two hundred & seven: blame

i actually don’t quite know why i’m attempting this one in my current state of mind, but there you have it. coz it’s a hard word, a word laden with some pretty intense, pretty triggery associations. a word that gets tossed around a lot in terms of sexual abuse.

in short, the person i blame for most things is myself. i may respond in anger or frustration with other people, i may even sometimes be upset at someone, but deep deep down, i’m holding myself responsible for whatever happened. with myself, with others, about stuff that isn’t even mine to own.

it’s one of the things that has hurt me so much over the years, and it’s something that i hear hurting pocketbrit repeatedly, too. the conviction that we were responsible, at fault, to blame, is central to how we coped with what happened.

i don’t blame myself for being abused as much as i used to, but i absolutely do for how i’ve come to know it, for how it affects my life. lately, i’ve been finding all sorts of reasons to discredit myself, coming up with all sorts of evidence for why it couldn’t have happened, for how i am wrong, how i have imagined it, how i don’t really have any true proof. i am deep down the rabbithole of disbelief.

i hate myself for it. it just makes everything harder. but i can’t help it. all i keep thinking is, i have no way to prove it happened. and people don’t believe me. i’m pretty sure my brother doesn’t, my friends who live in my hometown won’t (they don’t know, and just keep pressing me and pressing me about why i’m not talking to my parents) and maybe even the people closest to me don’t, but they can’t really say that to me, can they?

i also hate myself for how this is still so much an issue for me. how it bothers me, pokes under my skin, steals my sleep, makes me miserable. the cost of living my ‘truth’ is my family, my childhood friends, and isolation from my extended family. it’s not like we were super close-knit or anything (my mom’s sisters are fucking nuts, and the one i actually loved has died, but her daughters, my two closest cousins, have been estranged from all of us for years, and i don’t really have a relationship outside of my parents with many people on my dad’s side, beyond a couple cousins)…but i don’t have anyone on team pocketcanadian. one of my friends said, so what, how does that matter if they’re a bunch of arseholes anyway but somehow it does matter, because i’m essentially alone.

and lately it’s been torturing me. i don’t have anyone who has known me since i was little. or even a young adult. it’s like my entire childhood has been erased. the only people i talk to have known me for 17 years at the most, since i moved away from my hometown, and the majority of them much less than that. it’s like i didn’t exist before i moved away. and i don’t know why it’s hurting me, but it is.

partially coz i blame myself – i did this, right? i’ve placed this elephant in the room. i’ve made this decision. i’ve facilitated this isolation.

but i still feel like i can’t bear not being believed…i can’t risk telling people and having them not believe me, having them question me and believe the story my parents tell (that i am deeply deeply disturbed and crazy)…and so, i drift away from my history, my past. i become more and more unmoored. an island.

i’ve chosen it though, right? so it’s my fault. my responsibility. no one to blame but the person i see in the mirror.

written april 23/19, backdated