So much I find myself having an issue… I am crawling my way to being healthy and a “successful ” person. For me it is a constant struggle. It means that I have to put the work I do creatively in the world. I face rejection. Ok, you say, and?… Well it comes down to what kind of day I am having. And I know that I am not alone. I so often on bad days convince myself that two monkeys with typewriters could write better than I do. And I won’t even get started with my art. It isn’t just depression, it is self worth. If you spend your whole life hearing that your opinion is not worth a damn then eventually… You believe it. This is not something that you can just get over! This requires you to retrain yourself to believe that you matter. That the systematic erosion of your dreams and desires was not in fact truth. That you can make a difference in this all too dark world. So if I seem to be attention seeking with my art or my writing… It is not because I am actually attention seeking.. It is likely that I am losing the fight that day against seeing myself as worthy of doing it at all that day. Please don’t hold it against the writing or the art.
Category: pain
Dear Mama
Dear Mama,
I love you. All that I have ever wanted was to feel like you were proud of me. I tried to be who you wanted. I found that didn’t work. Then I tried being myself. I found that I was happier, but you still were not proud of me. Mama I am fourty one, and I have succeeded. I am published. I am usually a happy soul. Yet when I fall, and I do occasionally fall. It is your voice in my ear, telling me you expected it all along. When I get rejected for my poetry, (as rejections are normal for the writer to recieve) that everyone else would tell me I wrote so well? I hear you telling me that you didn’t want to hear it because of how depressing it was.
Mama, I have published five volumes of poetry, three children’s books, and a novella. You know that family have hardly even acted like it mattered? I am doing what I told you I wanted to do at nine. I am a writer. So I may never be a novelist, children’s books still need written. I have never asked for much. Just a hey, that is awesome. Or even… Uh sharing it on social media that you have a daughter who is printed. So I put space between us. I admit that I was tired of feeling like you just didn’t care. I deserve to be someone who is cared about. I’m sorry that I was never the daughter you wanted, but Mama, I have always just been me.
Love always,
Your daughter.
Therapy
Not everyone is healed by medicine, not everyone is healed by therapy. Don’t get me wrong, it can do a great deal. Still it is alot like an addiction, being mentally ill. Unless you are ready to heal, all therapy will do is give you someone else to depend on. Someone else to expect judgement from. This is often more detrimental to self esteem than helpful. I have been seeing a therapist since I was nine years old. For me it was just something that I had to do. I have had some good ones, ones who could make me see them as human. I’ve had a few who abused my trust. To tell the truth, I have done more towards healing when I was not seeing one. I used to dissociate. For the ignorant among my readers, the term Dissociate is technical jargon for saying that I was multiple personalities. Twenty years ago I was a true mess. Nearly twelve personalities that we knew of. I was never sure where I would wake up, and how much time would have passed. One of my personalities was cutting. As stated, I was not in a good place. When I was in control, I was having nightly nightmares. I was terrified of being put in a hospital. Mostly because I figured I would not be let free. I am extremely claustrophobic. When I was little, I was molested. I finally got the courage and told him that if he came near me again I would scream. Well I guess he believed me… But he did decide to put one last scare to keep me from talking. He locked me in the trunk of his car and told me I would die there. I am not sure how long I was in there. But I was there long enough to scare me. I was nine. It took me four years to gain enough courage to speak. He said that I would never be believed. Damn him for being right. I was told that I was insane. I showed all the symptoms of a abused child. So much so that I was put in therapy. I was put on medicine… But I speak up… And I am insane. Fine. I am fourty one. I am finally one, not many. And I am insane. He raped me at five. He raped me until I was strong enough to say no. Then he raped my mind for the majority of my life. And if I had been believed he wouldn’t have been able to rape the girls after me. He wouldn’t have been free. He is in jail, but I check on occasion. I am fourty one and I am scared of a small man who ruined my life. I am not sure I will ever not be. Ask my family… I am a depressing poet who has always been crazy. Oh wait, many of them (not all) will not even Acknowledge that I write. I embarass them. After all, I was telling the truth. I don’t lie, because thanks to the dissociation, I often have a hard time remembering things. So why lie if I will only be caught. I am not crazy. I need no therapist to hear me. I am whole. I have good coping mechanisms. And I will not hide who I have become for anyone!
Speak your own truth. No matter what anyone else thinks of it.
Tired ramblings
Last night was not a good one. I doubt that I slept even a full hour. Every time I would try it would be falling into yet another nightmare. I have had them all of my life, as far back as I remember. I rarely remember them, only wake feeling afraid and small.
So I have been sleep deprived and shaky… Not a good combo. Well it has had me trying to gather all of the random thoughts swimming in my head. Quite unsuccessfully I should add. So much so that I have decided to post some here to help my mind to relax. And that it is a glimpse for you of my chaos? Bonus.
1. I miss my grandmother, well both of them. But mostly my maternal grandmother. I have been trying to learn to crochet. And she was amazing at it. She was just plain amazing, but it is the crochet that is bringing her to mind this time.
2. Samhain. Yes I am pagan. And this is a time for family.
3. I am very likely not going to end up with the death of neverland as anything but a novella. The halfway point is 5000 words. So I find myself wondering if I am trying to exceed my reach. I am a poet. I am a children’s author. I apparently can do short stories (aka novella). But can I do a novel?
3 i really am enjoying doing the art thing. If you are curious about how my art is… Myne drawings album is public on my personal Facebook (Patti Harris). Go ahead, look! I would love new input.
4. My daughter is starting to get into create music. I really want to encourage that.
5. Yule. I have a idea for a few of the people on my list. Not that my list is big. I am not able to afford much for even those.
6. Butt coasters. A friend of mine on Facebook is doing novelty crocheted coasters (www.facebook.com/nothingbuttcoasters/) and I am so tickled by the pug ones… (Thinking about them for one of my list…
7 money. Always a issue.
8. After the first of the year, do I want to do another bedtime tales?
9. Zombie castaways. Android game.. The villa (a building to make needed items in the game) if you combine love and rubber… You get bedsheets….
10. I really want a small crockpot for the truck. I wonder if I can pull it off this month.
11.whether I should do a blog post about religion. Or poets that I love and why….
12 my sister’s faeries. I feel like I should help more than I do…
So much rambling. I am heading to bed soon. I hope that I sleep better tonight.
Rape culture
So I am not an easily triggered person, usually. However, here lately social media has been testing the limits. Several times I have opened Facebook and found articles about children dying because they were raped. Then there are the articles about rapists getting nearly no punishment for what they have done. So then I take to Twitter, which is usually a little bit more light-hearted. Until the presidential election. Then there started a new hashtag. #WhyWomenDontReport. Well, that is a huge can of worms. It caused me to discuss this with Joe.
He said that most of the women who he knows, or has known have been either raped or molested. Then as we were talking about it, he considered. Of the twenty women who he was intimate with, he said he was unable to say for sure on four. The rest were survivors. That is not even a random statistic. That is women who he was with.
I was floored by that. So I posted on Facebook. (So there is a thing on Twitter… #whyIdidntreport
I DID REPORT! At least the first time. I was told that I was a liar. Not all rapes go unreported, some people speak and go unheard. I didn’t speak of the second time because I knew I wouldn’t be believed.) I had several of my friends express similar situations. Think on this, according to Google, one in three women are raped in their lifetime. Yes men are also raped, but I am not speaking of them, not yet anyway. So 1/3 of all women. We as a people need to address this… That is a huge issue.
Add to the issue the ignorance of Trump’s “locker room talk” and the treatment of the victims by those who have the power to change things. Is it any wonder that sexual assault is the least reported crime? We make it hard for the scared to overcome the fear instilled by violence to step into a safe place… And I for one am tired of that. I was raped at fourteen and molested as a small child. I am not a statistic. I am not a victim. I am not allowing Rape culture to break me. I speak my truth, and invite you to do the same.
Love Dust
In my life too many
Have claimed that they
Loved me,
Just before turning
And walking away.
Don’t ask me
To tell you,
Who he really is.
For in my sorrow,
In my shame and pain,
I realized that I really
Never even knew.
Do not ask me
What I did,
That drove her away.
For all that I am
The one who once
Sister she called,
In truth I doubt
That she really ever
Knew the truth of me.
The shattered shards
Of self esteem and trust,
Left beside me as those who
Claim that they love me
Leave me in the dust.
Outside blind
Okay, I believe it is time that I explain my truth, and set myself free. I have survived many abusive situations. I really was a broken soul. Then I met an angry redhead. He is my anchor. He allowed me to heal. When I met him, I was dissociating. I was on more medications than a person should ever take and I flinched whenever anyone looked at me cross. I was hiding who I was, mostly because I had seen that it would be unwelcome. No one believed me when I spoke of what I had been through. So when I met him, I was more than a hot mess. I was having nightmares nightly and I was terrified of everything. I had at our rough count at least fifteen distinct personalities. Twenty years later, I no longer dissociate. I Will likely have nightmares for the rest of my life, but I have them less now. I now wake up to arms who hold me as I cry the tears of fear. I have someone who has encouraged me to be myself, no matter what anyone else thinks. We heal each other.
That sounds amazing right? Well the problem is most people see him and because he is grouchy and anti-social, They think that he is not good to me. I have watched him walk away from people who he loved because of how they treated me. I have watched him protect me when I was trapped in my own mind. I have had to stand between him and the outside, because of people misunderstanding. I will always stand up for him, he is why I have found the strength to heal a shattered soul. So many people have told me that I can do better……but What they fail to understand is that I don’t want to. We fight, we play, we love, and we have healed. Unless you are part of it, there is so much that you Can not see, so please don’t judge my life based on the first impression that you have of him or me.
A concept flawed
for·give·ness
ˌfərˈɡivnəs/
noun
noun: forgiveness; plural noun: forgivenesses
-
the action or process of forgiving or being forgiven.“she is quick to ask forgiveness when she has overstepped the line”
synonyms: pardon, absolution, exoneration,remission, dispensation,indulgence, clemency, mercy;More antonyms: mercilessness, punishment
Origin
Old English forgiefenes, from forgiefen (past participle of forgiefan ‘forgive’) + the noun suffix -nes .
For me forgiveness has been a tough matter. I am a survivor, and I cannot tell you how many times I have been told to forgive my abuser. That it is for my peace. No it is not. It is the way that everyone around me feels better about my mental state. Forgiveness for me has always meant being able to go around the forgiven. To accept that this was done and not hold the person responsible for it. Well I refuse. He hurt me. I still wake up from nightmares. That is unlikely to change. I am not a victim anymore, I have healed as much as I am likely to do. Still if I was to be in the same room with him, I would not be civil. He was responsible for some of the darkest moments of my life. So I think that the concept of forgiveness needs to be adjusted. If you Google it, forgiveness comes up only as a way to heal from abuse. The fact that the word has been adjusted in such a way says quite alot. I am a writer. I see words as they are meant. So for me forgiveness is being misused, and mostly by people who have never been there. If someone chops your foot off then I guess you can forgive them? You can say that it’s ok and that you are fine with it? Well I have my doubts. My abuser caused horrific nightmares, ptsd, and an overwhelming claustrophobia. Those are not something that my “forgiving” him will fix. I have managed to put a shattered mind mostly back together. I was dealing with dissociation. I am not anymore. I am able to speak of what I went through, even if it is not an easy thing. Forgiving him will not change that. He is a monster. Accepting that was needed. That is not forgiveness, I will never be able to be in the same room as him. As a matter of fact, I told him the last time I saw him that I would scream if I ever saw him again. Forgiveness is not a tool for my peace of mind, it is a tool for those who have not been where I have.
Fear does not mean weakness
Some one I care very deeply for was upset because she couldn’t face someone who had abused her. Well I got to thinking about that. Fear is a healthy reaction to danger. If you have ever survived any form of abuse, you understand that. I am a survivor. I have been raped, molested, beaten. I have been in abusive relationships. I am not now, because I found my way out of that darkness. I don’t think I could be brave enough to face those who abused me. When I tried to stand up, and tell someone…. Well I was not believed. I was told I was lying. Even though I showed the signs of the abuse. So when I was raped by a group of five at thirteen, Fear kept me silent. Fear turned into the backbone I needed to become who I am. So I would not be a victim again. However, even as strong as I have become, I doubt that I could face my molester or the five who raped me. And if I did, I doubt that I would have anything to say. The piece of me that was stolen is gone. I am not that girl anymore. Nor do I want to be. So I will keep my fear, as it strengthens me. It allows me to realize that there are really monsters out there. It allows me a chance to know that I won’t break, for life has tried. Be proud of what you are, and do not hide your truth. For that is what made you.
Nightmares of the human kind
Survivors know, monsters are real. They wear human faces, sometimes even the faces we are supposed to love. I have survived abuse, been raped more than once. It is how I have become. I have seen the darkness in mankind. And just as I am ready to stop seeing the light as possibility, that is when someone comes to show me there is people who are still worth believing in.
I try to be positive, for even though I have seen the monsters walking around in man’s skin, I really don’t want to let the darkness seep too deeply in. To do that, lets them win. So I teach my daughter that which I was not taught (that no one has a right to do anything she is uncomfortable with) And I make my own way in this scary world. Some days that means waking up soaked in the tears drawn from the past. Some days it means pulling away from the world on whole. This is what life is after you meet the nightmares of the human kind.
Pattimouse 