For those of you that can’t handle my extreme and unbridled rage right now, let this serve as a TRIGGER WARNING. And here is a picture of a bunny to give you the opportunity to get the heck out of here.
Let the rant begin. This moment, right now, I’m furious. I’ve snapped with grief and I’m tired and exhausted and insulted and unwilling to hold it in any longer. The music is on full blast with Janis Joplin screaming I’ll say come on, come on, come on, come on and take it!
Take another little piece of my heart now, baby.
Oh, oh, break it!
Break another little bit of my heart now
I’ve cleaned and cried and smoked cigarettes as I look at my home that I’ve finally decided has to be divided. How the hell did I get here? Did I not try hard enough? Did I not bleed enough for this relationship? When did my beloved home turn into a cold gilded cage? Where are my plants going to live now? The wisteria planted in the early days of love that is deeply intertwined among the trellis and surrounding trees, how do I tell it to unwind, that there is no place for it here now?
I’m full of rage as I look at the items deciding what’s mine and what’s his. I hate his socks right now. They are everywhere, haunting me from the place where they were discarded at the foot of the couch for an intimate moment. His socks are mocking me. I still love, he doesn’t.
I’m seething at any person, at any time, for any reason has questioned my sanity. My brain, while different and reacting unlike normal people (whoever the fuck they are) is not crazy. It was changed. It was changed as a child when my father and my uncles for numerous years raped the children in my family. They forever and permanently changed the way that I see the world and severely limited my ability to trust. But they never stole my ability to love because that I do fiercely, deeply and with loyalty to a fault. But back to crazy, I’m not. And I’m fucking tired of folks too ignorant and lazy to become informed before slicing me and other survivors open with insane stupid comments and blatant arrogance that you know better. You don’t.
And by the way, disassociation is a thing. A real fucking thing. It happens because its the wondrous coping mechanism of the human under attack. When the pain becomes too traumatic, too difficult, too much for tiny little children’s minds to process, it splits. Bam, just like that. You go somewhere else, someplace safer than the place you are in where your uncle is raping you at gunpoint. And guess what, when you’re gone, you’re gone. And to the major asshole who said that my disassociative episodes were a ploy for attention, well simply put, go fuck yourself. You speak with ignorance and venom. Anyone who knows me at all, knows that I try and try and then I fucking try some more to be the best, intact, whole person I can be given my history. To say anything less than that of me is cruel and unforgivable.
No, I’m not done yet, there’s more. I’m enraged at any person, for any reason who turns a blind eye to pain. This happens in so many ways; through denial of wanting to acknowledge a person’s pain, therefore maybe having to deal with it OR being frustrated that said person struggles a lot so you offer a platitude in order to get the hell away from this person you’ve judged as insane. Again, look at the above bunny and leave me the hell alone. You don’t have to hurt me just to get a safe distance away. I get it, of all people I understand that this is tough fucking shit and not everyone has the stomach for it. BUT…there’s always the option of offering love and leaving anyway. Bottom line, I’m left here to deal with this confusing mess of neurons on a daily basis and it’s no walk in the park. It takes hourly awareness and diligent practice to stay centered and even heal from these traumas. Don’t add to them. And especially don’t pretend it’s in the name of love. I’m calling bullshit on that one.
While I’m ranting, I may as well cuss the pharmaceutical companies who manufacture drugs to make lots of money that are prescribed by asshole doctors. My anti-depressants are giving me such incredible suicide ideation that the ideation is now taking form and making a plan. And getting off this shit is a bitch. Again, another mind-bending bitch to contend with. And yes, suicide ideation and self harm is a real thing too. It’s not just words that we in a secret meeting of the I’ve-been-molested club got together and invented. These are real psychological phenomena. Google it, you’ll see. We don’t just get up in the morning, feed the dogs, have a cup of coffee and say “I think I’ll go slice on myself today and maybe for fun, I’ll go sit in the garage with the car running and see how fast I’ll puff up from carbon monoxide”. But seriously, people talk to us as if we do this self-loathing, self-harming shit for attention. Really? Do you really believe that I’d prefer that method of coping to say…. working at the dog rescue shelter or taking some flowers to the old ladies at the nursing home? If you believe that, you need a quick reality check and a good therapist.
The rant winds down here. Be kind, everyone is struggling. If you don’t know how to help and you want to, ask. It’s that simple. Is there anything I can do to help? If you don’t care or are just socially awkward, flash a peace sign, say Kumbaya my Lord or offer a hug. If you don’t have more, that’s fine but if you think you can fake concern, use condescension or just toss a crappy cliche’ toward me, you’re wrong. Because here’s the other thing that develops in survivors as we are fending off our nasty fathers and uncles, we became ultra-sensitive. I’m talking over-the-top, can practically read-your-feelings-without-you-knowing-it, living and floating in an emotional bizarre dimension that few know anything about. We know when you’re lying and we know when you’re trying to be cruel.
End of rant. For those who stuck around to the end, well, thanks. You’re tougher than most. For those who didn’t stay, block me on FB and have a good life. Kumbaya.