two hundred & seventy one: brick

a couple years ago pocketbrit and i were playing a game of 20 questions while i was waiting to be seen in the ER. and she used an expression that i hadn’t heard before (this happens regularly), which was bricking it. it made me laugh out loud, i recall, because i knew what it meant, coz it’s kind of similar to us saying shitting bricks. but when i recently went to an amusement park with my kiddo and rode a really crazy rollercoaster i thought of her, and of this expression.

(and then also thought, ouch, thank goodness we don’t shit bricks, those fuckers have sharp edges, eep.)

backdated, written june 23/19

two hundred & sixty nine: serenity

when i was in my teens, the sitcom seinfeld was hugely popular. and its popularity persisted into my early 20s, when reruns were on. i’d seen it once or twice, but i didn’t love it like everyone else seemed to. i can admit that a large part of it was because people were always telling me to watch it (i hate being told what to do, so i didn’t, on principle); i also enjoyed the haughty, eye-rolling response i got when i told people i was refraining from watching the show because they were telling me to watch it. i’m smiling thinking of it, actually.

(as an aside, i’ve done this with other popular series/movies/books, too, throughout my life. most recently with game of thrones. yeah. that’s right. get over it.)

i know it’s ridiculous and kind of childish, but, well, there you go. i’m a fairly ridiculous and childish person, if you haven’t gleaned that yet.

but one of the episodes that i actually did find amusing was the one where george read a self-help book or listened to a self-help meditation sort of thing, where the prompt was ‘serenity now.’ except when he used it, he’d shout it at the top of his lungs, SERENITY NOW!!!!

maybe i should watch the friggin’ show. no one’s telling me to watch it anymore, i think i’m safe. and frankly, i could use a bit more funny in my life. it’s a bit lacking in that department lately.

written june 22/19



Body/bodies (268)

I hate my body 99% of the time. When I was a kid and everything started happening with my brother, I started eating. I was pre-pubescent, and I was eating to not think or feel, to numb. I still do it regularly even now. If my brain is noisy or my body noisy, I go to the fridge and I just stand there and eat. I’m not hungry…in fact sometimes I’m even very aware of how overly full I am, as I continue to put more food into my body to quiet it.

Of course, I became pretty chubby after that. I wasn’t even fat, but I was the chubbiest in my very small year and did have a fair few pounds that I could’ve done without, and so of course I became the “fat kid”, the one to be bullied because they were bigger than the others. And so my hatred for my body began. Because it was causing me to be singled out and picked on. Not only did the kids at school point my weight out, but my grandfather took frequent opportunities to be cruel to me about it. His disgust was very apparent; he was pretty forthcoming. It’s two years since he died on thursday…I’m not sure how I’m feeling about that. Did I ever actually like him?

I also hated my body, because it was my body that men were after. It was my body that my brother used, abused, raped. My body singled me out in my family because it was female, in a generation of all boys.

As I grew up I hated the female curves that were forming on my body. I always thought  (and most of the time still do think) that I have huge horrible thighs. I used to have bigger boobs (now they’re smaller, and I’m actually okay with their size), and I hated them, they just felt wrong on me somehow. Like they didn’t belong, were alien to who I was. What I felt like, and always wanted to cling onto, was a small child’s body. It’s never made sense to me, because it wasn’t the womanliness that caused me to be abused, that attracted him to me. I was abused in a child’s body. The only thing that seems to fit is that I was clinging onto the hope of being rescued and looked after. Nobody will recuse a grownup – they rescue themselves. Nobody is going to take me in and love me if I’m not a kid. I still struggle with this. A few years ago I lost a lot of weight in not a lot of time. My thoughts around food and eating and exercising were extremely disordered. Several times I tried to make myself sick after eating, even though I was actually just terrible at it. I’m still struggling with it. Still wanting to lose weight even though I don’t need to. Wanting to be small, wanting to not take up space, wanting people to figure out I’m not okay, wanting people to treat me like the little parts that I have inside and to take me in and parent me.

My angry part hates my body for taking up space. For existing. For being soft and squishy, for being hurt, and for being a body that can be hurt. She takes a razor blade and punishes the body, feeling pride and satisfaction when the gentle flow of blood rolls down our skin. She would rather our body was made out of cast iron: impenetrable.

And finally I think I should probably finish by quickly mentioning the memories that are now flashing in my mind. Of a body forced to do other peoples bidding. A body that I had no real control over. A body forced and hurt and violated. How am I meant to learn to love the body that got me here, when it did everything that it did? Forced or willing, my body did those things and now harbours shame and resentment and anger and lately a lot of rage.

two hundred & sixty four: activate

ugh this is such a fucking therapy word.

worse, i use it fairly often.

i usually say it when i don’t want to say triggered, because that has become so incredibly overused in general parlance for things that are not remotely related to trauma or abuse. i use it interchangeably, i guess, because it makes sense to me, as a concept, and as a visceral response in the wake of trauma.

for me, being triggered feels activating: when a bunch of things in my body and my brain light up, while a bunch of other things shut down. and folks, lately, i am mega activated. my cat is dying. my work is draining me. it was just father’s day. my parents keep texting me. my kid is hating me, and, on the daily, accuses me of all kinds of mean horrific things because she is struggling and somehow i am her favourite target. my wife just had surgery that for some reason scared the shit out of me. i have no therapist at the moment. i am missing pocketbrit something fierce and cursing the idiotic number of miles and bodies of water between us.

so yeah, i am activated, all right. i am not sleeping, i am young, i am jumpy, i am easily terrified, i am weepy. i hate all of it.