I do not want to forget the abuse that I l have lived through because it is one of the things that shaped who I am.
It is one of the reasons that I able to empathize with the outcasts, the beaten and the down.
It is one of the reasons that I feel deeply. It is one of the reasons that I believe in kindness.
I do not want to forget because having experienced abuse is one of the things that made me who I am today.
I don’t believe that we would have been given the ability to feel emotions if they are sinful and contrary to our nature.
I don’t believe that we are given things to experience unless they aid in our growth.
I don’t believe that the Gods want us to suppress who we are, or what we feel.
I believe that life is for living, and that we should choose to live and feel.
It’s funny how memories creep up on you sometimes. For instance, the memory about how clearly I wanted to call bullshit on my mom when she told us, after her mother’s murder, that because we never know when a loved one is going to die that she always says that we must just love one another. But at twelve, all I had was a feeling, the disconnect about what was said and what was acted upon. That love was not unconditional, it was a treat to be doled out, and ripped away as punishment.
At the moment the only thing that is allowing me to have some semblance of normality, of sanity is keeping everything tightly wound. So tightly wound that it is unhealthy. Cracks are beginning to show…I’m irritable. I’m scared. I’m scared of the darkness inside my head. The liar inside telling me that I’m worhtless and that everyone else things that I’m stupid. That I’m incapable of loving being loved.
The darkness it creeps up on you. You have no real idea that it’s tide has turned until suddenly out of the blue it looms over you. Cold, dark, miserable. Engulfing you and silencing you.
I know there is light out there somewhere and I know that I need to let myself feel numb. Because for me when I’m depressed I don’t really feel down…I feel numb. Using the word feel is incorrect because it implies that there is far more sensation than there actually is.
Today’s depression is probably more hormonal and stress induced than anything else. But just because I know why it’s here doesn’t make it go away.
My depression is a dark secret. Very few people in real life no about it. Even less of them know how bad it is. And the effort of hiding it is becoming exhausting. An unexpected visit at the weekend exhausted me.
I get consumed with feelings of self-loathing. Angry at myself for being so pathetic. Their is a tiny voice inside my head that speaks out and tells me that I’m being irrational, but it is drowned out.
I think one of the things that makes it worse is that I feel like I don’t have any right to be depressed. That I’m a liar and a fake and that I should just happy the fuck up. I should be grateful for what I do have. I should be out in the world riding rainbows. But at the moment it is just too much effort.
Perhaps I am just exhausted, tired out of pretending to be okay. Because right now I am not okay. I will be one day. But today is not that day. And it’s alright for me to cry a little bit.
I know I need to get help, the thing is I suck at asking for it. I don’t know if it is a hangover of being an abused kid or if it is just stubbornness, of wanting to exist in a reality where I don’t need help. Where I am completely independent. But that would be just another form of delusion.
So for now I’ll just get it off my chest, I’m not okay…but I will be.
Possibly one of my greatest fears is that I too am an abusive person. That if I have a child I will subject them to the same things that I was subjected to.
Recently I came across the theory that abuse is a learned behaviour, not a genetic one. Which makes me wonder, can I unlearn the behaviour? Is knowledge enough to break this cycle.
I think one of the things that compounds the cycle of abuse is the culture of silence, we do not like to talk or hear about unpleasant things that happen to people like us. And so, we don’t speak out about violence. We keep the secret…Out of shame, out of fear, out of a whole host of reasons…We know that we cannot untell.
My abuse is a lot less secret than it was two years ago, but if 20 people know about it, it is a lot.
Obviously, at the moment, my circumstances about speaking out of changed. I now have the double taboo. Society does not allow us to speak ill of mothers. And it frowns on speaking ill of the dead. So speaking ill of your dead mother is one of the things that is just not done.
But my mom’s death does not simply erase the past. Nor does it change it. As I grow, and learn more, I can gain a different and compassionate outlook on what happened to my mom and how she almost had no conscious choice in what she did to me. By that I mean she did not set out to abuse me, and in many ways was incapable of overcoming the pattern that she learned as a child.
I don’t condone her abuse. I don’t know if I forgive her yet. But I can look on her actions towards me with compassion. I don’t ever think I will ever achieve complete understanding…I think the scars were inflicted when I was too young and vulnerable. In many ways, it is surprising that the learned response to hurt over-rode the biological imperative to protect.