RealMental

she asked via email if it was scary for me. i thought, “very much so.” the more i thought about the question, the more i questioned why it is more fearful to write about it, versus just having it float around upstairs.

i realized that it’s easier to not put in writing so i can go on pretending it’s not a big deal. the writing about it puts your brain on code red alert for blowing it’s defense mechanism. defense is a part of the default brain package.

writing about painful experiences puts you back in those painful experiences temporarily. i’ve been carrying it around, for other people. their dirty fucking secrets with me as the safe deposit box. fuckers and bastards.

for years, i downplayed my history (part of that default brain function). in fact, i had a hard time beginning therapy because I didn’t understand why my past mattered now?!

i was a tough broad. if i felt you wronged me or i could not trust you, i would walk away AND blow up that bridge. i did not need anyone or anything. yeah, i was hardcore. or so i thought.

the message i heard was that you deny everything, push it down and you sure as hell do not burden another person with your shit. you put on your emotional quarterback suit and shout, DEFENSE! DEFENSE!

when i first read the beginning series of “a child called it,” i had a hard time believing that any of it could be true. i remember hearing inside of my head that “what i experienced wasn’t nearly as bad as what he went through”.

yeah, i love that theory. it leads to another road paved with defense and denial neither of which serves to heal you.

perspective comes in small bits and pieces. some days i think all this talking and chipping away has been a waste of precious time. i have to remember that the process is slow and it will last my lifetime.

there is no turning back, trying to do so could easily shut the door on all the progress i HAVE made.

besides, there is a little person inside of me that is worthy of the battle. she looks to me for protection.

she used to beat us with anything she could get her hands on. she was angry, my god she was angry. with each blow, you could feel the anger piercing your heart, your mind, and your soul.

grabbing my hair was her signature move. her strength was amazing. she would literally pick you up by your hair and slam you into a cabinet, a door, whatever was close.

her suppressed anger and rage from being physically and sexually abused as a child would be unleashed upon her children. why did she hate me so much? i must have been an awful child to cause this reaction in her. i was bad. very, very bad.

she did it to all of us. belts, spatulas, her hand, anything she could grab at the time. her rage, much like an alcohol induced blackout blinded her.

one particularly bad memory stems from her nervous breakdown. i was about 12 or 13 at the time and had no idea. by no fault of anyone else’s i took responsibility for this. it’s just what i did.

she threw a rocking chair at me, shortly after she told me she wished she’d had an abortion. (i was the product of my biological father raping her while they were separated, who would have blamed her for having an abortion?)

as an adult, i confronted her. she went into a rage and denied involvement. confronting her was not anything i wanted to do. with some therapy under my belt, it came to be that i should discuss it with her. not to rub her nose in it, but in order to help both of us heal. even as an adult i was afraid of hurting her. and, to bring up such a thing would surely hurt her.

about two years ago i was doing some internal work and i had a vision. a vision of myself carrying around hot burning coals in my bare hands. i knew the coals represented her baggage. in the vision, i spoke out loud to tell her that i could no longer carry her coals anymore. i put them down by a tree and walked away.

that felt good, but i wasn’t completely sure what it meant until my mind had time to process the information. this after 14 years of trying to make sense out of things. i was breaking the tie in which i felt responsible for her happiness.

i’ve had headaches for all of my life. i’ve seen all kinds of doctors and specialists but no end of the headaches. it dawned on me recently to mention this to my doctor that as a child, i received many blows to the head. he began treating me armed with that information, and my headaches are now few and far between.

i write to clarify my history, not to hang her out to dry. it isn’t an act of rebellion to “make her pay”. in all honesty, i already went through that stage. this one is different, in that it has everything to do with me and nothing at all to do with her.

i never knew why i did it. i just did it. i had to do it. At the time, I was unable to make the association that when I did it, it released the pain. physical pain numbs a person. instead of a big gaping wound of pain in the belly, it was compacted into one area. i call that tangible pain.

each morning walking down the steep hill to the bus stop was excruciating and hurt every step of the way. something inside of my would ask, “why are you doing this?”

i never had an answer.

i engaged in a ritual of peeling skin from the bottom of my feet. it took a few days for it to grow back before i could repeat the process. in the meantime, i had my fingers to damage along with the calloused skin on my palms.

writing about it now, it seems dark and scary. at the time, it was my dirty little secret and i had no idea why i was doing it.

it would be several years later before the pieces started coming into focus for me. pain was the “go to” sensation.

for the most part, i’ve said goodbye to those rituals. i use “for the most part” because i’ve learned that self harm is some kind of shape shifter virus, which forces me to be vigilant.

in order to get to the solution, i had to go back to the root of the problem. therapy can be similar to a plunge into hell. it wasn’t a pretty site and has taken years to sort the pieces that will continue for my time here. i am better, I am getting better.

some mornings, i wake up and immediately think “everyone hates me”. i am not certain when this began or why. for years i would actually ask people if they hated me.

it became a weird habit. i no longer ask the question out loud (unless i’m joking about it) but i still think it. oh yeah, i still think it. it usually happens first thing in the morning.

i call this voice that hits me early in the morning a gremlin. the gremlin whispers into my ear telling me how terrible i am and every mistake i made the day and night before. he is relentless.

the more awake i become, the gremlin begins to fade but he never leaves. he continues to whisper his negative, subliminal messages in my ear for the day. some days, i can speak to him sternly and tell him to be quiet. it is when i am alone that i can be at my most vulnerable to his presence.

in the presence of my kids, he almost completely disappears. until later in which he tells me all the mistakes i made with my kids. that my son falling down was my fault. that my daughter’s emotional turmoil is all my fault. if i were good enough, i could fix her. i could be everything she needs, even more than god.

i’ve often wondered how i could attach a movie camera to my brain in order for the world to witness some of what happens when the gremlin talks to me. you know, so they could find a cure.

he’s my dragon that i battle. some days i achieve victory by not allowing him to affect me. some days, i go down quickly. the days in which i go down quickly usually mean that i have eaten properly, haven’t gotten enough sleep, haven’t properly cared for myself, etc.

one would think that is the answer and how simple it is. to be good to yourself everyday to keep him at bay. self harm takes on different forms. forms that cannot be seem with the eye.

seems easy enough right? it’s not. i won’t give up though. never will i give up.