9/4/21
"The swords are another empty costume." I think that rings true. Every
abused child wants to believe they became a sword, or something more
than the hollow shell they think they were left with, but the truth is,
not all of us are sharp enough for that. And I don't know if I was
hollow because everything was taken from me, or if it's because it's all
I could do to protect myself.
I have very few memories remaining from my time visiting [father] after
the divorce. I think that was another thing to protect myself--since
nobody seemed to really be protecting me. I now know my mom was doing
everything she could to help me, but I was avoidant, I was afraid of
retribution from both parents, though one was a clearer evil. The things
my mom did came from a place of frustration that she couldn't do more
until I was older. The things [father] did? Well. It's funny, really.
I ruminated on all the things he did to neglect me for a while recently.
I can't tell you what triggered this. I don't know. But I thought, and I
thought, and I thought some more, and I realized why [father] took me to
all of his stupid bullshit. If he left me alone at home for several
hours a stint, it would be charted as neglect and I would get out of
there right away. And since I was young, I couldn't just say "no". I
didn't have a choice.
So, I went to all of his stupid bullshit. I went to all the polka
dances, I went to the grocery store, I went to Toledo and Birch Run and
Detroit and Bay City. I did all of it. I was an upset teenager. I was
heartbroken all the time, and to add on it, I was being emotionally
manipulated by my partner at the time. I was really suffering and I felt
I had no one to turn to.
See, the one thing that finally lit a fire under [court-appointed case
manager]'s ass was a very stupid rules list [father] typed out. I can't
remember all the things on it, but I took a photo of it with my shitty
Samsung S3 cellphone and kept it safe, kept it hidden. I don't think
[father] thought I would do that. But I did. That's one thing I
remember.
Another thing I remember is only having autonomy in the form of going to
the local park. So that was what I ended up doing pretty often, was
walking to the park in my shitty blue jacket, bloodstained on the
sleeves from biting my lips so often until they were chapped and
scarred. I'd go to the park and swing on the swingset, listening to
music until my hands hurt, until I got blisters, until I couldn't move
my legs any more. It was the only way to get away from the oppressive
air of [father]'s house. I hated his new wife.
[stepmother], that absolute bitch. She picked on me for just about every
little thing. My choice of dress, my avoidance, my weight (take a damn
look at yourself), whatever she could. And get this: she's a substitute
teacher! Does she give a singular fuck about kids or not? No, she hated
me because I was the reminder that my father was married before her. My
sister was able to get out of visitation pretty quickly--she's got four,
five years on me.
[father] always came up with excuses. Whenever we'd bring up how he'd
neglect me, he'd say, well, I took [my name] to a movie last weekend. I
took him to the library. Good for you, I guess. Oh, library. I'm sorry
about all of it, really. I would only pick up Garfield comics. One time
he took me to a second hand bookstore. I found some Calvin & Hobbes
comics, they were my favorite, they still are. I picked out three or
four of them. He said I could have one. The books were probably a dollar
a piece. [father] makes over $100k a year at his company as the Chief
Financial Officer. Cunt.
For the longest time, I thought to myself, well, maybe I'm the one not
trying hard enough. Maybe I'm the one who needs to try reconnecting with
my dad, maybe I did something wrong. But communication is a two way
street, and [father] failed to ever talk to me about anything. He didn't
care about me.
My final memory of me asking him to come see me was when I needed an
escort to a practice venue--it was a local high school. We were working
towards our big winter concert. I was excited. But I also had a lot of
residual anxiety, and was still nervous to be in a place in public like
that for a long span of time. So I asked him to take me there. He
agreed. I asked him if he could stay the whole time. He said no. "Why?"
I asked. "Because you'll be fine there on your own. I won't feed into
your manipulation." I was broken. How did a 16 year old kid manipulate a
58 year old man? I still don't know. I was just anxious and wanted one
of my parents there. Is that such a problem?
Anyways, my worst memory of him consists of the first time he brought
his then-girlfriend over. He was court-ordered not to do this. Yet,
there my sister and I stood. We were angry as could be. And I did the
only thing I knew how to do--I locked the two of us in our bedroom. It
was one of the few times I had seen my sister genuinely bewildered and
upset. I remember looking to the window, thinking about opening it and
jumping out. I never did, because we also had the dog along with us in a
crate. I only knew to call my mother, who called her friend, who told my
mom to call the police, which she did. I remember bright flashing
lights, and sitting in the car, steely-faced and cold. I just remember
being in that room. Locking the door, staying pressed up against it so
he wouldn't even think about trying to get in.
"The swords are also an empty costume." My hurt didn't sharpen my blade.
In fact, I don't think I was a blade in the first place, really. I think
I was an egg, and all of those experiences cracked my shell, scrambled
the yolk and white within, let it spill out. I wasn't empty, but what
was left of my shield was shattered, and what was left of my insides
were ruined. The abusive partner thing didn't help, either.
You know, sometimes I feel like my experiences aren't as cared for since
I have no physical wounds. I don't have any scars, any leftover
bruising, no healed-over bones or inflamed clumps of cells. But I'm
angry all the time; I feel like I want so much power.
I write a lot of poetry now about gaining power. Whether it's through
death, killing, through ripping out someone's heart and eating it,
consuming people whole. I just really wanted to feel in control of my
life for once, because people took that away from me when I was a
teenager. I guess if I could, I would want to switch places with Utena
Tenjou. She has a sword. She looks powerful. She looks like she wants,
or can at least, control her fate. I felt my fate, at that time, was
uncontrollable, like a wild animal. Now, I feel a little more in
control, but not very much. Now I'm wondering what comes after college.
Now I'm wondering what happens when [father] dies.
[father] never asked me about high school graduation, or my 18th
birthday, or starting college. And I doubt he will ask about my second
year, or my 19th birthday, or my college graduation. I hope that when he
dies, I don't weep. I don't scream. I don't react. It's not like I can
anymore. All of my feelings got buried by medication and scars.
Utena, I need your sword. Another empty costume... it's all empty
costumes with me and her.
9/25/21
There came a point where I realized I was on so many levels of repression
and subconscious burying that even I didn't know what I truly wanted. I
mean, I guess I do know, deep down, what I really want, but I've never
told anyone out of fear. Fear for what, I couldn't tell you, but it's
fear.
I lied to myself and to others because I thought, much like confidence of
being up on-stage, you could fake it until you made it. And that was true
for a little while. For a while I felt like a real person. But the soul in
me knew that I wasn't.
It's a lot of emptiness, most of the time. A lot of wondering and
wandering in the mind. Questioning the paths I've taken despite being told
multiple times to not. And a sort of pulling, tugging, wondering when I'd
come back to the controls and take over. I play all these games, I make
all these attachments, and they're not real. You hear it on the radio, the
TV screen, you hear it in your shells.
Before I knew it, I was several layers deep in my own lies and pity.
People don't know me. And I know me, and it's the worst thing. Because I
know what I want, I know how I want it, but it only comes out as trails of
drool and drops of blood. One of my escapes was writing stories--I would
write until my arms were sore from carrying the worlds beyond my
imagination. Another was art, but that, too, got buried, and now it feels
more like creation for profit rather than pleasure.
I didn't know pleasure and some affirm I still don't. I guess I'm alright
with that for now. In the future, I'd like it to change, but if it can't
go now, so be it.
10/18/21
I started thinking to myself while getting a snack today, maybe I should
write my thoughts like this down. Down like this. Down. Like this. Because
I think it's important to know how I'm feeling, but I don't always like
sharing that feeling publicly.
So today's 10/18, it's a Tuesday and I grabbed my nightly snack. And I was
thinking to myself, "what's wrong with me?"
It's a loaded question. I only ask that because I was on the verge of a
mental breakdown just around a few weeks ago when I was buttering bread
before putting it in the toaster, much to the disdain of my mother, to
whom I replied "I've always done it this way!"
I have never done it this way. No one has. Butter goes on bread after you
toast it. And I messed that simple task up. Something I had made countless
times, toast with butter. Why, I asked myself? Why?
My mom reassured me after I said I was upset after (because she did, in
fact, laugh). She said, it happens to everyone. No it doesn't, or at least
it shouldn't. I'm 19 years old. My frontal cortex should be almost fully
developed, same for the rest of my brain, and most of my body. That kind
of memory lapse and judgement lapse doesn't just happen to people like me
randomly.
So that's why I ask what's wrong. With myself. Because I don't know. I've
looked into countless diagnoses. ADHD. Autism. OCD. BPD. PTSD. Does it
even matter? I can put whatever label I want to my damage--it doesn't make
a difference, it's just another jumble on my medical history. Gets
overlooked. "Have you tried losing weight?"
Yeah. I'm afraid of turning to the adult side of healthcare and suddenly
hearing that more than actual diagnoses. I'm pretty healthy. My diet's
relatively balanced (though I could serve to eat more veggies, but doesn't
everyone?), I get some physical exercise in, et cetera.
That's enough for now.
10/19/21
It's another day, another dollar. Or, no dollars, considering I'm not
working. I don't want a job. I've tried to edge this off to my mom, but
she doesn't seem to get it, and every time she talks to me about wages or
pressures me to get out there, it makes me feel sick and upset.
Not that I don't want a job, of course. I mean, I don't want to work in
certain places--I worked once at a grocery store and now I don't want to
do any job like that again. I'd be better off pushing paper or doing desk
work. Unfortunately nobody seems to want me.
She says she doesn't pity me, which I believe, but the way she tells me I
need to "get out there" feels condescending. It makes me feel like a
child. And I'm not a child. Not anymore. I need to make those kinds of
decisions on my own, when, where, how... I don't want to feel like my mom
is calling all the shots in my life.
I want to be independent. Or, at least, not dependent on her. Not because
I don't like my mom, but because she feels like an overbearing force
sometimes. It can make it hard to talk to her about anything regarding my
mental health, because she thinks the end goal is no medication, whereas
my end goal is just feeling happy and enjoying my life.
10/20/21
I keep thinking about what my final goal is for my mental health and I'm
just stuck. Like, is my mood *really* bad, is it really neutral, or is it
just that I feel that way because I'm partially isolated?
That's the problem with this pandemic, for me. There's no way for me to
really "get out there" and figure out what's wrong. Sorry, the thought of
getting another retail/customer service job just makes me sick, it's
awful! My previous job sucked. I'd rather get into some computer job...
but that can be hard.
I have this really deep fear. It's that there's nothing really wrong with
me, and I've just been wasting time and money trying to find something
that isn't there. Or, even worse, possibly, it's something that can't
solve, or something that can only be solved with a lot of therapy.
The math is simple. 25 dollars per visit, one visit per week, 52 weeks in
a year, ending up at about 1,200 dollars a year spent on trying to fix my
brain. I don't want to call it a "dumb brain" any longer. It's just my
brain... if something's wrong with it I want to fix it.
But I guess I want the "easy" way out, medication. I just don't know. I
just don't know, maybe I would feel better if I weren't so tired all the
time, maybe I'd feel more motivated.