So, there is finally a bit of light through the darkness and fatalistic thoughts.
Sir Raven is evidently feeling well enough that she went back to work today. i slept out on my playpen last night to make sure she got a good night sleep and wasn’t preoccupied with me talking in my sleep or moaning in pain when she’d roll and the bed would bounce. She didn’t ask me to or anything, but it was the only helpful thing i could really do.
The meds are en route, finally at fucking last.
Sir Raven made an amazing meal last night and felt well enough to sit in the living room for a while. She gently rebuked me for my angst and frustration that i can’t get my endless lists done right now, saying she does not understand how i am feeling angsty about something i cannot do, and furthermore am ordered to not do.
She is right. My ability to feel joy about obedience is non existent. i’m shuffling through the chores i can do, trying to not get a panic attack from my heart racing and otherwise beating strangely, and trying to rest and not have fatalistic fantasies. The cool and logical part of my brain is well versed, calmly reminding me this is just the meds problems, nothing more.
i had a momentary flashback the other day, of when my mother would insist upon taking us to a (in)famous Mega Church in Orlando, where we spent at least two days a week, 8 hours at a time. My mere desire to NOT be there with people emoting all over the place, speaking in tongues, and passing out on the floor was proof that demons were possessing me and i was forced into therapy at the same church for that reason.
After a particularly grueling Sunday of it, where in the middle my mother was praying at the car and i didn’t know and had asked her something and she hit me, i was totally drained. It was around 9 at night by this point, and we had been there since 8am, with a break for a meal that never took place. i didn’t want to go to school the next day and was busily sulking in a 12 year old silent fury. She decided to respond by stopping the car in the middle of Orange Blossom Trail, in a section of secluded highway with nothing for miles in any direction, and shoved me out of the car before driving off.
i remember screaming after the lights, and for the first time i felt the steely rod of determination go down my spine for me.
i got into the next car that came down the highway, some fifteen minutes to half hour later. He told me he had children in college, and somehow the instantly disarmed me, along with him saying he would not hurt me, and that if i stayed out there alone someone else wood. He had a nice car, was dressed well, and ironically had the last name Knight.
What more could you ask for, right?
When i said that this part of me that had always walked alone, this is the part i mean. The 12 year old kid, abandoned in the dark on the side of the road, living a life where no one seemed to see that i was very obviously abused. My mother had always told us that strangers were not what we had to worry about in life; it’s the people you know who will get you in the end.
This was not the first time she had pulled a dramatic stunt of negligence and abuse in the name of “tough love,” or “discipline,” or because she was an “abused parent.”
This is the part of me that when you expect me to fall apart in the middle of the road i will show you that i won’t-come what may.
It’s also the part of me that still feels like what i do when i run away is somehow manage to get myself raped and injured.
And so its a twisty game that goes back and forth between feeling pride that i won’t fall apart and feeling shame because there is some kind of sign over my head that reads “Rape me.”
The fact that i have many times dealt with, and sometimes perversely enjoyed, rape in intimate relationships is no accident.
i was reading last week a text book which pointed out that shame is a collectivist emotion, in the sense that you don’t experience shame as a singular event. That is guilt-something you feel about yourself alone. Shame is connected to others, a deep sense that you are bad, and that this badness will effect other people. So it makes sense why i have bouts of shame but not guilt. i’m very collectivist bent, thinking about the whole first, more interested generally in group harmony than individual harmony.
i don’t know. i know it’s the meds and read the delightful withdraw symptoms, which i quit doing years ago because there is just no point anymore. i swallow what i’m told to swallow.
Inside i feel like i’m back on that highway in the dark, the one kids used to make fun of girls with. The “queen of OBT” is slang for a prostitute in parts of Florida. So, it lends a bit of irony that this is where my mother shoved me out of the car.
It’s amazing i can fuck at all or that i’m not a walking panic attack.
It’s just the meds.
It’s just the meds.
It’s just the meds.