Regret(s) (254)

I’ve got plenty of regrets. I’m not going to go into all of them, because well, that would end up being an incredibly dull and longwinded post serving nobody, not even myself.

Today my mum brought up my brother with me. Apparently somebody drove into the back of his car (yet another in a series of unfortunate car dramas of his). She made a comment along the lines of “it’s like somebody up above has shoved a huge arrow pointing at him to attract car accidents”. I think I smiled, shrugged my shoulders in a kind of well, good way. She said I thought I’d tell you that because I thought you would like it…think he deserves it.

The way she does this, randomly brings it into conversation completely freaks me out. It makes me panic and dissociate. It doesn’t feel safe. I said that he drives like a complete idiot, so he does deserve it for that, yes. She didn’t take the hint, or rather, she just ignored it, as she has a tendency to do, and then said “I don’t get it, your relationship with him is worse than ever now, youre the one that said that you had a good relationship with him now”. My panic grows, my shame grows. I say that I don’t remember saying that. She tells me that I did, the day that I told her what he’d done (and yes I did say that). It’s her narcissistic way of saying that I’m now making it all difficult when I was perfectly fine with it back then. Its the insinuation (likely in my head, but I also don’t doubt that my mum is very much thinking it), that I chose how it is now. That I didn’t want them to tell him. That they said they would do whatever I decided. And they still would.

And I could…I could tell them to tell him that they know, to have it all out there, and risk him never coming back. And they would. So as far as they are concerned, they’re doing the perfectly right thing. They’re amazing parents. It makes me want to shrivel up in shame, even now just writing it. Because as far as they are concerned, the upset that I am harbouring (that they don’t even realise I am to the extent that I am), is entirely unfair and unjustified, and all because I’m selfish and too much, and making them out to be awful when they’re not. Except they aren’t taking any of the rest of it into account. They aren’t considering that my dad said literally nothing about it to me until I said that it was making me upset. His response was to completely and utterly pretend it didn’t happen. And then, when forced to talk about it with me, it was a family meeting that felt like a very cold business meeting. I was in tears being stared at by my parents who remained sat in their chairs. I was forced to come up with a plan of what we would do. I was forced to hear over and over about how if they told him, he would never come back. It takes no account for the pressure of all of it placed on me, it takes no account for the total control that was removed from my clutches and placed into theirs. I didn’t choose to tell. My mum asked and asked and asked until I said that yes it had happened. She already knew. I told her I didn’t want my dad to know, she said that he had a right to know and that she would be telling him. I was immediately forced to say what I wanted to do about it. At which point I think I said what I did about having a good relationship with him now that we were older. That things were different. I said it because it was true, and because I needed a grasp on staying as is was for a bit. Not having the rug pulled entirely out from under my feet. She was throwing everything at me in the most terrifying situation to me. She paid no real attention to the fact that I was very much not okay, she made it all about her, made a big deal about how she had to go to bed because she felt sick.

No regard has ever been given to how traumatic that day and the days following were for me. And I’m not surprised, they have no understanding of trauma. They laugh at the idea of somebody having PTSD who hasn’t been serving their country in war. It’s a preposterous concept. But what really hurts is that they have no desire to understand. To do some reading, to think about how to help, or what I might need. All the while thinking they’re being so amazing, and that I’m being difficult and extra. Making a big deal out of nothing. I hate the shame that I carry because of it. The shame that makes me cry and makes me want to hide, just for putting it out anonymously on the internet.

My biggest regret is everything that has come since telling. The not shouting, the not putting it all out there, the not bringing my brother into the huge mess that he doesn’t know exists but that he himself created. The staying close to them, the still seeing them, the not talking about it. The getting increasingly closer to my dad again, to the point where I don’t know if I would ever be okay with leaving them, even though I think that that might be the best thing I could ever do for myself. I don’t know how exactly I would do it different, and I know that no way would ever be perfect. But I just really regret the way that I did do it, even if it was the best I knew how at the time. It feels like the biggest mess that I won’t ever be able to clean up.

Commitment (253)

I was thinking about starting to get back into writing these blog posts with this word prompt too. It makes sense right…a small and easy way into saying how we’ve not been good lately with the commitment of this blog, but that we want to get better.

We don’t owe anybody anything with this blog, though. We set out to use it as a way to help communication between the two of us when things weren’t good, to have a daily means of communication, to commit to writing more or drawing more, or taking more photos, for ourselves more than anybody. And, for the curiosity of just seeing how words resonate differently for the two of us.

These small daily words (albeit small words with a big bloody impact sometimes) can make us think of nothing at all, or the silliest or most stupid of things, or a whole host of interesting or hard or exciting things. I’ve loved it so far, learning more about my friend in the process, and getting to write my thoughts out too, see where they lead. Because sometimes you think you have absolutely nothing to say, and then before you know it you’re writing a very long post about something that wasn’t even in your consciousness when you first read the word of the day in the morning.

How have we only got 102 days left? That’s crazy how quickly it has gone. I’m committed to this last bit. To jotting down at least something for as many of them as I can,

Create (241)

I like to create things, make them. I’m the kind of person who seees somebody make something and instantly really wants to try to do it myself. Everytime so far that I have sent something to pocketcanadian it has included something I’ve made myself. Which I used to be a little bit embarrassed about because it felt like something a little kid would do. But so far she’s loved them, and I think she’s going to like the next one too, so I don’t feel so embarrassed anymore. I just like to create things myself…I can’t help it.

Disable (237)

I didn’t think I had anything to say about this one. But I googled it to get the definition:

  • limit someone in their movements, senses, or activities
  • put out of action
  • prevent or discourage someone from doing something

Some of the synonyms: incapacitate, impair, damage, put out of action, render/make powerless, weaken, debilitate.

So yeah, I thought disable….what? which one of us came up with that? what the hell can I say about that one?  But actually I feel like just writing out the definition says enough. Yeah, it’s yet another response to one our words that revolves around the abuse, but there you go.

Being sexually abused is disabling Being abused is disabling. The sexual stuff, the verbal stuff, the physical stuff, the emotional stuff. The living with a narcissistic mother, the having a father that parents with his fist, the having a father that isn’t there to parent the vast majority of the time, the inappropriateness that you can’t find the words for, the scary stuff that you know the words for but nobody wants to hear.

I have anxiety, I have OCD, I am scared of people, I dissociate. I have always been too scared of dating once it feels like it will move into being sexual. The one person that I have had sex with since being a kid is a man that hurts me. I’m scared of putting myself out there in a difficult job. I don’t like being noticed, I don’t like people seeing me. I don’t feel worthy. Attention scares me because attention doesn’t feel safe. I hide away and keep myself small. I get scared when I do things, I feel like I can hear everybody’s thoughts about how awful I am and how they don’t like me. I assume I will get hurt all the time; it’s my basic assumption.

This shit is disabling.

Mouth (236)

Trigger Warning  – this post contains graphic details of abuse

 

I’m 25 years old. I’m alone in my house, perfectly safe. The doors are locked, I know I am alone. I am an adult, I have a voice, and I have control. It’s sunny outside. There’s all sorts of noises outside from cars and people milling around shopping, walking barking dogs, talking to each other.

Only I’m not 25 years old and I’m not safe. I’m only 8, I’m on his bed, and he’s put my knees up high after getting me to take my trousers off. I’m really panicking, I don’t want this, I really really don’t want this. I start to squirm, I make a noise that isn’t a cry but not far off. He looks at me with hatred and anger, pushes my legs down. The message is clear: this is happening, the more you try for it not to happen the more angry and the worse I’ll be. He goes in again, mouth against me, and I need him off. I NEED HIM OFF. I put my feet on his shoulders and I push really hard. He’s way stronger than me, but I have caught him off guard. I push him away, and I think I stop it happening. Or I stopped that happening at least. I can’t remember what happened after that, but I have a feeling I was forced to do things to him. Anyway my victory was short lived, and this was a regular thing for him to do to me. Want to hear something disgusting? Sometimes I didn’t mind it so much. Want to hear something even more disgusting? When the guy I have sex with sometimes tries to do this to me I get triggered. The thoughts going through my head…you’re not as good as my brother.

I tell myself I’m safe, that I’m feeling these things in my body but they arent really happening. I try to keep pressure against myself down there so that I know that it’s just me there, nobody else, and nobody can get access. And I’m 25. A triggered 25 year old that read a book that was too much, and now has the word “mouth” going around and around in her head, and in her body.

I’m not an adult, I’m 9 years old and he’s locked us in the bathroom, hes shoving his penis down my throat and forcing the action, and not letting me pull away, however hard I try. I gag, I feel like I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating and I can’t pull away. I blame myself because I suck my thumb and doing that made him think of it.

 

I’m an adult and I’m safe, and yet I’m not. I’ve spent days feeling sick, being tortured by all of this bullshit, and a whole lot more. I’m not just thinking of it, I’m in a ball, unable to move, its happening, and I keep my jaw locked and my legs tight shut. I fucking hate it.

Adore (235)

I adore my friend. And I adore how sometimes when I ask her if she loves me (because I’m little, because I need her to say it, confirm it, so I can believe it), she’ll sometimes say she adores me.

“Do you still love me?” ….. “I adore you”. 

Such a small little difference, but it makes my heart feel big and full. Makes me want to hug her really tight.

Guess what? I adore her too.

Death (222)

This is a happy one. Not.

When I was little I would think a lot about people dying. My dad traveled on four different planes every single week, and as he would watch (and therefore we would all watch) shows about plane crash investigations when he was home, I became terrified that every week when he left, I would never see him again. I would cry myself to sleep, feeling all the feelings of his death, of never seeing him again. I was so incredibly attached to him, that his death would have been my whole world falling apart.

I would also imagine myself dying, getting cancer or some freak accident. What that would look like. Me in hospital saying goodbye to the few people that I loved and actually loved me.

I’d imagine both by parents dying…being adopted, or going to live with my aunt and uncle. I’d cry, I’d feel devastated, having fully convinced myself it was going to happen (as with all these fantasies), and in the case of my parents dying, even feeling a bit of relief. At the thought of being adopted, or rather just at the thought of being taken in and cared for…of being seen.

*****

When I was around 7 or 8 years old, I nearly died. I came in from outside where I had been playing on my own, and went into the living room where my mum and two brothers were watching tv. I really wasn’t feeling good. I told my mum I felt really dizzy (and I was so scared which I’m sure must have come across in my voice), but I also didn’t want to annoy her, didn’t want to make a big deal out of nothing, didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself, didn’t want to be a nuisance. So when she told me to just go upstairs to my room and lie down, I did. I ignored how terrible I was feeling, how much I wanted to cry and not be left alone, and I just went up. I remember all of this so clearly. And then I remember nothing until I woke up in hospital. But I’ve been told the rest. How my mum sent my brother up to check on me (and its only just occurred to me how crappy that is – that she couldn’t even be bothered to walk up the stairs herself to check on her sick child. Moving away from the tv was apparently too hard, or maybe I just wasn’t worth it). But then my brother shouted her, because what he had found was his paraplegic sister clinging onto the radiator trying to desperately to keep herself upright because she could no longer feel her legs, having thrown up all over the room, lips hands and feet blue, running an extremely high fever, and completely unaware of his being there. Soon to be unconscious for nearly an hour and unable to breathe by herself properly. I was already in that state and hadn’t shouted my mum, and that makes so much sense to me, because I was just a nuisance, annoying to her. Don’t make a big deal out of nothing.

Taken by helicopter to hospital because had I had to wait for the normal road ambulance I’d have been dead. Waking up in hospital completely naked, surrounded by people. At one point 8 doctors all around me trying to help me and work out what was wrong. Not nurses…doctors. 8 of them. Needles and cables and tests and MRI’s. My dad staying overnight. My mum telling people about ‘what i put her through’.

I often wonder what it would have been like for my family had I died that day. I often wish I had. I wouldn’t have felt any additional pain to what I did, I had already gotten to the point of being unconscious and my body shutting itself down.

Would it have been better for them? Probably.

*****

One of my best friends’ mums funeral was the first that I ever went to. My mum was very close to her mum too, and we spent a lot of time together. I’d often stay at their house, and as we both (and my middle brother and her brother who got along pretty well) all got picked up at the same bus stop, they would often just end up at our house for dinner as it was closer than theirs, after our mums had made us sit in the cars at the bus stop for nearly an hour while my friends mum insisted that they were going to go home, before saying sod it and having a glass of wine and dinner. She was funny and beautiful and sociable, and a great mum. My best friend completely loved her. I still remember so clearly the day that our phone rang when I was 13, and my mum shouted me, and I came out from my room and met my mum on the landing with the phone in her hand. She had this look on her face and I just knew something was wrong. She was covering the phone as she told me that it was my friend on the phone, that her mum’s cancer had come back and that she was going to die. I took the phone, and my mum went downstairs (thinking about it now she probably went and listened in on the downstairs phone), whilst I took the phone into my brothers room because that was as far as it would stretch, and paced up and down as she told me that her mum had just told her she was going to die. I was thrown in at the deep end, had no clue what to say or what would help, but somehow I fumbled my way through it, heart in my mouth, feeling sick, and so so sad for my friend. I still feel heartened, and it still brings tears to my eyes that I was the person she called, that I was the one she turned to in tears needing comfort, needing to offload. I asked how long, hoping that it would be at least a hopeful amount of time. 6 months to a year….(fuck). And she didn’t even last 3. Barely 2. I also remember her getting up in the church which was full of people, and standing there reading a poem for her mum beautifully. She didn’t tremor, most likely because she was numb, but whatever the reason she did her mum so proud, and I gave her such a big hug at the reception.

*****

My grandmother died when I was 21. It was sudden, a bleed in the brain caused by the steroids she had been taking for her arthritis. It was, all in all, a good way to go. Sudden, happening before she even realised it. She was rushed into hospital and My parents and I were there in the early hours of the morning, waiting for news and to see her. We did. She was unconscious but stable. There was plenty of family drama at the hospital when my cousins showed up, who hadn’t seen her in years (refused to and were awful to my grandparents), likely because all of a sudden there was potential inheritance. Cynical, but there you go. The next day she was awake, and fully compos mentis. My parents, aunt and uncle, their son (who did have lots to do with them), all got to see her. I didn’t and it often upset me that I missed that one last opportunity. But we were all relieved…she was okay. And she was strong, my nan. I take after her in a lot of ways, and she would never admit to not feeling great or being completely okay. She was strong because of a determination to be that way.

That night she had a second much bigger bleed and we all rushed to the hospital to say goodbye. She was already dead, but being kept alive on a ventilator. Everything happened so quick, and we didn’t have time, and I never got to kiss her goodbye, and it hurts me. Everybody was there, and I didn’t have space, and somebody called me to leave, so I did. Her body heaving noisily as her chest raised and fell, attached to the machines.

Her funeral was terrible for me. Everybody walked in and sat down. My parents with my granddad, and then my cousins, aunts and uncle, etc. I hesitated, because I was on my own, and my middle brother (who also hadn’t seen her in years) went into the pew with his girlfriend of the time who nobody had even met. And then there was no room for me. And nobody noticed. I was alone, and unsure, and left, and I needed to have people that I knew with me, but I didn’t. I was entirely alone, sitting through the service. And then we walked out and I cried and cried, and couldnt stop. My mum made comments about it, and of all the people it was my eldest brother that tried to comfort me. My nan, who I loved, who looked after me every day after school, who was there with me as I did my homework, who I helped make mince pies, who made meringues for me, who had a cup of tea and special biscuits waiting for me when I got into there house off of the bus, who taught me about plants, encouraged me with drawing, who played endless board games with me and my middle brother…was dead. And everything from the minute of the stroke to being outside of the crematorium afterwards, had been awful, and alone. Of all the people to die, I really didn’t want it to be her.

*****

My grandads stroke nearly exactly a year later was a complete contrast. A year long hospital stay and daily visits. Luckily he was in the hospital right next door to my uni, and so I’d pop in after lectures. I cared about him a lot, but we weren’t close. His funeral was okay, in the scheme of things, and I didn’t cry at all. I feel a bit guilty about that.

*****

I often wish I was dead. Best of all would be to just go to sleep and not wake up, to be done with this shitty life. I think about the relief in it. I think about the people i would hurt. I think about my funeral. I think how ashamed it would make my mum (and how that would be one last final ‘fuck you’, that I would have very few attendees. A couple of friends, and thats it. How ashamed my mum would be. Her daughter the loner.

Most of all I’m just tired. I don’t want to be dead, not really. I just want to hibernate. I want a rest. And this would be a rest…a really good one.

 

Heart (219)

PC and I have a few hearts that get used between us. The lilac one that we’ve mentioned before 💜. And a couple others for some little ones: 💗💙💕.

All of them make me feel her love, and I think vice versa. They make me smile.

Enemy (214)

I’m not a person that uses the word enemy…it feels like a 13 year old girl type of word to use.

But over the day I’ve had the word in my head, and I guess without even realising I was doing it I started thinking of who I would consider an enemy, if I was going to use that word.  The people that keep popping into my mind are the people that facilitate it, or turn a blind eye, that allow abuse to happen and make no effort to stop it. They’re even worse than the people that abuse. At least that’s how I’m feeling right now….likely because of how I’m feeling towards these people that are still in my life right now.

Because it’s one thing to abuse a kid. You’ve got to be pretty fucked up to do that to begin with. But to be a ‘normal’ person, and to sit back, do nothing, say nothing, allow a child to be abused because it would cause too much of a scene to do otherwise…that just makes me feel sick.

And then something made me feel sicker still….Aren’t I one of those? I’m doing nothing while my abuser gets married and has kids (the latter happening first, and I think, soon. I’m saying nothing, I’m giving her no warning, no heads up, just ignoring it. What if there is even the tiniest possibility of him doing that to his own kids? Isn’t it my duty to make sure that never happens? Aren’t I just sitting back and allowing him to get away with it? Not making him confront what he did to me, not making him access help, not asking for any reassurance that he would never do it again?

Am I not just one of those people that I would consider an ‘enemy’ if I was forced to use that word?