i've always had an aversion to shoes. i always kind of chalked up to being a bit of a hillbilly. my mother in law used to call me one of those wild ass barefoot girls. You know the type. And, i fit the bill when i was a little younger. i drove a great big truck, drank my liquor out of the bottle, got in fist fights, loved to flatfoot, and ran around with a bunch of guys recently released from jail or prison. Redneck deluxe minus the racism.
But... maybe that wasn't it. Maybe it was this lovely reindeer game i got back last night. *sigh*
The little black patent leather shoes were gorgeous. And, i had to wear them to go to church with Aunt Sarah. But, i hated them. They had little straight pins driven into the sole of the shoe in several places. Just in far enough to prick my feet with every single step i took. By Sunday nights my tights would be nothing but bloody rags and every nice thing my Aunt Sarah tried to do for me was spoiled by the pain in my feet. One of my earliest memories is of shrieking as my uncle approached me with those shoes. i tried to hide behind my aunt but of course they thought i was just being obstinate. She caught me and they wrestled me into the horrible shoes. And behind them, Granddaddy smiled at me.
my Granddaddy worked hard all his life. Damn, i hate saying that. my father's values were ones i tried so hard to live up to and that's pretty much at the top of his list. And, that bastard did it. Blah, anyway, back to the point. He worked hard all of his life and he had scarred and calloused hands. He never made it through the first grade and he couldn't read at all. He could sign his name, but it was a slow laborious project. After waiting so long for him to form the signature you always expected a childlike scrawl, but Granddaddy always believed anything worth doing was worth doing right. He could produce the finest most beautiful handwriting i have ever seen. The dumb bastard must have hated school, and he seemed to expect me to hate it as well. But, i didn't. Not when i was little. At school it was warm in winter and there was always food to eat. No one hit me or screamed at me. There were no chains or dark places or dirty mattresses on dirt floors. i thought it was just about heaven. When i first learned to read, he wanted me to write lines. i suppose this had been a particularly horrible thing for him. Now, you wouldn't know it these days, my many times broken fingers will only produce an almost illegible scrawl, but he did teach me to make beautiful letters. And in my basement hell for nearly one whole year the walls were covered from floor to ceiling in pieces of paper that i had written lines on. He never knew that those lines said "Granddaddy is a big dumb jerk," over and over and over. He only looked at the pretty writing and thought i had done as he said.
i don't think any of the men who have kept me as pet, prisoner, or pokable have seen me. They always believed my sweet facade of acceptance and obedience. And, that was what allowed me to survive and even allowed me to escape in the end. But, how do i get rid of that facade now?
Last night for J's dinner i made thick cut pork chops. While i was chewing my third bite my jaw did some kind of horrible thing. It always pops and cracks and hurts, but this was different. This was horrible. It felt almost as bad as when it was broken. i went to bed hungry. Today i still can't eat. i can't chew. i can barely stand to talk. i finally broke down and let J call the doctor. i suppose the time has finally come. i can't put it off any longer. i am going to have to try to correct the damage Jackson did.
i was in the basement at Edward's house. i had just gotten home from a party and i was sore and lame. But, as usual, the worst after effect was how i felt inside. i can't explain that feeling very well. So old, so tired, so disgusted and disgusting. Self loathing and resentment and hatred and defeat. And, used, soiled, damaged. *sigh* At any rate, i wasn't happy. So, anyway, i walked into the basement wrapped in a towel so that John could look my back to see if he could charge an additional fee for damaged merchandise. Jackson was shooting pool with another of the runners. When he looked up and saw me standing next to John, waiting for him to finish his hand of cards he ambled over beer in hand. He watched while i took the towel off and threw my wet hair over my shoulder. Benny grunted when he saw my back and muttered something about assholes. John prodded gently but firmly on the soreness and i moaned involuntarily because he caught me off guard. Jackson laughed and poked me hard. And, suddenly that horrible rage overtook me and i spun on my heel to face him. "Get your fucking hands off me, you pussy!" And, that was a mistake. He hit me in the face with his beer bottle and broke my jaw.
And, now, all these years later...
i hope that mother fucker bursts into fucking flames.
i get so enraged i can barely breathe. i get so fucking sick of it, i want to give up. i get so low, so far down i can never see the light and i want to just crawl into a hole and die. i get so wrapped up in it, i can't find my way out again. i get so exhausted by it, i just can't do it anymore. And, then i get up and do it some more.
Sorry, i didn't give you the end of the story. Its been a wild week. Let me give it now, then i have another post that i'm cross posting everywhere.
Soon enough my mother summarized the file of test results for me. i don't remember the whole depressing list of damage and poor prognosis. Let's just say i'm healthier than it was expected. And, i'm not very damn healthy. And, of course, they decided my mental health must be damaged too. So they sent me to a shrink. He was a portly man with salt and pepper hair. He always had a paperclip in his hand and he demolished them. As soon as one was bent beyond playing with, he'd pick up another. i wasn't telling this guy a damn thing. He made me feel like a freak. And, the way he tried to engage me with toys and books and such gave me the creeps. my concept of male female relationships were screwed and i was scared of him. i wanted him to leave me the fuck alone. i quickly found that the best way to keep distance from him was to sit in the chair across from his desk and refuse to move from it or speak. After a few months he gave up and told my parents i wasn't ready.
From there things just get screwy in my mind. i'm missing a big ass chunk of time i cannot seem to get back no matter how hard i try. And, this stuff was 21 years ago, if it didn't make a big impression on me, i've lost it through natural memory loss and too many drugs. Here's the next clear thing i have. It was probably a couple of weeks later.
i was in the waiting room of a doctors office. The nurse kept looking at me like she was about to burst into tears and trying to give me things to play with or candy out of the candy jar. i did not trust this. i knew she had some sort of ulterior motive. The place was entirely empty. The office part where the nurses and office ladies usually sat was dark and deserted. There was only me and this woman who was frankly annoying the hell out of me. i retreated to the far side of the room and looked out the window. It was raining, hard. When i looked out i only saw two vehicles in the parking lot. my Mama's green car and my Daddy's brown truck. i sat there staring out the window a long time, watching and waiting for my Granny's car to pull in. i knew it was only a matter of time. And, i did rather miss my Granny. In fact, it had become a bit of a painful ache. Finally the door opened and i heard my mother sniffling. i turned to look and my parents were standing across the room huddled close together like little children. They stared at me like i was a stranger. A diseased one.
Well. That didn't work. i have absolutely no idea where to go. Dammit. i am annoyed with myself for being unable to find any kind of direction. What the fuck, you know? Its not that i have nothing to say. Its that i have too much to say and all the words get clogged up and so nothing comes out. Just a mindless shriek. And, that doesn't help at all. So. So what? Anybody else ever tried the therapy thing? You know, you go for the first visit, and you sit there, across from this total stranger who is doing their very best to look comforting and nonthreatening. And, on that first visit you are supposed to give a brief overview of just how fucked up you are. i always hate that first visit. Its just too much and its embarrassing. The good ones manage to keep their face impassive. But, i've had a few that i could see the panic set in. That look that says, "Holy fuck, this woman is totally crackers. What the hell am I supposed to do with her?" i hate that look. When you scare shrinks it is not a very fucking sunny feeling.
my mother did try to get me counseling when i was a kid. When i first came home to live. Let's talk about what a dismal failure that was, why don't we? Let's see if it will carry us through the week and perhaps by then i'll get my groove back. i'm going to start with when my mother came to my grandparents and collected me. To read that post, click here.
At home she cut the TV on for me and went into her bedroom and closed the door. i sat in front of Sesame Street and Reading Rainbow trying to get some grasp on what was happening. After praying for so long to be rescued, i did not believe it when deliverance came. This was another trick, another trap. As soon as i allowed myself to hope, i knew i would be sent back. And, then i would be the one to pay for all those awful things she had said to Granddaddy. Never mind he was gone when she said them. He would know. He always knew. i was cold. Even though it was probably hot as hell i was almost always cold. The doctors would later say this was a symptom of malnourishment. But, that day i crawled into the bright patch of sunlight in the orange shag carpet on Mama's floor and hugged myself. i was so terrified that i couldn't get a good deep breathe. The time spent alone in the den seemed to stretch into infinity although it couldn't have been more than an hour. But, dread does funny things to time. It turns it into elastic and stretches and tugs it into monstrous chunks of eternity. By the time my straining ears heard the bedroom door open, i had found the hole in the floor and escaped into my own mind.
i'm getting better i think. i've had a nice drug assisted vacation. Valium is truly a beautiful thing, superseded only by marijuana. With their help, i can make the screaming stop for a while. Or at least ignore it.
i truly hate my weak willed inability to get the fuck over it. What good does it do to survive it if i will never be free of it? i'm tired of worrying that i contaminate my children, that my husband would become a joke if more people knew. There is nothing in my life it doesn't touch. And, i'm so fucking sick of it. Why can't i just put it behind me and move on? i've had several good friends of mine ask me things of this nature. And, i have no answer for them. i don't know. It won't go.
A couple of people have asked me if this blog doesn't make it worse. And, no, i didn't miss that i tried to enter the basement again and i went nuts. But, what those people don't get is that this shit is always there. If i don't write about it, it doesn't mean it isn't there. It just circles and cycles and suddenly the sounds of the house settling at night is John in my living room ready to make me watch him go to work on my daughter, which is the worst thing i can imagine. It almost makes me glad she doesn't live here.
*sigh* i'm meandering again aren't i? The bottom line is... i didn't get hauled off to the boobyhatch this time. i'm working on it, and i'm not going away. i'll be back tomorrow.
Well. *sigh* This is the best i can do to explain it.
Today the playful yells of my children turned into the screams of little babies long dead. my husband's laugh became maniacal and his eyes glowed with the blood lust of the many men who have fed on my soul. Time fell away and hurt and hate and anguish washed over me in giant lung crushing waves. i struggled, i did. i clawed and gasped and looked for a way out. But, finally, the silence was too loud. The ghosts too close. The pain too huge. i took up the razor again and ripped holes in my skin so the pain could not choke me.
This week is totally disjointed. i can't concentrate. my life is currently all turned upside down. But, i am remembering to post. Here is a small story i'll tell over the course of the week.
i snapped into wakefulness to find a dog inches from my face and barking and growling like something demented. i groaned. This kind of shit is one indignity i have been spared so far in my life and i was just fine with that. i curled into a ball and whimpered. The beast's slobber drips on my arm and i just knew i would die. i'm ready. Ready to die. Right now. Please. But, it turns out that it was just the gaurd left to keep me from running. Too late though. By the time the man returned to use me... i was long gone. Insane, unpredictable, and prepared to die.
i stand outside the door, my head pressed against it, my own tears scalding my icy hands as they fall on them. my breath comes in short gasps. Now what? Now where? What do i do now? Where do i turn? What have i done?
And, then the panic sets in. They'll never let me live. They'll never let me live. And, because i desperately want to for the first time i can remember... i run. And, some part of me would always run.
Some part of me still runs. And, often i get twitchy and have to fight the desperate urge to just pack up and flee. i think i will need to run the rest of my life.
