skellaxinscruples: (the woman! all the women!)
 ...Is what she told me she told her boyfriend, when she came over yesterday to help me clean. Pretty bold, now. We had a long talk about our ideal relationship configurations, and how she wants both a boyfriend and a girlfriend in the long term, but not a unicorn. Feelings. And like, some memories, as I sorted through my sentimental paper collection. And I told her about when I got cheated on for a few months, and how much that really hurt me, but how I've recovered from it for the most part. I told her about how Pat was a scum, and she admitted that if she'd known how much he was motivated to rape her in hanging out with her, she wouldn't have. 

We talked about moving slow; she gets girls throwing themselves at her for hookups, and she's mostly disinterested in that. She wanted someone she could relate to, and somehow she relates to me. And I talked about how I can hook up pretty easily, but people are bothersome and I'm less patient for that now, and when it comes to relationships I don't really like to start with sex -- I move very slowly. 

So, yeah, we're not girlfriends but we're trying to get to know each other in that direction. Since we've known each other for so long, this isn't full of pressure. The fact that she wants to discuss and be reasonable about this actually fills me with more giddiness than just rushing for a label. 

I send her lots of pictures of dogs. I mean, I do that for everyone, but more for her because she doesn't like cats.

Yeah.

Two days ago my mother came over to "clean," with the girls in tow, but then she started wanting to pack, to take down my decor, and for that I felt deceived. If I had known it was for packing rather than cleaning, I would have prepared differently. Threw away a bunch of stuff. When we had a moment alone, I told her...

That she can't pound on my door and barge in angrily and yell at me like she did last time she came over (a few weeks ago?). When she did that, it really messed me up, I had a constant animal panic response and couldn't stand loud noises and just had overwhelming terror and anxiety. She said "Don't you tell me what I can and can't do," not even listening to the whole thing, where I also wanted to explain that I've had nightmares about that interaction for the last eight years, a huge anxiety of intrusion, and that yelling really triggers me. I did mention that all of my partners have respected my boundaries enough to avoid using raised voices around me, because it messes me up, and she said "You never treated them as bad as you treat me," and accused me of using her, and basically that she didn't care I have emotional boundaries and triggers. 

So, yeah. Without a doubt, that interaction crossed the line from dysfunction to abuse. I feel afraid and unsafe, logically. But mostly numb. Mostly numb, I guess, the only way you can feel when you finally understand your parent doesn't care about you/your health. 

The reason my life is shit and things don't get done is because I am depressed. Because I am ill. I am not wasting time and having fun when I am failing to get things done, I am crushed by my own shame and lack of motivation, overwhelmed constantly, scared. My mind is foggy and I can't focus on anything and I feel so much pressure, and I feel like a let down. And it's been 15 years of being treated and I'm not fixed, and that itself makes me feel worse and more useless. I can't be "using" her -- she has been giving of her own volition. I stopped asking a long time ago. If she cut me off, I wouldn't fight. All I'm asking now is that she respect my boundaries, be mindful of my health -- which one would do for any other person, even a stranger. Even if a stranger told you that they have asthma, if you're half-decent you wouldn't blow smoke their way. Why isn't it the same for mental illness? 

But I talked to her yesterday, on the phone, since I missed a call from her, and she seemed pleasant enough, and surprised that I am working on things, in a good way. She wanted to arrange a dentist's appointment for me. 

I'm considering leaving sooner than I had planned, because of this. I get paid soon; not much. If I just wrap up a few things, then I'd be able to cut and run. Min said she'd pay my transport anywhere. Ugh, she is so lovely and I hate being like this, I hate this. 

Anyway, before I started writing this entry, Lucas was kind of terse at me, and so I started to consider myself a failure again, after being up since late last night to this afternoon, right now, cleaning and trying to get work done, high on emotions and chances. The constant up and down is really tough, because I can't always predict what I'll end up like moment to moment. Writing all of this down, I feel less sad and self-conscious than I did, for some reason, even though I'm reliving emotions by recording them. 
skellaxinscruples: (swirly dark rarity)
ugh.

Yeah, okay, yesterday got really fucked up. I think the worst part of being umedicated is these sudden, deep, dark pits of overpowering despair that make me want to curl up in a hole and die, almost viscerally. For example, when a girl said something really fucking mean to me I actually curled up right there and cried in the fetal position until I fell asleep and then I softly cried a little more when I woke up the next morning. As in, not even a sensation I could control, but literally overpowered by my own hurt. These are not common occurrences at this period in my life, and things like being told I'm going to be forced to move out, or being deprived of medical care, or eating nothing but rice for a week don't shake my core security. Attacks on my very nature, do, however. So, having the validity of my relationships insulted is what caused the above reaction, being told that no one would want my love the way I give it, even from someone who I don't think is especially an authority on that kind of thing--that really wounds me.

So, honestly, I was already really overstimulated being here at my mother's house, where she is telling someone how to do a thing or telling someone to do another thing, giving orders, at least twice an hour, and calling out loudly, sonorously, commands from other rooms or across store floors, and yes, that is very emotionally taxing for me to be around.

I am legitimately emotionally triggered by raised voices, and I have told all of my partners not to yell at me or yell in a directly admonishing way at anyone when I'm around. I know that's really a lot to ask, to forbid others to raise their voices, but basically everyone who's not an abusive dickhole has respected it. I had to tell my mother to stop commanding across the house tonight, because it was making me want to cry.  

(i'm writing this on this godforsaken iMac G5 that hasn't had antivirus run on it since 2006, and I can't even load the page to download Google Chrome from, because these browsers are so old and brokedick and it makes me want to flip tables.)

Anyway, my mom's very transparent, and she had me installing things on her (actually functional and expedient) laptop -- specifically, I was downloading music to her iPhone, so I made a folder to torrent music into, and I downloaded uTorrent, and in the process of doing so, I stumbled on a document called "I am a very sensitive person..." so I previewed it

and one of the parts that showed up in the preview made me want to fucking die and crawl into a hole and actually legitimately call this whole shit off, not even go to Cancun, but stay in bed, at home, with my dust and my cats, hide under layers of aesthetic and vaporwave and barricade myself and maybe not ever come out again, made me hate the idea of having a family or a history or anything, just fucking want to leave and get the fuck out of this life and never return and never speak to anyone who identifies with this state (Arizona) again.

fucking.

The document was written by my little sister, and it said, essentially, that she experienced severe emotional trauma/turmoil/distress as a result of me being raped. She attributed my rape to "her mania induced her to go roaming around the neighborhood at 2 AM" and mentioned "the cuts and the bruises and the hate she exuded for herself and everyone else" and how detrimental this was to my relationship with her...

and no.

Fucking no.

That's not fucking it at all; that's a lie. Specifically, I wasn't "manic" and "roaming at 2 AM," I was fucking going for a walk at 6 AM -- that is a thing that NORMAL, NON-CRAZY people do. She basically believed I got raped because I am a crazy person doing something crazy.

There were no cuts and bruises.

I had been abstinent of self-harm for over 6 years at that point, and my assault was "non-violent." Any bruises that may have occurred were a result of me stumbling around once (only once) in the following weeks after calling up a family friend and asking him to bring me a glass flask of Jaegermeister.

And I wonder... who told her this version of the story? Who told her I got raped because I am crazy? 

her version of our lives includes this false narrative. She has been lied to. Someone in my family is a fucking liar. I already know my mom blames me for getting raped, told me, "I hope you've learned something," fucking this whole thing made me want out of this family forever and for good.

As for "hatred," scared animal reactions, so, I don't especially care about that interpretation. Scared animals do things, I was one, they are not rational, but I do not feel I was malignant towards her at all. Rather, to be completely honest, as soon as I'd started college (two years earlier) I had made the deliberate decision to be absent from her life as much as possible, because I did not want her or anyone to deal with my mess, the piece of shit that I am, that I was, I did not want  her to have any impression of me at all, if possible, because I was a shitty worthless human being and she was a child and I needed to not exist for people like her. She can re-narrativize that any way she wants, because I can't control how another person responds to my actions, how they feel about my actions that I never explained.

It's just the part about her thinking I was doing crazy shit, the fact that someone probably told her that, that makes me want out so badly.

But...

I can't go on an all-expenses paid international luxury resort vacation with this mindset. They have a crocodile and flamingo reserve there. They drive you to the beach at night to let you watch mama sea turtles amble onto the sand to lay and bury their eggs, and they help the turtles get back into the ocean. You cannot permit yourself access to such wonders while being sour; they will be wasted on you, and your life will have been wasted if you are incapable of appreciating these bounties.

So.

I basically listened to my ipod really loudly and listened to my songs on repeat until I felt a little better. I ignored anyone trying to talk to me unless they came up to me directly. I wouldn't have done anything else tonight unless I absolutely had to (I did the bare minimum), I wouldn't even have eaten dinner with others had I not felt that was the bare minimum courtesy. I made myself a few strong drinks. I called Lucas. I started working on a "mommy issues" playlist. I reminded myself that my mother is like a liberal academic Malory Archer and I am Sterling accordingly.

All trips are the same. Drug trips, vacation trips. Fucking be grateful for them all. Fucking don't be a piece of shit going into it negative, or else you won't appreciate the right parts, or else you'll get yourself into worse trouble. Don't force yourself to participate in shit you can't handle, in shit you won't enjoy, that's wasted effort and bad experience; you drag that negativity into everything and everyone you interface with. Be good, or at least do good. "An if ye harm none, do as ye will." Your baggage is no one else's responsibility, you keep track of it, keep it in check; there are limits  to the weight of baggage you can travel with, so don't exceed those limits, it inconveniences everyone. Have a safe trip and bring back good memories; life is too short to ruminate on the useless, on the menial, on the petty.

Life is too short. Every day is a special occasion, because you actually showed up--celebrate.
 


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February 2016

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