I’ve been thinking of my family, not at the forefront of my mind, but what feels like the very back. It seems to be that more stuff is processing (really, again?), which is a positive thing in the long run. I must view it this way otherwise it’ll just break me, again.
It’s overwhelming to think, actually bring it all to the forefront of my mind without writing, art or music. I just can’t get past what actually happened.
One day, I knew I was beaten, then one day I didn’t know anymore. Two years ago the realisation came flooding upon me one morning in bed after having flashbacks in my sleep (severely hung over feeling, with no reason for it at all).
Now, I knew I was sexually abused by my brother, I acknowledged that, I always did.
When I started my recovery back in 2009 I remember the psychiatric nurse being surprised at how badly I’d been affected by the abuse as it didn’t go on for more than a year. In hindsight it all makes perfect sense.
I don’t know when it started, after I realised though (weirdest experience ever) I started asking people questions to find out what happened. I didn’t get a lot of straight answers but enough of the right information to go a long side how well I know my Mother.
I’ve said on here before that she tried to plunge a knife into my arm when I was sat the dining table, when I was three. I’ve mentioned some more embarrassing points I remember that to be honest I’m surprised I mentioned at all because it’s horrible to think of. I know Mum wasn’t hitting me anymore, not like she had been, at least, by the time I was 14. I know this because this is when I became her fully fledged counsellor.
It started when she told me at 14 that when I left senior school at 16, she was leaving my Dad. I know she came in when I was 7 asking me what I’d do if she left Dad, making sure I’d choose her. I also know she did this to my nice brother when he was 7, when I was 3.
It became weekly practice for her to come into my room crying, seeking comfort over some thing or another, pouring her heart out, feeling better and fucking off, leaving me in my room by myself. Come to think of it, it’s when I was 14 I started spending less and less time in doors and was out with my mates as much as I could. Hell, I remember going for 3 hour walks at 2am when I was 15, man, I used to love those walks, me, my music and the silent London night.
I know the last time my Dad punched me was when I was 17, clean broke my fucking nose, I disappeared for a while after that, my friends mum offered to take me in, I can’t remember why it didn’t work out that way, but I ended up back at the family home.
Strangely, I’ve thought about the last few months in that house and how empty it was. Mum had gone, both my brothers had moved out m, Dad was at his then gf’s house all the time and I’d just moved back from a 10 month stint at my cousin’s. I used to sit at that dining table crying my little heart out, mulling over the years (see, like I remembered then, when the shit did I just not know anymore?) at the house. How I couldn’t stop considering how I had always been there to support Mum, I listened to my shit head brother for years, and my Dad after mum left. Crying into his double malt, sometimes 2 bottles a night, that’s two fucking litres, a night. I hated watching them drink themselves into an oblivion. That’s why I steered clear of drinking for so long, and took the class A’s route instead. Admittedly though, it was always the partying, socialising with my friends and actually having a lot of fun. I mean, I wouldn’t recommend it, but if I had drunk like them, it would have been like that. But I didn’t, I took drugs, I partied for a few years, met some amazing people, partied in some amazing places. I was determined to not only have those memories, I don’t even know what memories I’m referring to.
I keep reaching the only conclusion: my Mum never loved me, or my brother, she loved the shit head, she would have done anything for him, but she couldn’t admit she was ill, she couldn’t face her Demons for her own children. How could you do that? Now I’m not just talking depression, or drinking, or a slap round the face, I’m talking me on the floor, fists and feet and verbal abuse.. And then now, when she cries, I actually go cold inside, like I feel it.
Usually I feel warmth from my chest, always, spreading out to my limbs, I always have, people tell me I’m like a heater, but in those moments I’m more like the iceberg that sank the Titanic. That’s not me, I love all the time, even when I’m angry, or sad or whatever, I love and that’s how I recover from the emotions, but she makes me feel dead. So fucking intensely numb.
I think about how this has affected me, not so much me These days but my interpersonal relationships, how the confusion inflicted for my entire childhood of conflicting safety and severe harm, man they confuse me still.
Now, I can hold a conversation with pretty much anyone, about anything, but so rarely do I seep into it. I’m not being fake, it’s still me, but with some kind of filter on. I’m still a bit nuts, I’m a still a bit woo, but I think it’s the love. Again I’m not being fake, I’m never one emotion at a time, never. There is never just one thought trail but many, so many. I guess it just depends on what the deepest thought trails are, I think it’s them I don’t let out very often.
I don’t really admit to people in conversation when this is on my mind, I’m not hiding it, I just, I dunno I guess I feel it’s not relevant. It’s been there for this long, it keeps coming back and I always get past it at some level.
I guess, like anyone, I’m just protective of what needs protecting, in my head.
I’ll talk about the abuse, but very matter of fact, at times I don’t really think people want to hear the rest. I mean, nothing to do with them, I dunno, I can’t explain it.
I guess I just have to stick with the process until it’s resolved, otherwise there’s like an 80% chance it will bite me on the arse on coming days, it’s just becoming harder as the day goes on. Even then, it might not end at the end of the day.
If someone could say to me, you’re gonna be feeling this for x amount of time, then I reckon I could hunker down and dealing with it. It’s just not knowing, not knowing what will come next, or when and it’s so difficult dealing with this when I’m not at home. You see, eve then that’s not my home anymore, not really. I don’t feel at home there.
I think not having space to breathe is pulling me up in my head space, I just don’t seem to be able to find any other space, although most interaction between technology & I is my utilisation of the net as an external hard drive. Sometimes it feels like my head isn’t big enough for all that seems to go on up there.
I just have to hold on, cling if need be, until things become a bit clearer… waiting again then.