Weak (98)

I feel like I need forever to actually be able to write this post and do it justice for all the power this word holds over me.

Being ‘weak’ is the most insufferable, sickening, shrinking, painful thing to me. The idea of it, the suggestion that I might be it, the thought that people may misjudge me and consider me weak where I am not.

The origins of the pain of this word, of course, are from my family. They lie in the fact that being upset, needing, being sensitive and emotional were considered to be ‘weak’, and that being weak led to abuse and trauma and pain.

 

  • My mother was not the cuddly, gentle, reassuring, patient mother that small children need. She was generally inpatient, had no time for tears or being upset, or hurt. She didn’t react to those things with gentleness, but instead with annoyance and sometimes anger, and frankly, a lack of mothering. I hadn’t actually made the connection between this word and my mother to this extent until I began writing, but it is extremely clear. I don’t think she meant any harm by being that way; it was not intentional, likely passed down from her own upbringing. However the effects of it were far-reaching and really quite devastating. How was I ever going to feel like I could turn to somebody and admit how I was being hurt, when doing exactly that had been ingrained into me as being weak? How could I cry and need and ask for attention when that only ever resulted in impatience and annoyance, and a “come on, you’re fine, stop making a fuss”.

 

  • And all of that just caused so much shame. I closed in on myself to keep myself safe. Don’t cry, don’t be little, don’t be needy, don’t hurt, don’t be hurt. The white hot shame of doing those things only to be ten-folded when met with cold irritation. I hate that bastard shame, I really really do.

 

  • Today this word sits differently amongst different parts of me. The older parts don’t like it, but they are generally disdainful, quietly hating or judging the younger parts when they do something ‘weak’. If the rage-y one rages then this often is a source of huge self-hatred that she uses as ammunition. They take the place of my mum, inputting all of her shame. The youngest part pays no mind to not being ‘weak’; shes needy and emotional, and full on, and doesn’t care except to not want to be told off for it. The one that this is the be all and end all for is one of the young ones. The word sits in her belly and weighs it down with shame. It is always in the background, always there. It’s why she is spikey and walled up and tries to scare people away. It why she can’t ever let anybody totally in, despite being desperate to be loved and cared for like the little one she is. Her world centers around this 4-lettered stupid little word. It causes more pain, keeps more relationships from deepening, and keeps us more alone than any other word in the dictionary. And worst of all is the self-hatred it invokes.

 

I think this is going to be a part 1 of 2 (or more). There’s more to say…its huge impact even today, how I thought I deserved it all for being weak. How I thought if I physically made myself strong I would hate myself less for being weak…. But this will do, for now. It’s a start.

Hate

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.

Weep(ing)

I’m having one of those nights tonight where I just want to grab a carving knife and slice it through my belly, remove all the disgusting soft squishy parts and be left with only strong hard stuff. I’m completely hating myself, and I just want to hurt myself, because I deserve it.

Weeping isn’t something I do. Weeping is weak and pathetic, and fuck that. I won’t be those things. I refuse to be hurt. I refuse to let anyone have that kind of opportunity to ridicule or shame me.

And I know that my core beliefs of what is weak doesn’t extend to anyone else and therefore shouldn’t be and isn’t applicable to me. But tonight is the kind of night where the thought of any sort of vulnerability is insufferable.