Posted by: Marie | May 24, 2010

(319) Please stop spinning

Post #319
[Private journal entry written on Sunday, January 17, 2010 – 8pm]

Well, I’m drunk.

My housemates gave me an opened bottle of wine that was nearly full – they took one taste of it and didn’t like it, so they gave it to me a few days ago.

I spent a good part of the day – since I sent the email to Mark – in bed in a deep well of emotion, filling my pillows with tear and snot. Every couple of hours, I have unsuccessfully attempted to convince myself to get out of bed and take a shower and maybe do a little laundry – I really stink and my bed sheets really need to be washed. Even I can smell my own stink.

On the Hike by Martin Chen

My brain has been spinning furiously – wondering if I’m being way too dramatic – really, how dreadful can a conversation about religion really be? I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. Why can’t I just let it go – let it be a non-issue?

Then, I remember the terror I feel when I worry that Mark will attack my beliefs again – that he will raise his voice again – that he will use aggressive words – that I will be squashed into a mute, terrified bump of non-humanity. Yes, I do really need to know that he won’t do that again.

What if he still won’t recognize how his behavior has affected me? What if he is not willing to give me that assurance? What if he sees no value in what I figured out – how I connected the dots? What if he is not willing to stop doing the behaviors that trigger me? Would that be a deal-breaker for me? If not, would it mean that I just have to swallow my fear and hope for the best?

This afternoon, my brain got to spinning faster and faster . . . it wouldn’t stop. The more I tried to figure out the situation with Mark, the more the flashes of memory of being whipped by my dad – and raped by “X” – kept pouring in. Writing that email and hitting the “send” button really opened up the floodgates – explaining to Mark how his behavior can be so triggering for me made the connections tangible – thinking about one brought a flood of remembering the other.

I keep having clear memories of spanking my dolls (if everyone hit me, who did I hit?) and of pulling their pants down and doing shameful stuff to them, acting out violence between them – hard plastic bodies with no anatomy – I was probably four or five years old.

Then, I’m remember playing with my Barbie’s, lining them up by age, making all the female Barbie’s have babies with “Ken”, feeling shame if anyone caught me playing like that.

I’m remembering when, at maybe age (ten?), I created charts for my fantasies of being bred at a young age. In my fantasies, I was forced to have painful sex and then have baby after baby. I would track my fantasy age and I would track the ages of my fantasy children. When I got too old in the fantasy – the fantasy was only exciting if I was young – I would tear up the charts and start all over again – from the very beginning.

I posted the charts on the wall . . . I wrote everything in code . . . my mom would ask me about them, but I never told her the truth. I would have died if she ever knew the truth. She would laugh and comment that I was a strange child.

Every time my body relaxes (any time, not just tonight), I feel a penis going into my pussy – no other part of a memory, just the one-second timeframe around the initial thrust. This has been with me for as long as I can remember. It is not very distressing because I guess I’m used to it. I’ve not really thought about how weird it is before.

So, today . . . TV didn’t help. Chocolate didn’t help. So, I reached for the bottle of wine – and now, the bottle is empty. That shut down the silent horror movies – and now, I’m feeling giggly and ultra-friendly. I have been on-line, reaching out to my cyber buddies. I hope my communications made sense.

I so desperately need to feel safe with Mark . . . safe enough that I will be finally able to unburden myself of these secrets that haunt my sanity. Can I trust him to treat the sacred space of my “telling” with respect? Would he criticize or minimize what I have to say?

I wonder if I will ever be able to tell those stories to Mark. I wonder if I will ever feel that safe with anyone . . . or, if the stories of the Barbie dolls and the wall charts will forever stay locked inside the deepest caverns of my soul . . . ??

I wonder if it would help for me to show up to therapy drunk . . . maybe then the words would slip out from between my lips without inhibition . . . like they are flowing out through my fingers right now.

I’ll feel like shit in the morning – that is why I don’t like alcohol . . . it doesn’t help with what I normally feel in the evenings . . . it only helps when things get to moving too fast in my brain, like today. But, there is always hell to pay in the morning.

Oh, well, . . . no school district job tomorrow, just a couple of piano lessons in the evening. Surely I’ll be functional again by then.

I feel so hopelessly fucked up in the head – maybe too much to be helped. These are the days I’d prefer to not be here.

This sucks.


Responses

  1. I hope Mark did understand. It is really hard when the memories come flooding back like that.

    • Hey, Evan –

      I was surprised at how strongly the memories came after I sent the email . . . I guess I was asking him, via the email, to create a safe place for me to tell my secrets . . . they needed to come out.

      I desperately needed him to step up to the plate . . .

      – Marie


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