— Richard Siken, ”Wishbone” (via whyallcaps)
After I wrote my article, a mentor said to me “People need to see there are twists and turns and there is no direct route to peace. You’ll never know how many people you reach, but keep writing.”
I need to remember that, and reach myself right now. Because right now, it’s really lonely out here.
Trigger Warning probably for depression and stuff idk i m too tired
I just read (again) Hyperbole and a Half’s Depression Part 2 and
1) am I depressed? Everything describe in there is exactly how I feel (some of the events might be reversed?)
2) if so, well….I did email my therapist, maybe she’ll reply back.
3) I need to stop crying. I’m so sick of crying. When I stop crying, the only emotion that replaces is cold anger. I’m so sick of both.
4) School begins tomorrow, long job training today, maybe I’ll get distracted. I hope I get distracted. I don’t know what’s going on.
p.s. I actually got redirected to Hyberbole and a Half after reading the article “The utter insufficiency of anti-suicide activism" and let me tell you there should be a similar article for "The utter insufficiency of combating body hate", "The utter insufficiency of combating self harm urges", "The utter insufficiency of combating eating disorders" because it all feels true. That article felt too true.
Trigger Warning: Self Harm, Child Sexual Assault
There are a few things happening all at the same time and I don’t know how to deal with any of them.
a) I think I finally found my voice. I finally found the voice which allows me to be angry and to be hurt and to be angry. I have been waiting for that part of me for a long time. Except, I don’t think it’s accommodating for anyone except for myself. For so long, people have looked at me as this person who is strong and confidence and compassionate but this part of me is just angry. Angry, angry, angry, angry. And frankly, I don’t care to curb her. It feels good to let her out. To let her be angry. To let herself put herself and no one else first. Even if she isn’t nice. I don’t care.
b) Now that he is living closer, I have seen him almost every day. It means sex almost everyday. It means me wanting to jump out of my skin much more than I have wanted to in sometime.
c) my skin is crawling. my skin is crawling. my skin is crawling. All I want to do is to rip it off my body, to peel it off my body like one would peel a fruit. My entire skin is crawling. It’s not that I can “stop thinking about it”. It’s there. Its’ there when I am talking about unrelated things with my sister, who is the least triggering person in my life. It’s just. There.
d) The thought of my body makes me so nauseous I’m surprised I haven’t hurled yet.
e) I hate my body. I don’t say this venom, with self pity, with self hate. I am not a fan of raisins (“I hate raisisn”) and I’m not a fan of my body. It just is. Except it’s more acceptable to not be a fan of raisins than of one’s own body. I don’t care. I like saying my truths out loud. They help me own myself. Except they are not accommodating to people who hear them. And I don’t care. Except I also cant stand unsolicited advice.
f) Maybe this summer of silence wasn’t so bad at all. No one around me. But now school is starting and people in my lives are back and I don’t feel like accommodating anyone in my space.
g) My insides are shaking. I have such a calm exterior. My insides are shaking and trembling. I’m on the verge of tears. But the tears are there only because I’m so angry. Because I cannot stand all this anger stifled in my anymore.
And yet, I’m so calm. So, deadly, normally calm
Trigger Warning: child sexual abuse and related
I have been looking to buy lingerie recently. Looking. Trying to convince myself I should get some. A little of both.
The struggle isn’t just over the fact that I feel guilty about spending money (aerie is having a sale btw). In the past, I let my mom buy most of it for me. So she’d buy for two things: comfort/fit and price. (The fact that we have yet to buy decent bras in any sense of the word since coming to America is besides the point). Now I want aesthetics. I am good at looking great when it comes to clothes. I want to look great under it too.
Of course, that means having to deal with my body.
I literally view my body in a virgin/whore dichotomy. With clothes I am respectable, with clothes I can see myself as a person. Classy. Sexual mores dictated by my moral integrity (is that a real thing? ). A lady. Etc etc.
My naked body is an entire other story. I cannot view it as anything else other than a…thing whose sole object is to provide sexual gratification. I cannot imagine my body as anything else. It fucks with me in various ways.
But. Underwear shopping. I keep looking at things that I want to try and I remember the last time I wore a slip (under a beige see through kamees) that my 10 year old self considered sexy. I remember loving wearing it and my mother getting annoyed that I paired it off particularly with that kamees (it wasn’t as visible in other kamees). I thought to myself then that it was a great way to get (sexual) attention. Because even though as a child I didn’t necessarily understand what “sexual attention” was exactly, I knew exactly what it meant to get attention for one’s physical body as a woman. Training bra and all, I was hyper aware of the attention men would lavish at my face, at my body.
Looking at lacy underwear makes me want to strut in cute and coy things and makes my heart go cold all at the same time. It’s very exhausting.
People write me to tell me that my telling of my story is brave. I appreciate their kindness every time I receive such messages but I don’t think they realize that for me, it neither takes bravery nor strength. Rather, it’s a matter of inertia.
Because telling matters for ME. It’s wonderful to know that I may reach someone but telling means that I’m motivated just enough to go back to Courage to Heal, to go back to working on my healing. I read somewhere in the book that healing is like peeling an onion and it really is. You work through one part of it, think you’re done and then in the second layer come across the same shit a second time. Except it’s deeper. There’s a difference to it. So you work through that one, and move on to the core of your healing. For me, telling often becomes the vehicle of my healing.
It’s liberating and exhausting at the same time.
1. I don’t like running the dishwasher unless it’s full. Fully full.
2. The only thing my body craves is caresses and kisses. Sex is nice, sometimes.
3. I used fountain pens during my years in Pakistan. I loved the way they wrote. I want some so I can write on my body.
4. Once when I was trying to get the ink to flow I struck the pen against my arm. Only later did I realize that I had spilled droplets on the marble floor. They had dried so I couldn’t wipe them off anymore. I resigned myself to a yelling.
5. I did not get yelled at. Mildly surprised. Important point: not yelled at.
6. Sex can be triggering. There are times when I’ll push myself through the red bells but most times I stop. But there are times when there are no red bells but I still want to say no. I don’t
7. I don’t want to be the cause of hurt feelings. After all, I can still get some pleasure out of it. And I don’t want to wade through bruised egos. They can stack up.
8. The thing about cobwebs is that they are associated with abandoned, derelict buildings. But I think they signify life and its vitality and uncertainty. I don’t like taking them down.
9. I have been silent for the past two months and that might have a lot to with my loss of motivation to do most things. Except sleep. I love sleep.
10. The thing that gets to me about my abuse is that he was never violent in the traditional sense. He never beat me. I don’t think he ever really forced me. I just. …went with it, trusting him, feeling the shame later (almost vaguely). I was happily numb to most of it. Happy for the attention. Numb because I really didn’t want to feel the shame and desperately wanted to trust him.
11. I painted this self portrait that has very vacant eyes. I don’t think it’s a great self portrait because no one to date has made the connection between her and me.
12. I never learned how to say no. I can’t find the manual so I don’t know how to teach myself. It’s rather. …stilling if I stop to think about it