Strength (107)

When I was younger I was even more of an idiot than I currently am, and I decided I wanted to make myself physically strong. It wasn’t a conscious decision, I just seemed to start doing it. For all sorts of reasons… I hated nothing more than my mum telling me to leave something and get my brothers to lift or carry it because they were stronger. Pocketcanadian will testify to my belligerence… and tell me not to do something, (especially if its based on the fact that I’m a girl and therefore not strong enough), and I’ll fucking well make sure I do it. It used to make me so mad, and for a while I’d always shout back that just because I was a girl doesn’t mean I’m weak and incapable (and I certainly wasn’t).

I also, I think, decided that I wanted to be better able to protect myself, and so began the getting stronger. And people wouldn’t look at me now and think I’m strong, but I’m certainly not weak. Nobody else would ever protect me, so I started subconsciously making it easier to protect myself. It felt safer, to feel stronger.

And lastly, being physically strong somehow makes me feel more emotionally strong. And yeah, doing exercise definitely makes me feel better (though it’s normally just about the last thing I want to do). It shuts off all of my “weak” feelings, and keeps me feeling walled up somehow. That sounds completely ridiculous, but there you go….

Uncover (140)

I feel like all my blog posts on here lately (despite being extremely few and far between) have been about trauma and that is feeling crap and just kind of tiresome to me today. I don’t mean for them to be, and yet, that’s how we met, and this blog that we created together was always going to have a lot to do with it. But I’m hoping some of these words will start to have some better connotations soon.

This one makes me think of all of those people that recover memories of childhood sexual abuse. I wasn’t one of them, I’ve never really forgotten what happened to me, so I can’t ever truly understand the feeling of having the rug pulled out from under you and recovering these kinds of terrible things.

I can’t imagine the shock, the terror, the pain, the horror. I can’t imagine having to try to comprehend it and sift through it, and try to accept it as your truth.

I have remembered memories that I had forgotten about, but they were just more memories, more times it happened, different places. And they were simply forgotten for a few years, put to the very bottom of my mind, so that I could get on with my life for a little bit, just like I did will all of it for a couple of years.

I can’t imagine having this thrown into your conscious out of nowhere, the pain of uncovering, piece by slow, horrifying piece, a childhood that you had no idea belonged to you. So this word makes me think of those poor people, and the terrible experience of that.

And as a side note, to all those false memory syndrome bastards… fuck. you. 

Nobody would choose this.

one hundred & thirty-eight: summer

summer feels like forever away, but i know it’s not.

and honestly, i just keep thinking about how after this summer, i’m finally going to meet  pocketbrit when she comes to stay.

you know how labrador retrievers wag their whole bodies when they’re excited, and it looks like their sweet fuzzy doggo faces are grinning?

yeah. that’s how i feel about seeing her. i can’t fucking wait.

Inside (136)

To everybody out there I seem calm and collected. I can seem extremely in control, like I know what I’m doing.

And it drives me nuts.

Because everybody thinks I’m completely fine, nothing wrong here…even though inside I’m a total mess. My therapist once said that she didn’t think even the best psychiatrist in the country would have known what was happening to me back then. That I shut it all away, and what I show to people is an entirely different person. That actually made me feel proud, a bit. Someone inside was so proud that no one would know. The same part of me that is so proud when somebody says I’m closed off, and don’t let people in. And it also makes me mad, that people couldn’t figure it out, that I never allowed people to know. And sad, to be alone. And crying out, now, for someone to break down those walls. To not have to be alone with it all.

Inside is a mess. A mess of ages, of experiences, of emotions, of control, of lack of control, of wanting, of pushing, of pulling, of being completely at odds. Outside is a relatively rational, calm, collected, understanding, controlled, unflappable (as my teacher always used to tell me) person.

I’d really like my inside to begin to match my outside now. I’m so tired of the chaos.