I don’t want to I don’t want to I don’t want to.
I just had to get that out of the way.
I don’t want to face my past. I don’t want to remember anything else from my forgotten years. I don’t want to discover to what extent I was molested. I just don’t.
I don’t want to know whether the memory of strong hands pinning my wrists to the bed as I scream and cry is real. I don’t want to know what happens next, so I froze that memory with him on top of me telling me not to cry.
Don’t cry. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Lie still. Give up. Give in. Put up. Put out. Put it in. Put it away.
Flashback: Seven years old. White flannel nightgown. Sitting on my bed. He’s sitting next to me. His hand is on my waist, just below my chest. He is pressing a kiss on my cheek. I am looking straight ahead, and my eyes are empty.
Not a very scary picture in and of itself, but it bothers me more than the others, somehow, because of the gross mimicry of tenderness it displays. And, because his hand is slowly moving upwards.
I am not that strong. Why does everyone insist that I am? I am vulnerable under the slaughter of the flashbacks and the memories. I want to run as fast as I can, as far as I can. I want to flee from my demons who are relentless as they gnaw at my ankles. I want to isolate myself so the ugliness inside doesn’t affect anyone I love. I believe the memories are toxic, and they are seeping through my pores.
I am so sorry to everyone who believes in me because I feel as if I’m letting you down, as well as myself.
I am tired and scared and hurting, and I just want to push it all away. I don’t want to remember the feel of his tongue in my mouth. I don’t want to remember–anything.
Instead, I want to retreat. I want to erect my defenses again and cower behind them. I want to roll up my soul and tuck it away in that corner of my mind. I want to hurt myself physically so I don’t have to deal with the emotional pain. I want to crawl into my bed and never get out of it again.
The thing is, I have no choice, not really. I cannot go back to who I was because it will kill me. Or rather, I would rather be dead than be that person again. Yet, I am terrified to continue down this dark, treacherous path. There is no light to guide me, and while I am comfortable in the dark, I have a feeling that there are many obstacles lying in wait for me.
I am grieving.
I am stripped to the bone, and I am defenseless. It’s too much. It’s too fast. It’s too goddamn overwhelming.
I have too much damage to heal overnight. I can comprehend that I could conceivably be better after–I just can’t envision when or where or what that after is.
I have said before that my favorite tarot card is The Tower. I have always resonated with the idea of complete destruction of the old in order for something new to arise (yes, like the phoenix from the ashes). It’s great in theory, but it’s fucking terrifying in reality. Everything I once thought I knew is false. All my carefully-constructed beliefs, perceptions, and even parts of my life are baseless. They have vanished, and I have very little yet with which to replace them. Everything is falling apart, and I don’t know how to fix it.
It was easier when I was switching from Qwerty to Dvorak (completely forgetting the former before mastering the latter) because that wasn’t a matter of life and death. Sure, it was frustrating to type at half the speed I once had, but I knew, once I committed myself to learning the new system, that I would be better off in the end because the new system just felt right.
Learning how to live is not so easy. Some of my old beliefs melted away rather easily, but many of them are hanging on with vicious tenacity. I can feel their tenterhooks digging into my skin, latching on so tightly, I can’t breathe.
I don’t want to remember Marty telling me that we would get married and have babies and how utterly devastated I felt at that moment. It didn’t matter that I had to return to the US; at that moment, I completely believed that I would be his possession for all eternity.
I don’t want to remember him writing to me months later saying that he was coming to America to visit me and how I flew into a hysterical panic. I had to leave the country. I had to run. I had to hide. My ex was visiting me (I was in my last semester of college at that point), and he told me he wouldn’t let Marty get me, no matter what. It took him repeating this several times before I calmed down slightly.
I don’t want to remember that it was after Thailand when I started sleeping with the blankets pulled up to my nose and a pillow over my head. I was never a good sleeper, but that was when I started to have serious problems. I had trouble falling asleep, and I awoke several times a night. I had terrible nightmares, and sometimes I would wake up screaming.
It was around that same time that I had to always have an exit strategy whenever I went anywhere. At a restaurant, I had to face the door. I had to be on the outside. Same in a movie theater (when I went). I had to be on the aisle, and I could never really lose myself in the movie because I was constantly monitoring what was going on around me.
I became more reclusive because it was simply too hard for me to go out and deal with crowds. I hated being touched without my permission. I took a tai chi class because a friend of mind was teaching the intro course. However, once I moved onto the real classes, I discovered that the teacher was a predatory guru type. He gave me the creeps, and he touched me without my permission (not sexually, though he did flick my hair off my shoulders once, and nearly had me hyperventilating). I gutted it out because my friend admired him so, but I hated being around him.
I don’t want to remember how much I hated myself and how much I wanted to die. I don’t want to think about all the risky behavior I indulged in because I wanted to punish myself for being weak, stupid, disgusting, and broken.
At this moment, I am so tired. I want to just shut my eyes and say, “Fuck it. I can’t do this any more.”
I DON’T WANT TO FUCKING DO THIS! And yet, I know I have no choice. I have to face my past if I am going to have a future. And, despite all the shit I’m going through, I do want to have a future. Thus, I have to face my past. It’s pretty much as simple as that.
P.S. I have a therapy appointment tomorrow morning. This is a good thing.