All this really brings to mind is that drawing of humans evolving from apes. That’s all I’ve got for this one, sorry.
I am a crappy liar, I’m just one of those people that is not very good at it, and I kind of know just not to bother, because I’ll give the game away and it will come back to bite me. One of the good things my parents taught me was to just be honest and forthcoming about it when I screw up, that just admitting it makes the consequences far less; people will be much less annoyed at you, and that’s true on the whole, I think.
That said, I do differentiate between types of lies. I’ve come to notice this particularly with pocketcanadian, because when she asks me how I am, and I say ‘fine’, which is my way of coping a lot of the time (and something I think most people do), it can cause some pretty decent arguments between the two of us. When it comes to how I am doing and what’s going on for me, I guess I do lie, fairly regularly. And, I don’t really consider it lying, even though it absolutely is.
The other thing this brings to my mind is my eldest brother, who for a long time my parents questioned whether he was a pathological liar. He would lie about all sorts of things, little to very very big, and frequently. Some of them are so bad that even though I had nothing to do with these lies, that I feel so ashamed to just be related to somebody who has told those sorts of lies, that I have never been able to tell even my therapist about them, because what if she judges me just because we’re related.
Safe to say, I don’t do anger very well. At all well in fact.
Anger was always considered a strong emotion in our house; one of the few emotions that were actually allowed. The major problem was that anger far too frequently involved violence. Doors slammed, words shouted, objects smashed, things thrown. Anger was terrifying when I was little, and yet there was so much of it, and worse of all, from a young age I took on the role of mediator. I was the only one who could get through to my dad when he was raging (and he was the very worst), and it somehow just became my duty to try to step in the middle and keep the peace. From all of that I ended up keeping all of my anger inside. I separated off from all of it, and most of the time I directed it inwards, because if I directed it at anybody else there would be nobody to step into the role of mediator.
These days I get angry, I have a part that just gets referred to as the angry one, and she rages and is awful. I can’t stand her. I am also not very good with anger. It doesn’t matter how okay I was beforehand, pretty much as soon as anger comes up I’m a triggered mess, scared of what will come next.
So yeah, I suck when it comes to anger, its not my favourite.
I am very definitely not a morning person… My ideal morning is when you wake up naturally from the light entering your room at about 9.30am, you go grab yourself a really good cup of coffee, and go back upstairs. You open the curtains and the windows, its a beautiful late spring morning and you climb back into clean sheets which were changed the day before, with a good book, your coffee, and you can feel a gentle warm breeze coming through the window, and hear the chirping of the little birds outside.
Tomorrow morning, please?
People who have grown up in abusive families tend to have missed out on these growing up, I think. Maybe they totally clung to them whenever they received positive affirmations from people, or maybe they dismissed them, refused to let them in, shrugged them off as not truthful, they are only saying that because they don’t really understand, they don’t understand all the reasons you’re actually just terrible. Some people do both; I did. Both clung to any slight positive affirmation thrown my way, and refused to truly let it in. Voices inside my head citing off every single reason that the person was wrong to say what they did, backed up with the data of every single time everybody else said something bad to you, or wasn’t there.
Now, particularly when I’m young, I need (too) many of these from people that I have let in. (Which is not very many people – only pocketcanadian and my therapist). Sometimes my shame surrounding this feels crippling…because to me asking for affirmations – that I’m not alone, that my hurt is justified, that I’m not bad, that I’m loved, or even just that I matter, my hurt matters; all of it feels needy. It feels weak.
In both mine and pc’s circumstances, our parents are acting like nothing is really wrong. It is crazy-making. Like truly *crazy* making. I’m sure there are unfortunately so many out there that know exactly what I mean, and I can’t begin to sufficiently express how insane it makes you feel when your family are carrying on as though everything is just dandy. In my case having no doubt as to the abuse actually having taken place (after all, I didn’t tell them, they merely asked me to confirm it), but nonetheless having a family dinner complete with my abuser, as though we are one happy family. Most of the time I know that they are the crazy ones, but sometimes i start to truly question my sanity…have I lost it? Did I tell them? Am I imagining all of it taking place? Or are they right, is this just not a big deal but I’m making it into one?
This is maybe the most hurtful part of it all.
And so, my point to that last paragraph, was that having somebody by your side, rooting you on, confirming that yes, that really did happen, and yes they really are doing what they’re doing, and no my love, you are not the crazy one, they are the crazy ones, the crazy is theirs, not yours…Having those affirmations, is invaluable, and without it I don’t think I would be here. It feels like when you take the stabilizers off your bike for the first time and you have somebody running alongside you as you cycle…you’re still so scared, still unsure, you still don’t feel totally safe, but you know there’s someone right with you, keeping you going, there ready for when you fall, reassuring you.
This one makes me think of pocketcanadian….because she was definitely the one to choose this word. I am absolutely hopeless when it comes to the English language (although, I speak it correctly, unlike those canadians and their weedwhackers), and unlike my friend over the sea who is a walking thesaurus, I didn’t actually even know what this word meant….
Freedom from adulteration or contamination.
Freedom from immorality, especially of a sexual nature.
I hate the notion of pure to begin with. I mean why on earth should it matter? Why should it be something held in esteem? Why should it matter if someone’s never had sex, or had sex 200 times by 200 different people. Why should the former be deemed sacred, be granted to wear the colour white, the symbol of purity, and the latter not? Why are those two people held differently, why is one ‘pure’ and one not?
And, excluding all the nonsense about what purity is, I completely loathe the idea that to people who are religious, and to whom this does matter (I am definitely not one), rape can make someone impure. That should a 13 year old girl from a devoutly religious family wear a purity ring, a 13 year old that is proud, and to whom it genuinely matters, why should she endure the additional shame of no longer being deemed pure by her religion? Rape makes everyone who’s endured it feel plenty contaminated already (thank you first definition – nice middle finger up to you), without the need for additional shame to be placed on a person by people or organisations who value so called ‘purity’.
I just don’t like it. It feels like another reason we should feel ashamed of ourselves for something we never chose. For something that was actually forced upon us and that we’d do anything to not have happened.
Free association :
- Im not feeling very delighted about anything today. Or y’know the last little forever.
- Turkish delight. Absolutely bloody disgusting.
- Angel delight… Also from what I remember (and my automatic ‘ew’ reaction since I was little), pretty damned gross.
- It seems if the type of food has to call itself “delight” it isn’t going to be very delightful. Go figure.
- After a pretty terrible beginning to my day (and its come back and continued into tonight) a mum and her little boy came into where I work today. The mum was wondering around, and the little boy, maybe about 3, kept shyly making eye contact with me and sussing me out. Then he strays behind a bookcase type thing, and starts hiding and then peeping out, first one side then the next, and back and forth again and again. I start tilting my head to either side with him too, pulling faces and acting shocked. He’s extremely cute, trying to peek at me without being seen, and then smiling and giggling at my silly expressions. I’m not sure it was quite delight, but it was close, he was very pleased that this random woman was joining in on his game of hide and seek (as his mum said) which more resembled peek-a-boo to me. And he made my day much better for the next couple of hours
I am not very allowing in terms of myself. Whilst I would allow other people to just try, give things a go, make mistakes, mess up, and that be okay, I don’t very often allow myself that same freedom.
I also don’t allow myself to cry, to be needy, to want, to be weak or upset. I don’t allow myself to just be however I am without hating myself for being that way. I judge myself massively, consider it weak, and disgust myself those times I can’t help it happening. Even though I would never feel like that about someone else.
Seriously bored of all the hurt now. No more please. Okay, great. Thanks. Bye.