I've talked too much, so much it became untrue again. First the memories, they were untrue. Then I fought to grasp them and when I did and went to therapy with them,
while my life improved it also crashed. No, sexual abuse and torture, it
could not be my case. I lied because some strong emotions stirred my fantasy.
It's ever so pleasant, isn't it to dream of being sexually abused? To
have body memories of fingers inside you, of things one does not want to say. All of that is dirty.
My mind frantically wanders. Bland distractions are needed. Oh why me,
the debilitating depression. I take three antidepressants. Each has a role
and I feel which is working on which emotions. There's one antipsychotic
which somehow makes me more durable during the day. There's memories.
All of them must be fabricated, for I've been cared for.
Family can hurt very much, and mine sorta tipped the balance to the side of overdoing it.
"So much for being taken care of," said my therapist.
Sigh of resigning. That's what people tell other people about me: that I am resigned.
I resigned what, to whom, why? But I did, and my mind closed.
What happened undeniably that unwittingly, with loving parents, I was plainly
abused psychologically as a child. Exposed to dangerous situations.
Should I give in to my flight of fancy, I was raped as a child, and
even thinking of this arouses me. This is why my sex life is, uh, not that good.
Not at all. Because when I have sex, I am a child. I accept pain and
urge for a quicker finish. I never orgasm. TMI? Whatever. Let me speak.
So I neglect all life. I got some diagnoses, all of them quite uncertain to me.
It's just that my maturity has been stopped in growth. I took what I could
I stole each moment selfishly, I stole things, without any regard, because
who would give me peace, who could give me satisfaction? Stealing life is my miserable
conclusion to whatever was shown to me. I perpetrate my sins with my mind so closed...
I'm not a survivor, I didn't survive, I am dead. Physical death was miraculously
taken from me, but I pay the price by living a life of a dead. I am an addict
because that tempers my urge to disappear in horror. Addiction is saving my physical
I doubt myself because nobody ever believed anything is wrong with the world's attitude
toward me. It was my wrong attitude that needed psychiatric counseling since barely a
teenager. After ruling out brain cancer and such ailments, it became just me, not my "symptoms," who is troublesome.
I was told so many times how good I have it, how many people love me, how many sacrifices... for me.
Being told that I am basically a princess made me vain and blind to the fact
that it is not quite my black heart that causes sins and trespassing of morals and self-protection via vices.
No self esteem mixed with unbidden, imposed externally pride...
It all went in a cycle. I hoped I am getting there. Reliving the monstrous things
that crawled worm-like trough my pores out of my mind, I hoped I will understand, make peace with the past
and just go on, afresh.
But now I am back in the dark moory place. Bland lush green of the summer scares me.
People scare me. I drift away writing this, I drift far away, dissociate.
Dissociative Identity Disorder. Many personalities in one body. Linked with early childhood trauma. Not just sexual.
In fact I am grateful for the voices in me, the others who share this body. Because we split we could avoid suicide.
But suicide has marked me, a lifeless odor to each thing everyday: objects do not live, do not give pleasure.
Overspending and stealing, in hope to quench thirst for something that would
release a bit of satisfaction. Some gratification.
So I am resigned because I closed my mind due too much confusion. I thought too much
of myself, nobody to help me, and ended up with my head in my ass. There is nothing that would profit with
joy and exhilaration.
Recently I found a friend whom I trust beyond what I could imagine. Thus the pain now. I got a taste of loving someone who is not fucking me.
Who is far away but with me, who lets me be who I am. Who is wonderful, smart and beautiful.
My pain is... I don't know. I drifted away writing this. Later one of my alters will hopefully
edit this. I am in great pain and seclusion. I yearn for suicide too often.
Doubtful child. Out of love a monstrous device strangling my breath was made. I
was to be contained in a very small place, mentally. I cannot write anymore. It smells grey and rotten.3 Comments