You can never see what is inside. Words can cut deeper than a knife.
I saw my psychiatrist today. It always brings up so many mixed emotions when I walk out the door ranging from confusion, questions, frustration, elation, tension. I think most of all I feel locked, like someone trying to speak a foreign language, the thoughts and emotions are in my head but I don’t know the words to bring them out. When I do it never seems to convey the depth of emotion, seriousness, fear I have behind them. I feel glossy and shiny on the outside but that’s due to the paint not the interior condition.
I feel pretty good right now but the fear is when will it end, be taken away in a big resounding crash like it always seems to. Lately I have been thinking it seems just too good, the boogey man is going to jump out at any moment and tell me it’s all been an episode of Pranked and none of this has been real. So does this make me tenuous? Or perhaps cynical, it never seems to have lasted before, I get choked, life becomes monotonous, life becomes to get set in stone, and people then have expectations and perhaps I sabotage.
That’s an interesting word to come out. In all the years I have been writing that word has never been written. Sabotage. Do I think I don’t deserve for things to be good, that if it will end that it should end on my terms? That I should make me the reason, so the fault lies with me, no one else, so badly that I can take the fall and go back down to the pit of comfort? It sounds so horrible but within germinates a kernel truth. That I think I am meant to fail.
It’s hard for me to talk, truly, I have support but I don’t think I really talk to any friends or family, I don’t know how to expose. How do you give someone Pandora’s Box, why would you give someone that? In addition to that, it’s that they can never understand, who understood Pandora’s Box of evil? When I start to talk to people and they start equating their lives and their emotions and their feelings and that they know and they’ve felt it and they can understand, I just get cold, shuttered and turn off the conversation. Why do I need to take the energy to explain to people who will never understand that nothing is like what they think, feel or do, nothing. Yes, I know you have had emotions, tough times, experiences, everyone does, and you can understand the average bear, but please don’t patronize me by thinking you know. In effect, I just don’t talk, I smile, I pretend, I act, to make you feel better. Or I agree with you, yes, you know me, do you feel better now, you fixed me, you’ve been through the same thing, you know what its like to hide all the knives in your house when you’re PMSing so you don’t fillet your arm. Sure, you know.
What walked out in my mind was abuse. The question of have I been abused, and my automatic answer has always been no, till today, when I took a pause. I never thought about abuse as something in my life, but if I put pieces together there is abuse.
My mother, who is a wonderful, loving and caring human being, that would do anything in the world for me, used to have her own issues when she was younger. I don’t know what they were but there was anger and unfortunately the outlet was me. Sometimes you think things are normal, till you dig deeper and deeper. I remember being beaten in the shower, maybe 4-5 years old, crying and cowering on the cold tile floors, huddled as close to the back wall as possible as my mother beating on me with a bucket, screaming and pouring water on me all at once so I couldn’t breathe, scream or cry. My mother had rage and sometimes it took one little thing for her to explode. She used to throw the furniture at me, little tables, chairs, I just learned how to duck. It didn’t go on for long, maybe a year, because abruptly it ended and I forgot about it but snippets in my mind. She was always repentent and I know it was her way of letting out her frustration, which doesn’t make it right but it ended.
Bobby, I dated Bobby in college, he would get mad, very mad, and the same thing, he just didn’t know what to do with his rage, how to control it. So he threw me, hold me up against the walls till I cried, squeezed my wrists and forearms so tight they would bruise, and if I ran he would get crazy and so best to just stay quiet, cry till he found himself again. He was always sorry, classic abuse, I know, I know, I know.
Mental, well there was always mental abuse from my father, but that’s par for the course in any non western family. You’re never ever good enough. They can love you to death but you’re never good enough. They can love you but never talk to you. They can love you and never feel you. So I went to friend’s houses for family; real, live, talking, engaging families. How I used to suck that up, sponge in what I never got, interaction, inclusion, attention. I thank my friends for sharing their families, such a part of who I am today with my own family.
Hurt begets hurt, and you either give in or fight, and at first I gave in, there was no fight, I would do and be anything anyone wanted me to be. I would be perfect. Their perfect. And when you fuck with who you are long enough, years upon years in my case, the dam eventually breaks because you’re hollow with need pushing and one day the crack starts and there’s no going back, you either die or swim hard and fight. I chose one and then the other but the line is never clear whether I am deserving of one or the other. Will anyone really stay the distance, be able to fight with me and against me, to see, really see through that sabotage and desire to close out and weather it. Why would you? This is where death seems so much easier, why am I fighting everyday to survive? What is the purpose? WHAT IS THE PURPOSE? It’s so difficult.
There are days I wish fairy tales did come true with happily ever after… mine seem to be more along the lines of the Grimm Brother tales.