Other people’s stories…

I need a new name for it; it being a collection of poetry I want to complete and publish. I want it to be similar to the title of this bog post. In an attempt to protect the few folks I care for/about I want to write from the first or third person…I have stories to tell…I have incites…but being the witness does not give me a right to fully tell them. To tell them fully I’d have to explain who they are in context to me. And poetry lends itself to bend and tell through emotion…the hole truth is less important…people do not require names…. While I tend to write fiction…I know fact and fiction find themselves in bed together in unexpected ways.

I need to write the pain out… I need to tell these stories…I need to heal.

I don’t have anything nice to say…

A really good friend of mine’s mom was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. It seems like it was caught early enough and with a mastectomy. Her road to recovery will be rough, but remission looks like a reasonable expectation. However, it still sucks and is shit and unfair. This woman stepped in a lot when I was younger and while most people don’t deserve cancer…she sure as shit doesn’t.

Now there is my mother. Who underwent risky, but ‘text book’ brain surgery before Christmas. She was doing well physically and had her stitches recently removed. But where is she now…in the hospital with a thumb size (not sure if it is the tip or finger) wound and infected. Just in case there was any doubt…it was self-inflicted. I got the news via text from my aunt because neither of my brothers wanted to call me…

Rationally I get it. I was lobbying for her to be commitment because she has been indicating that her good fortune and health was not what she desired. And for reason of guilt, and who knows what else they disagreed. So I have more or less washed my hands of it, but again this makes me bad. Rather than not enabling and valuing my own self-health. My mother is toxic…and idk if I’d even call her that…my mother didn’t come home 20 years ago…but i guess that this is who she is now. So the last thing they want to hear is ‘I told you so’ which I wouldn’t say to them. It isn’t productive…and it doesn’t help.

So here I am wishing it was my mother with cancer…not planning on seeing my mother because I’m done with the games…and idk hsgshjfdgbjsfjgskjhkgsajksadagjase…trying hard not to climb into a large bottle and burning my world….

My average relationship is 1.6-2yrs max…

I joke that I’m a serial monogamous with a high turn over rate. But there is always some truth to these types of things. I don’t do the getting to know you part of dating well. I’ve always been an all or nothing kind of person which often times isn’t a good thing because I don’t put that conviction to good use.

I had a philosophy professor who mentioned that people get high off of each other for a while…Scientists refer to this as the ‘love’ drug. It can be as addicting as cocaine…and it typically lasts for 2 yrs, but everyone one is different and it can wear off as early as 12 months.

It explains a lot….

Stress is always a trigger.

It is almost time for me to go back to a therapist formally. I’m having nightmares regularly. I woke my partner up and asked him to just hold me. I wasn’t crying…small victories. But I was shaking…and it felt so real. I’m starting to remember more through these experiences. It has been a long time since I’ve experienced a ‘trigger’ while awake, but I’m reliving them in my sleep.

The other night I remembered how my sibling (4 yrs older) used to torture me. And I don’t mean ‘normal’ sibling stuff. I mean chased me around the house with a sharp night. I’m talking about belting me to a chair and then leaving for three hours. And while these acts traumatized me (to the point where I tried to kill myself at 12) I realized that it was my parents not listening to me when I told them that upsets me the most. I spend have my dream crying out to them…asking or help…to make it stop… but nothing…

the only reason it did was because my sibling awoke from their own trauma and pain when they stopped me from killing myself. They say what I was willing to do..and for the first time I became human again. They saved me and I saved them. Normally I wouldn’t forgive or excuse an abuser. But they were a child too…trying to work through their own pain. They are not that person anymore and haven’t been since I was 12 which is over 15 years. Some people are so broken they don’t know how to be around anyone else without inflicting pain. Pain is their only language and they are a victim too.

Things I’d say to my father if we were not mutually estranged

I’ll start with a little context…my father and I have not seen each-other in about 5 years. We have not spoken on the phone in at least 3 (ball park…drunken voice-mails don’t count) and we haven’t communicated in about a year. If he is following old patterns he will reach out via facebook after consuming a bit of wine and tell me about how sad he is. It will be inspired by the holidays and while I do not doubt he misses me…it is more the idea of me that he misses. I will remind him of what it would take to have a REAL FUNCTIONING relationship and he will not respond therefore indicating he is not ready to have said relationship. Therefore we will sever ties once again because I can’t be who he wants and he can’t be what I need. It is mutual. He is only capable of kind of trying and he can only pass that off as something to one of his 3 children at a time. Any updates I would need about health I could get from said one child (my second eldest brother) and any information he wants to know second hand he (my father) can get from same brother. Again it is mutual. I no longer call drunk….

However on nights like tonight I wish I could talk to my dad about of the few things we still agree on more than our current peace treaty. And that is racism…institutionalized racism. How the USA loves jails for black men and woman (and other people of color). How they wish to keep these oppressed people pacified. I would like to sadly tell him that he is right and the things that made him preach when I was too young to fully understand are STILL true. That in 27 years america is still broken. We are unable to admit the past therefore we are WILLFULLY ignorant of the present. WE can not sit by silent…something has to give. I want to tell him I’m mad…i’m made at the white man. I’m mad at myself for not knowing how to do more. I’d want to know what he thinks. I’d like to cry…I’d like to tell him I was listening…that I remember…I understand prison culture…that even our light skinned president is hated for being anything other than all white. And I’d like to tell him that he did somethings right…that he spoke up ALWAYS when he read something or heard something he didn’t agree with. That I understand why he regretted not having a more diverse area for us to grow up in. I want to tell him while I couldn’t go to any protests, but I was glued to twitter and any news outlet waiting for a verdict…that I was visibly upset and spoke to the only other kid watching about how fucked up all this was. How my professor knew we were doing other things than following along. And I didn’t hide my discontent. A 12 year old boy was killed today and while I haven’t always agreed with his views on guns…I’m starting to. A woman had to settle today because that was her best option. And it is FUCKED UP. And it is so much more than that…and my dad would know these things…and he would help me understand all the emotions that I’m feeling…he would remind me to keep speaking out…he would tell me to focus on art…and it would be nice to know that I’m not the only white person moved to tears by our own people…

Another free write…another (rough) draft

I’m having difficulty properly formatting the poem…I’ve added  horizontal lines to help indicate tittle or stanzas for more readability…

My Struggle with ‘trigger warnings’

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I have housed PTSD for over two decades,

like an emotional parasite consuming only functioning relationships.

But it wasn’t until recently I had a name for what causes

the out of context full body hallucinations…triggers…

on a good day it takes me a half-hour

to regain composure once activated. When I was younger I would go months

without remembering how joy felt. I’d forget gloom, and

stay indifferent. I think that is why

the story of the princess who couldn’t wake-up while being raped

spoke to me. The irony of her name…Sleeping Beauty.

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I lost my innocence before I knew I was supposed to have it.

I’d memorize all the ‘tips’ the teachers had for avoiding what had already happened…

as if replaying the events with this new information could have prevented it… bad touch…if a touch could be bad what does it say about the person receiving it.

I’d kneel in church praying for forgiveness as the preacher

pontificated about sin and purity. Convinced he was talking directly to me

with God’s words. Not knowing that free will meant consent.

---

I worried about the horrors I must have committed in my past life.

After all, the more violent the rape the more I deserved it. Or at least

that is what the statistics of a trial taught me.

Girls like me become reckless women inviting their inevitable destruction.

Or at least that is what the newscaster reports of the 14 year-old rape victim that

was bullied-to-death.  Even our lifeless bodies aren’t believed.

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I struggle with trigger warnings because they aren’t universal. Trauma comes in many forms…

and the debate is about the need, but not eliminating the causes.

Free writes…

I ‘worked’ through lunch, but really I was having an hour long free write. I stayed until my normal leaving time, but I didn’t want to be disturbed.

My mother had brain surgery…which made me take a strong look at my life…my family…our past and our potential future. Things went well, which I’ve decided is a good thing.

Below is a revision/rough draft from said free write:

You should be ashamed of yourself.

I could tell you the story about how I was too young

to see the broken woman looking at me

with my mother’s eyes. As she sent me into the store,

alone, to buy bread & milk.

I could tell you about how I laughed

because she didn’t send me with money, but food stamps…without explanation.

They were bright and resembled bills from a board game.

I laughed because I couldn’t understand why these adults would accept fake money,

letting me leave with a few items…they had to be stupid,

or at least that is what I told my brother.

My laughter and inexperience would ease your discomfort.

But I’ve spent too much time

drifting between truth and omission,

enabling others to find their own lies.  Which is why

I’m going to tell you a different story. The one about

how when asked; ‘Where are you from?’

I’d answer with the geographic location because

poverty was my zip code.

My summers weren’t spent in a cottage by the ocean…

they were spent in front of a window fan…the only competing sounds were from the cars

that made only left turns down at the track.

And on really hot nights were weren’t allowed out after dark

because there would be drunks pissing in our side yard.

My parents had to sue our town to stop a corrupt politician

from breaking zoning codes. I went to bed hungry…

despite my father’s two jobs.

This isn’t a ‘bootstrap’ story…I didn’t go to the dentist

until I was an adult. But I got braces at 27…I don’t work in a factory,

but my brother does. I’m earning my B.S., but my sister has a GED.

This story isn’t for you; it’s for the children of alcoholics and teenaged mothers. Clichés

aren’t worthy of us.  I’ve broken the cycle even with barriers to entry.
‘Passing’ isn’t enough…hunger isn’t something I can forget,

but it is something I will end.

New Rule…

My family life is a bit complicated and if it was up to me (which I know on almost all levels it really is) I’d cut ties with the majority of people because they are toxic. The issue being (and why it isn’t completely up to me) is that other people I love dearly stay in contact with these people and it is just easier for me to not burn every bridge like I often think about…

I was abused at a very young age for a long period of time (over a year). As a result I suffer with/from PTSD. The older I get the worse the night terrors seem to be…or maybe they are back on the level that they were when it had all first happened. However, it has taken me a long time to understand what it is I’ve been living with. I knew I had PTSD because my mother has boundary issues and has spent the majority of my life telling everyone and anyone what happened to me. Not as an attempt for others to be sensitive to my needs/issues, but as an excuse for her failures. She has used my abuse as if it was her own. So people can tell her how strong, how sad, how tragic it must be for her. Sadly her mental health is complicated. She is an addict (which I’ve only recently come to understand) and she is bi-polar. These are real issues that I would be (more) sensitive to, but she is destructive and often times toxic. I’ve not been able to process my own issues because I’ve been taking care of her for so long. I don’t think that I will ever get the closure I need from her directly due to the complex nature of her health (which I choose not to go into further at this time).

Her brother is mentally handy-cap and it was his ‘friend’ who hurt me. The other night he broke down and cried telling me how sorry he was for what happened to me. It was NEVER my uncle’s fault…he wasn’t there. The man used him so he could hurt me. But the conversation brought up something I don’t think I’ve ever fully dealt with.

I’m sick of my family using MY ABUSE as their own. NO ONE is allowed to claim that what happened to me has impacted their life in a more meaningful way which almost all of them have. I understand these types of things impact people differently, but they are being selfish and narcissistic….

I’ve been crying in my sleep again…

“Bad dreams” are all I’ve been able to call them…if the terror moves into my conciseness and allows me to escape whatever horror I’m reliving or imagining…trapped in. Some nights they aren’t so bad and I’ll know my dreams weren’t kind because I awake a little sad and feeling like I’ve been awake (but spaced out). I don’t want to talk about them…and even if I did they are more emotions than words. But I was 3 when the initial trauma happened so it makes sense that my night terrors haven’t evolved past colors/emotions into something more….every now and again they take on a form and i will wake-up heart racing and fearful to go back to sleep….When I’m in a limbo of bad but not the worst I’ve been known to cry…whimmper….my lover will gently wake me up and ask if I’m ok. I don’t remember the crying or that I stopped…normally over breakfast another check in will happen and I’m not angry or embarrassed it comes in waves but often enough that I’m reminded how much I’m loved…no one else noticed enough to wake me…or even ask about it…

After reading YesALLWomen on twitter and adding a few of my own my dreams weren’t pleasant but sometimes I need that….its been years since I’ve been ‘glad’ that I’m not alone…I’m fucking furious. The older I get the more experiences I feel/read/see and the angrier I get…how can we live in a world so full of injustice and hate?!?!? Where racism goes unchecked, people are exploited, and woman & children aren’t safe….

 

A lot has already been written…most better than mine and some a lot worse….but I’ll end this with my own tweets before I get lost in a hamster wheel and quit sleep…

because somehow sexual harassment is a ‘compliment’ and ‘well can you blame him’ is an appropriate response to voicing outrage

 

Nightmares aren’t something that just children have…the war on woman is real…I’ve got the PTSD to prove it

 

‘No’ means ‘no’ until she is broken down…because when she speaks… He only hears what he wants

What Netflix (and other technology) has taught me…

I  binge…I think that if I was honest with myself I’ve always known that I didn’t have a healthy relationship with anything…it isn’t just the shows.  I’ve been an all or nothing type person…it was partly why I was a C/D student and could have been an A (B in math…and Spanish) student in high school…and why I struggled the first go at collage.  I’ve equated food and with love and I’m not even sure where that link came from. I think it started with my grandmother, but it wasn’t anything spoken. My mother’s own eating disorder didn’t help. I was depressed for so long that I don’t think I every really noticed a pattern…because I didn’t eat (much) and slept a lot. It got to the point where I didn’t notice how little food my father kept in the house.

I drink to excess…but my favorite is when i do both.  Go on a diet, but allow myself a cheat day and workout at the gym for two hours…

I’ve stopped going to the gym, but  I’m ready to go back. I log my food and my work outs. I might never lose weight…but I’m at a healthy spot…I even try to monitor my sleep.