Anger (161)

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.

one hundred & twenty nine: violence

violence is so, so many things.

overt things, like hurting someone’s body, with purpose.  i mean, there are millions of horrible ways to harm a body: hitting, kicking, slamming, pushing, shoving, choking, pinching, smacking, smothering. small things on small parts, also bigger things, with bigger sounds and bigger sores left behind.

violence is also quiet things, like silence. refusing to speak to someone, for hours, or days. the tilt of a head. a glare, or an empty stare, as if you are invisible. ignoring, either purposefully or by being disengaged. not watching, not telling. keeping secrets. perpetuating lies. the absence of presence.

violence is words. ones that are spoken, or hissed, or screamed. ones that are whispered. dirty, disgusting words, yes, but also words that are used opposite to how they’re meant. like i love you while simultaneously having disgusting things done to your body without your say, or you’re a good girl when it really means shut up, don’t tell, no one will believe you. words that get so confused in your brain because the sound of their voice, and what they say is not in line.

violence poisons things. violence dresses up in sheep’s clothing. it is a backdrop, an acrid smell, an insidious chill. violence has bad manners; ignores no thank you and please, stop! and fuck off.

violence was bred into me, was done to me and all around me, and i worry i won’t ever get it out, or off. i fear that others can smell it. that i will never get away. that my cells are rotten, that my body was so steeped in it, that violence is my inevitable destiny. though i know it, have always known it, i am terrified, i am an unwilling servant, i want to be free.

written feb 12/19 but backposted to jan 30/19


A couple of nights ago, I wanted to destroy everyone and everything near me. I was so so full of hate, I just wanted it out of my body. I was imagining hurting my poor little kitten that I love (I didn’t); I wanted to really really hurt him, release all of my anger and hate, and kill him, this little, adorable, sweet and oh so naughty kitten. My thoughts were violent and uncontrollable and just so so not okay. There was no interacting with other parts of myself, there was only this unbearable hatred eating me up. I wanted to rage, I wanted to scream and hit things, and hurt people. I really, really wanted to hurt people. I wanted to hurt myself most of all. I wanted to hurt every single good person in my life, I wanted to scare them all away, and then I wanted to punish myself. The feeling that I always have is that of taking a knife and slicing it, right down my body…of taking my hands and removing all of the soft squishy guts, everything that makes me feel weak. I wanted to remove every single soft bit on my body, and I didn’t want to do it painlessly, I wanted to feel the sharp tang of the knife, I wanted to feel the sweet release of all of this weakness being removed from me. I wanted to feel relieved and like I could breathe again afterwards, hardened and strong.

I hate myself when I’m like this. Its a terrible circle…because when I am hating, I hurt people, and shout or want to hurt innocent animals. That then makes me hate myself the moment the rage begins to subside, and I think about how awful a person I am. That then in turn tends to turn me back to rage and hating myself, and you’re stuck in this cyclical pleasure ride.

Something pc said to me, (after sticking with me through that night, no matter how awful I was), was that she wants to know this part most of all, that she was the biggest protector… And I guess she was. Because all of the hate, all of the anger, became contained. It was separated, and it was felt when it was generally safe, and it was almost all directed inwards. She kept me safe, by making me angry at myself and nobody else. She kept me small, and feeling strong, and blaming myself. And that, in its own very screwed up way, kept me safe. It kept me from acting out and being on the receiving end of retaliation. And it kept me from the unbearable grief of placing that anger where it belongs and realising that no one would listen or help.

I  really want to end this with some lovely sentence or two to summarise, but I can’t, because really it just feels like one bloody big mess in my head.

Pain #2

Reading pc’s post again tonight brings tears to my eyes. She writes beautifully about the ugliest of things and she’s put words to things that I had zero desire to try to write about yesterday.

I want to add some more. And I suppose there are two types to this. The physical pain, and far worse, the emotional. I’ll start with the former.

  • The bruises on a body from ‘kids being kids’.
  • The feeling of suffocating when your head is held underwater and however much you flail and try to get out of their grip, you can’t.
  • Or when their hand is over your mouth and nose, or around your neck and you can’t escape.
  • When their body is on top of yours, pinning you down.
  • When your arm or leg is held so hard you end up bruised.
  • When you are hit or pushed down or threatened without the requirement of words even leaving their mouth.
  • When their penis is down your throat and you cannot escape. When you gag and can’t breathe, and the only air you can get into your lungs is when they release the pressure of their hand on the back of your head and you can pull back just long enough that you can breathe through your nose again before they thrust your head back forward and you’re suffocating. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat x 100.
  • When you disappear to wherever you can, because the things they are doing to your body are more than you can cope with.
  • When doors are slammed on hands. Objects thrown at faces. Plates and glasses smashed on the wall behind you.
  • The sweet sharp pain that is self inflicted in order to try to bring yourself back to the present, or punish yourself, or just feel *something*. Or rather, actually, to so often feel nothing, to numb everything happening in your brain and body, to remove yourself from it all.

And yet, the actual physical pain and fear is short lived right? Ha. No, not really. Because the emotional pain brings them back all the fucking time. Periods become triggers where your body feels like it’s still happening, over and over, where your memories torment you. And all of these things come back, out of nowhere, when you least expect it, when you might be having a good day, and then SLAM. Hit in the face with this shit, out of nowhere, for no reason that you can pinpoint.

And as pc has said, all of the other shattering things.

  • The fact that they chose him, yet again. The fact that you’re not chosen. The knowledge that you won’t ever be.
  • The fear that has your knees curled up to your chest whilst you sit on the floor of the shower for half an hour hoping that the water will wash it all off of you.
  • The birthdays, the christmases, the fathers days, the mothers days, the lunches, the dinners, the family gatherings, the celebrations.
  • The never ending silencing.
  • The earth shattering loss of parents that can make you feel orphaned, and alone and like you won’t survive it.
  • The shame. The white hot, flushed cheeks, sweaty bodied shame.
  • The fucking ocean of grief. And the ocean of grief that you haven’t been able to cry for in years.
  • The years spent taking care of yourself because nobody else will. The putting yourself to bed and the crying yourself to sleep at night.
  • The feeling unseen, unheard, unappreciated, unloved. Unloveable.
  • The taking all of it on so that you can retain some semblance of control.

There are so many more. This list isn’t even close to exhaustive, but I have another post I need to write.

seventeen: unususal

y’know what? i think i like this word.

i don’t feel like it’s used all that often in daily conversation, but i like it. i like unusual things. i like unusual people. i would be pleased to be thought of, or referred to, as being unusual. not usual, un-usual? yeah. i like that. who wants to be common? not this chick.

okay, so just after i wrote what i did up there, i did something stupid. i didn’t know it was stupid but it was, because it has ruined a lot of the good feelings.

basically, i googled the definition of unusual, and for some reason, reading not habitually or commonly occurring or done made me feel sick. coz i thought about my family, about my childhood. where what was habitually and commonly done was a father putting his hands on/in his daughter, and having her put her small, quavery, inexperienced hands on parts of him. another thing that was commonly done was for my mother to punish me through silence, for hours and sometimes days. when i did something ‘wrong’, i would have to try and figure it out…try to backtrack and review and do all kinds of detective work to discern what it may have been. or conversely, i would know very well what i had done, there would be an explosion, with screaming and spanking and fireworks abounding…followed by deathly silence, blank stares, and withdrawal. no way to make it up. no way to fix it. just knowing that i was so, so bad.

i think this is what i perhaps hate the most about my life lately. that i am constantly toeing the line between okayness and the tippiest edge. that i feel good one minute, adult, resolute, and solid, but by the next minute, the darkness is right up in my face, rattling my bones, curdling my stomach, and i’m a terrified four year old. i can’t seem to protect myself against the trapdoors before i’m dropping into the abyss, clutching and scrambling at the air as i fall…

the pendulum just seems to swing so far both ways, lately. i can hardly keep up. wondering, who am i, right now? and then moments later…who am i now? and rarely answering the same.

trauma is exhausting. i never wanted any of it. none of us did. i hate this fucking club.