Late Night Pain

The nicotine stained walls

Bear witness

But no one else.

The windows covered with sheer,

Silky curtains                   

Not intended

For the rough skin I wear

They soak in the yellow

Of the cigarette burning

In this ashtray by my elbow

Ashes drift carelessly

As I flick them mindlessly

Swimming in the words of a song

That says all that I can’t

My pills nearby

I hold a beer – it’s my third

I know it’s wrong

It’s also reactive.

It’s like a pitchfork

Jamming into me

I don’t bleed, no….

I simply compound this pain

That I feel entitled to.

With each beer,

That entitlement strengthens

Eventually the beer and the song

They’re not enough.

The smoke goes out.

It’s just me and the dark

And the lonely

And the entitlement

And a razor blade.

Dreams

Can't see beyond myself
This chiseled vessel of mine
Turning to dreams
Small wormholes of the mind
Tiny snippets, seconds long
A dot on the fabric of time
I plead and pray and beg
Please, please this night
A whisper, a glimpse;
A secret, a sight
Tell me anything
Give me a clue
I can't seem to get it
So I count on you
My dreams....
My dark, distant dreams.

No Defense

I'm completely immobile. Nothing tastes right; nothing feels right; nothing smells right; nothing works right. I can't tell if I'm hungry or if I'm in pain.

It seems like I've been working so hard for so long- since 2011 - on an abusive history I still am unable to grasp as my own. I've done all this work....God...I've done all this work, I've seen things in myself, my behaviors, my coping mechanisms that are broken and self-sabotaging. I've gawked at the realizations, cried, beaten myself up in more ways than I can say; more often and longer than I can say.

And then I get to this point where I feel I can reach out and be honest and I can understand - at least in part - why I react so quickly and dramatically to the thought of losing someone I love. In particular, my kids.

I literally panic.

I will do anything, fight anyone. I won't lose my kids. The reason is because I consider them to be the only family I've ever had.

So now...now that I reach that point where I can (and have) literally reached out to them all and begged their forgiveness and asked them for something a child should never need to be asked - support, encouragement, understanding as I work through all his mess and try to be a better person - they're falling away like flies.

I shake my head. I cry. I am stunned. I don't understand. I beg. I even pray. I wish to God at least SHE would listen but she's become someone I would never raise. She's my daughter but I'm nothing to her. Everyone says "she'll come around." Yeah....but that's not enough for me. I don't care. I'm so tired. I've been there. I probably saved her life and am constantly persecuted for it, though I'd do it again.

It's so simple. So easy to understand, but she won't even listen.

And even worse, takes, yet, another family member away. My new granddaughter. I'm reticent to even use the words "my granddaughter" since I've not been privy to any photos or videos which she's apparently sharing widely and proudly on facebook.





I sit for hours and half-listen to shows or videos about people who've lost loved ones and how they wish they could have them back for just one moment, just to say I love you.

And then I think how cruel it is, that we have these moments, but I'm nothing...not even worth an "I love you."

I hear these stories of people who could have done something to stop the disappearance of someone or the death of someone, but didn't and I shake my head. 

Nobody says a thing. Nobody tells the truth.

Everyone's scared to get involved.

Jesus Christ.

Why even continue doing it?

Only One

I've had about 30 hours of sleep in the last 36 (thank you Nyquil). The few hours I've been up, I've been lost. I took the Nyquil after deciding last night that I was going to commit suicide but then, using a tactic I've used before, told myself I would wait until tomorrow and if I still felt the same, I would do it then. As I lay down, restless, anxious, angry, hurt....I fantasized about ways to do it. I have a lot of pills I can take. I sometimes hoard them...."just in case." But I know from experience, that overdosing doesn't really work and best scenario you end up with smiley shoes on the fourth floor of some cold, God-forsaken hospital for three days until you say the right things to get out. So I thought of other ways, in addition to the pills. I thought of the order in which I would take the pills. I thought of ways to build a "tent" for carbon monoxide poisoning. Perhaps a bag over my head, too. I would close the bedroom door. Trevor would never know. Nobody would find me until I was gone. Maybe I'd use my old, illegal, beat up car and drive somewhere and hide. But then I thought maybe the cops would see me and pull me over. Then I'd really be screwed. I even tried to figure out ways I could smuggle in my meds in case I did get arrested but that wouldn't work either: The meds would need time to kick in, plus they'd find me before I could die. I fantasized about using a big black sharpie to write "DNR" all over my arms and chest and even my forehead. I figured I'd probably have to do it on paper and then trace it since doing it in the mirror could prove difficult.

Every purpose I had to live, is leaving or dying. My fault for putting purposes on people, instead of myself, most would say.

But most wouldn't know I am no purpose. I have no purpose. I know, I know....and I've heard it all. My existence alone, changes the world. Yada...yada...yada...

Appeasement does not work for me.

All the work I've done on myself has been so honest and intentional.

But for naught.

I still have my pills hidden. (I hid them in case my therapist instructed my friend to hide them from me). I still have not gotten them out. I still haven't entirely changed my mind.

I have therapy tomorrow.

I have almost nothing to say.

I am so numb. So, so numb.

Voiceless, wordless, needless.

Nothing. Obviously.

Like stone

1:30 in the morning;
Another bad dream
Arise you idiot
I silently scream

Shake it off--
My logical voice.
My God, how I try
too much noise

I sit visiting the dark
At my beat-up desk
Mentally wiping
The hurt from my chest

I try to read or breathe
Watch a film til it's done
Nothing works
And 4:30 comes

I take Nyquil
Just to quiet my head
But the dream remains
As I lay down in bed

The lump is there
The struggle is rough
The first sob escapes
Silent but tough

I will not cry
I think in my mind
Another sob
And another behind

Tears fall like pebbles
Tiny dings as they hit
Soaking my pillow
Making my hair stick

I beat myself up
Fool! Idiot! Baby! I hear
But they keep on,
More and more tears

Another bad dream
Same four nights in a row
Set on repeat
I cry to my pillow.

44

Today is my birthday. Here, at home, Bill & Trevor gave me cards and some gifts. I was so happy with the gifts and the cards (Bill's card made my eyes tear up a bit)

I don't think it's this way with everyone, but for me, after a certain age, they start to just kind of roll by so fast you don't pay much attention to them (I didn't even know how old I was going to be lol).

Today I got a text message from my mom - Cindy - and from my surrogate daughter - Hannah. It's not a card...no. And not a present... but it WAS a gift. A gift from them both.

And it's not that I don't appreciate the dozens of birthday wishes online on FB because I do but I also recognize FB tells folks when it's your birthday so many wished me a happy birthday....

Including my own daughter. No phone call. Not even a text.

That hurt.

The only consolation was the two texts I got from Cindy and Hannah for which I am grateful (Hannah even remembers our "anniversary" lol)

I have not heard from my oldest yet. I get choked up thinking about it because I've always believed (an have modeled) that birthdays should begin with a happy note in the morning so you can celebrate that special day, all day, knowing people DID remember (not reminded) your day of birth. Your existence in this world.

I'm also very close to my oldest and always have been. And I have made mega mistakes as a mom but I've also done some pretty great things and created happy memories for my children. I've done the best I can, with the little bit of guidance I had. Mostly from bits and pieces of different women (Aunt Neen).

My first worry about this day - today - started a week ago when I hoped to God my daughter, who I love and miss so much, wouldn't text me...least of all call me but would, instead, tell me happy birthday on FB the way I was invited to her baby shower. On FB. By a third party even (Though well intended) it hurt.

So I guess it feels like I am just FB friends with my daughter or even less. She wished me happy birthday in the same way that people I've neve even met did. People who don't even really know me but we're kind enough to post birthday wishes.

Thank you Cindy and Hannah. I love you both and I sit here crying now, knowing you thought of me enough and I mean enough to get a happy birthday text from you. <3

It's late

I am here swimming deep in emotions with the aid of appropriate music and, strangely, I don't want it to end. It's like the cutting or burning or hair - pulling or other (more embarrassing means) of self punishment. I don't want to go to bed. I want to feel the pain. Even if I don't really know what the pain is.

Anything

I will do anything
To get out of this skin
Change my voice
Make myself thin

Be sophisticated
Be untamed
A socialite
Or just unnamed

I'll curl my hair
Or leave it straight
Wear pearls and lace
Or cut my own bait

Cook like a chef
Or go out to eat
Rub your shoulders
Massage your feet

I would do anything
To get out of this skin
The possibilities, endless
Don't know wh where to begin

I'll beg forgiveness
Hide the secret resentment
Never cry before you
Bury my lament

Or cry if you want
Let you save me
You be the hero
If it's what you wanna be

I'll be successful
(Though it won't last)
I'll try again
And I'll hide my past

Leave you out
Or let you in
But only if I
Am out of my skin.

Three faces, making one.

My nightmares are juxtapositions of the only three serious relationships I have ever had: Terry, Gary and Bill. I loved them all.

I also loved Daddy.

In my dreams, one of these loves (except Daddy) will be doing something but it's not really them; it's one of the others, even if it seems like them.

Tonight I'm having enormous anxiety over G. I still can't handle the pictures and the lies and the betrayal and perversions. The abuse and the abandonment. The mixed messages.

I know it's him - it's him who was unable to commit.

I begged. Just as I have with the other two and especially the way I have in the past with Daddy. I threw myself at his feet, begging, crying.

He kicked me while I was down and laughed as he walked away, a new love already waiting.

I should have known.

If they'll do it with you, they'll do it to you.

I wish I could remove him from my mind. Erase him from my memory. I'd rather have a black space of five years, than memories of a five-year lie.

For H.S.

Been awhile, but I haven't disappeared - though there have been many times I wish I could.

There's a lot happening but it's happening so fast that I am exhausted...breathless... like a carnival ride that is spinning and doesn't stop spinning, just gets faster and doesn't stop.

The reigns in my life seem to have disappeared and here I am, at the mercy of ....whatever or whoever.

The wind is knocked out of me.

God I don't want to be alone, yet I am afraid of being alone. Or,at least, being abandoned.

The conundrum is a desperate, deep, painful churn in my stomach that I hide.

This journey is more than I could ever imagined it to be. Wrought with self-awareness and reflection; patterns; mistakes...

This blog - this particular one - I write for a friend who called me today in tears. I felt her pain.

Hang in there.

Nightmares

Tonight I feel sad. I've put everyone to bed and I am alone but it feels like more than alone. I cannot describe it. Half of me wants to cut, burn or somehow hurt myself but I feel beholden, believe it or not, to my therapist - Ellen.

So strange that I miss and love my children so much, yet she's the one I can't let down.

The nightmares are terrible. I have no appetite and no energy. Ellen and I agree this is from a lifetime of wearing necessary masks. I need control. Must have it. So many times as an infant, child, teenager and adult I have been molested, beaten, abused... I have learned the habit of controlling.

There's so much more to it...God, so much more.

But for now, I am sad.

Denial

Sitting in the seats
watching the show
half-hearted, half-listening
to things I want not to know

Stories and flashes
Flicker inside, too
"Yes, girl,"
"Yes this happened to you."

"NO IT DIDN'T!"
some part of me fights
yet from that same place
buried deep, a spark of light

Not of judgment nor fear
not of hatred or guilt
just a glimpse - a tiny scrape -
in a wall I have built.

"Impossible," I think
And I turn the movie off
Shut down the fight
Turn off the light

Still I ponder
And some part of me aches
"You'll know me one day,
Whatever it takes."

I shush it with distraction
Any will do,
Still I hear that whisper,
"Yes, honey, this happened to you."

Pain and Prison

I wish there were words to describe this. But there are not. I cannot even think of a metaphor...and I'm usually pretty good at that.

But this time I can't think of a single word besides pain and that word is so inadequate. It comes from the inside and the outside, like I'm being crushed.

I cry...I cry spontaneously and I gag and I take a clonazepam but none of it takes it away. I dream of it, and I feel it somewhere so deeply.

I do not like feeling. Anything.

But I do.

And that's why I don't like feeling.

It hurts. It hurts every time.

I won't let anyone in, and those I want in, won't come in (with one exception).

God I wish she knew... I wish he knew.

I miss her so desperately and now it's a compound fracture and there's no doctor.

I'll never forgive him...he knows who he is. To judge, when you're unknown by someone, is loathsome and immature and - in this case - disrespectful.

I hope my daughter sees the control all around her and frees herself.

Unlike me....who's just now learning - or trying to learn - to free myself.

That's why I can see her prison.

Because I've lived there my whole life.

Shadow

She stares at me
a stranger in the mirror
She is there
but I'm not here

A veil hangs
betwen who she is
and who I am
who I see

It's not me
not me that I see
some other person
some other story

Her pain isn't mine
her secrets, her own
I close my eyes
And she is gone.

-C

Third Rate

A lot of sex-related dreams. So many humiliations in my sleep, haunting me, waking me with tears.

An odd one: a man holding two large white boxes; behind him, a dark figure in the shape and with the gait of a lion, ferocious, vicious and I, with a choice: This box or that box. I had to choose which to open but I knew - in the darkness, there with that man and his two large white boxes standing between myself and this dark, savage, blood-thirsty...thing - that my choice did not matter. Whichever box I chose, this man would disappear, the box would not matter and I would be eaten alive.

This morning, again in tears, I awoke with the vivid memory of being subhuman. Of being third-rate, unimportant. Moments before awakening, I'd been in a dream, on a bus, perhaps a train. I had my laptop - an old Dell Inspiron. It was in my satchel but somehow, an ex - I don't know which one - was there with his new wife (girlfriend?) and the woman was sneering at me, leering, daring me to be jealous of the fact that she was "fucking my ex."

Together, they plotted with the person in charge of whatever commuter venue we were on and told her - a woman with auburn hair and a light blue dress suit - that I'd stolen their laptop and they wanted it back. The woman, condescending with her tightly wound french twist, occasionally turned and glared down at me as I tried desperately to hide one of my prized possessions. My laptop - dilapidated and out-dated as it may be - holds many secrets. Many photos. So much writing. Years of it - both personal and professional.

A stranger next to me who I cannot identify was seeing this exchange and heard what was happening. He was helping me to hide my laptop with it's taped space bar and missing "I" key.

"How does it feel to know I"m fucking your ex, bitch?"

The stranger next to me heard her vengeful, spiteful words, spoken through clenched teeth from a scowling, sneering face. The stranger knew what was happening.

My clothing was third-rate. My appearance third-rate. I was third-rate.

A third-rate citizen.

And that's why the blue-suited woman believed them over me.

I awoke crying because they were trying to take my laptop and my satchel. I was just beginning to quiz them - to ask them to describe the keyboard and the space bar and the I key. I know which keys work and which ones don't.

But I awoke as I struggled against them.

That's how I feel. Like a third-rate person.

A recent re-traumatization has brought on some horrific nightmares. Laughter at my nudity. Laughter and mocking of my body. Sexually grotesque nightmares.

I do not like being treated like a third-rate human being. It hurts and yet it's all I know. Everything else has always been an act. Beneath it all, I've always believed myself to be that third-rate person, mother, wife, human.

Adjustment/change

Sad and hopeful all at once, along with all the in-between feelings.

I accidentally called Bill "Gary," today... Again.

Working hard to get through everything. Holidays don't help.

Those who know, understand; certain seasons, smells, movements, characteristics. So much.

I miss many, but have to believe my moving is a healthy step forward. I've spent numerous nights alone fighting the urge to cut.

Part of me wants to scream. But there's nothing but compliant silence and survival.

I am far, far away from myself... Whoever that is.  

Birthday

Dear daddy,

My birthday is coming up. It's this weekend.

It's the first one in my life that I've dreaded.

Like last Mother's Day I may or may not not receive a text message telling he happy birthday from my children. I don't blame you for that and yet some part of me I do.

This year I don't want to celebrate my birthday.

This year I don't want anyone to celebrate my birthday.

Because I wish I had never been born.

Tears

Tears fall without a sound, but scream so loud.

Today I cry for those who hang their heads. For those who cross the street, when they see people coming. For those whose voices are gone, replaced by what society demands of them.
Today I cry for the silent shame that weighs like an anvil on each shoulder of those who society pretends don't exist; the forgotten, unnamed, unlovable, unwanted. The faceless, the poor who "don't matter" and whose worlds simply do not and have not ever existed beyond the TV screen of 3,000 square foot homes with 84" screens.
Today I cry a deep, aching cry for the fear that is always felt, but never revealed and the anger that cannot be felt, but often comes out at the worst times - usually aimed at oneself.
I cry because I am so scared. So scared.
I cry for those who - like me - feel alone because we create our prisons. We have these prisons that both keep us captive, and keep us and everyone else safe.
I cry because it is a lonely, dark place. But it is our place.
Our only place.
I cry for those who - like me - have medical issues that go unattended because we cannot allow our bodies to be exposed. We'd rather bleed in pain, than be violated again.
Paralyzed by fear, I sit here in this room I've tried to make "home" and I know it is not - nor has it ever been - "home," and I try, with frustration, desperation and utter overwhelm to figure out what it is I am supposed to do now. What do I do next? I wish someone was here.

The Rest

Just sitting here in the bedroom, rocking, looking down and seeing that I made the bed wrong. You can see the top sheet from beneath the comforter. And you cannot see the bed skirt. 

I did miter the corners, but you cannot tell. That is something that daddy would beat us for if it was not properly done. 

And he always checked.

My first thought was to talk to Cindy and tell her, "I made the bed wrong." Some small, child-like part of me wanted to hear someone say, "that's okay."

Like being beaten for using too much toilet paper.

Daddy would watch us and make sure that the toilet paper didn't touch the floor as we unrolled it to wipe, in such private moments. But there were never any private moments. We never knew what to expect or when to expect it. 

This morning I stared at some of the flaws in the wall in my bedroom, and was reminded of the many holes and broken furniture in my childhood. Daddy's strong fists; his big arms and his powerful presence. 

I was reminded of always being afraid.

My door is now shut and I sit here alone, knowing nobody knows the secret agony, and there's really nobody I can tell it to because there really are no words with which to describe it. 

None of the beatings or holes in the walls or abandonments or embarrassments mattered, compared to the rest. 

The rest... The rest. How heavy it is, to feel "the rest" and all other things, threaded through time - torturous and painful - to "the rest."

All tied to a man it seems I surrendered my soul to. 

Daddy. 

Pictures and ghosts

Last night-after I discovered I had the photos I thought I did not have anymore-I collected them all and I put them in an envelope. There are not many photos of me as a child. At least, not that I know of. 

But I could not just leave them in an envelope. I went through them and I stared in complete disbelief and bewilderment. Most of them were pictures from my wedding day; I was 16 years old and daddy was there as well as grandma, pop, and others. 

Some pictures are of me and my younger brother when we were small. However, for me, those children never existed. I stared at the little knobby knees and the black strap shoes with the Easter dress and the blue lace-lined socks. For me this was an image of some other girl. She was wearing a dress and she was innocent and appeared to be at least somewhat happy, even though there was no smile on her face.

Cognitively I understand that this photo is of me and that it is a picture of me after my return from Pensacola, Florida. A time when my father molested my brother and I both, together and separately. It was after the time when he threw big black garbage bags full of his stuff - no explanation just angry words and yelling - as we banged on the front window, begging him not to leave us. I wonder why we begged him not to leave us. He hurt us every day. Still we held an unnatural (or, perhaps natural) adoration of him and he was daddy. 

So rather than put the photos back in the hat box that I have reserved for pictures, I put them on the bed next to me. My purpose was the hope that somehow some notion or some feeling might seep from the images into my subconscious mind as I slept. And maybe, perhaps, I might glean some kind of understanding of why I held this man's hand, I let him hold my child, and most troubling is the photo where we are embracing. 

I don't understand what I'm supposed to feel. Sometimes anger bubbles up but it's a fearful feeling and so I gear it towards something else or aim it at someone else, usually myself. 

Anger is a dangerous emotion. However I know it exists within me like a huge black, ball of tar. But this black bar of tar is explosive, so I avoid it. It tastes terrible; it feels terrible; and I don't want anything to do with it nor do I want anything to do with what makes me feel it or brings me closer to it. 

Cognitively I know this is just avoidance and distraction-the way I have lived my entire life. But now here I am, facing places I am afraid to go; Facing places within myself that I am afraid to see.

I slept with the pictures hoping that somehow some kind of energy, memory, something, anything might seep into my brain, into my dreams and give me some kind of insight.

Instead I awoke with a scattered array of childhood photos of a man I adore and adored my whole life. A man who hurt me more than anyone else could ever have.