’t apologize for it anymore.

Hell, yes, i was a child whore.

And maybe that is all i am.

i’m not ashamed of that.  It’s real. Raw. Honest.

i didn’t turn out anything like the Magnificent Cunt.

i still can’t stand to see a man cry.  i want to wrap him in my arms forever.  i want to love that boy child inside.  i just was too secluded, my family operated more like a cult than i care to confess.  i didn’t understand that they’d find ways to lash out for me being the safe one to do it to.  There is really nothing that my family can’t laugh about.

For years, when my mother would hang up the goddamn phone for once, she’d announce a forced march to a relatives house for the semi-annual visit.  I’d holler out of my room: “Great.  Did you remember to tell them i’m still fat?  Did you use the word disgusting, because thats the money shot?”  and my brother would join in false cheer voices with me to add, “Did you tell them i’m still a drug addicted loser?”  And we would laugh and light a joint.  Sometimes share a sibling fist bump before it became a thing.  i loved him.  i still do.

There is this—strange thing.  i realized years ago that there was something in one man that reminding me of my sibling bond.  We had this very incest relationship, where he would learn to yield power from the age of five.  He is also one of two men in my life to tell me that it’s better for me to share something in the moment, because he will raise immortal hell for me, but be aware he’s setting it on fire.  His base attitude toward me has ranged from childhood hatred, because i loved him and took care of him in ways our mother wouldn’t to benevolent dictator.

We had our own kind of foxhole twin speak.

He got to have all of the masculine joys of fighting, fucking, drugging.  i waited on him, in nearly the same manner as i do for any Master that comes into this house.  i didn’t tell him no, piss him off, or get in his face often.  i can only think of twice i exploded at him in our adult lives.

From his perspective, he has shown tremendous restraint.

He has called and said things -admitted urges-and i’m the fantasy behind all of it.

He spent years waiting to deliver the cruelest possible punishment for his father being a pedophile.  He was suppressing fantasies about raping me, and my unconditional love, my unflinching defense of his rights.  That would have been easier to handle, by far, then the ways he ended up punishing me.  i hope that my departure from his life has brought him some kind of peace.  Some resolution.

i have been seeing him in dreams.

At this point, i have a cold and detached ability to analyze it out.  i think like a scientist.  Everything points to needing to be contained right now.  i’m still standing tall.  Focus on being kind.  Keeping sweet.  Music blasts down the shame tape.

Today, it’s Wrecking Ball.

Perfect fit for then, for now.

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Daring

I’m trying to unwind the tight ball in my mind.  Slowly.  Carefully.

The thing is, a few weeks ago i came totally undone.  With a witness.  On the Frigging Phone.  Four years of anger, pain, confusion, self-loathing, humiliation, shame, and betrayal mixed with love, loyalty, dedication, quality, sweat, work, desire, and adoration- it all came tumbling out.  In the span of an hour.

For funsies, i expressed actual emotion.  Not the deadly calm me, that i love and rely upon.  Not the dispassionate observer.  This me was profoundly hysterical. Screaming at God, rocking on the floor, with your arms wrapped around yourself kind of hysteria.  I think of the monkey study, where they would starve in order to have contact and warmth.

And then i got up, washed me face, put on make-up, smiled, took her coat.  i served meat loaf.  A few hours in, i figured she was relaxed at least and tried to explain.  i got as far as saying that i had something very disturbing happen, some giant crack opened, and i was concerned.  i told her who i had talked to and she said she wanted to watch her show.

She doesn’t remember it that way, but this is my nervous breakdown, so i assume it’s pretty normal we have a difference of opinions.

The fact is, regardless, another month has gone by without ever really talking about it.  i tried three times, which is bordering on nag to me.

Somehow, when Brenee Brown does her TED talk and says she had a nervous breakdown when she couldn’t storm in and kick vulnerabilities ass in her own therapy sessions, i instantly think, i really like her.  

Yet,

i’m feeling unlikeable. i’m feeling unlovable. i’ve been in a prolonged shame spiral, for various reasons related to losing my sense of identity.  i have moments of creating laughter, or enjoying just remembering that i have sensuality.  Mostly, i just try to keep up with chores and errands and stay away sharp objects. lol.

i have friends who have been very daring, people who felt some major shift was happening, and reached out.  Texted. Emailed. Called.  In all of the vulnerable moments in life, asking someone if they are suicidal is pretty damn high on the list.  And i’ve had friends who cared enough to ask.  i’ve had friends who know the answer, and therefore don’t need to ask.  i have friends for whom asking forms a legal and ethical commitment to act, even if that action will result in greater harm to the person.  It’s not something i would act on because i believe that creates a ripple effect which is unknown and is not good karma.  i also think you don’t get an out if it’s not one of your souls times to leave.  So, no.  Nothing to worry about.

i have also hurt people, i’m sure, when i was so focused on being kind. Holding up my end.  Having to wait for the next surgery.  Sometimes, that has left me no emotional room to reach back.

My worth, the only worth i have left, the only part of identity i still have intact, is that of servant.  That was almost removed.

Systematically i’ve been told that i’m not needed here.  Perhaps i’m more exotic animal at this point.  Like having a wolf living in your apartment.

i feel like i’ve been drowning for months, and finally got that last, desperate push for air.

That?  It’s daring.

i need to go to my grandmother’s grave.  That’s where i go when i want to ask, “why?”

This time, i know most of the answers.