There seems to be always some marks in time. Points in history where something happened and you can backtrack and put events in their space and time.
Mmm, no, I don't think I want to go there yet. Siblings. Mine. I have a sister who is a year and almost a half older than me. And a brother who is four and a bit younger than me. I've read the books about the position in a family and whatsnot. For all it matters I somehow got treated like I was the oldest. I don't know if that had to do with my sister being not the brightest kid on the block or that a lot of my memories are about her being ill in some way. Maybe a combination. I got told often how obedient my sister was as opposed to me. How she always put away her toys and even put away my toys when I asked her. So she was the good girl, I was the bad girl and our babybrother was well, the babybrother. And we all loved him badly. Whatever he did wrong was my fault. He put the carpet on fire, I should've stopped him. We made a campfire behind the rabbitcages, well I should've known better. He climbed a tree, bad me. I don't think I really minded though. Since I didn't know better anyway. So before being 12ish (I think) I was stuck with having to make sure my brother didn't do anything that wasn't allowed which all in all I think went okay. Besides the odd stuff.
And then my sister. I don't know. She was torn between using me and using me. My parents (Ya, I blame my mother) forced her in a role she should not have been in. I don't -really- blame her, although I'm not up yet (if ever) talking about it to her. There are things I got accused of I knew I didn't do, candy I hadn't stolen. Someone had done though. My mother never made up things (or so I believe), if I got smacked for something that had gone wrong it had gone wrong. She was capable of turning something that wasn't wrong before into something wrong but she didn't make it up. My only conclusion was that sisterdear had done it (maybe, probably) knowing I would get the blame.
The few times where my parents had to go out my mother put my sister in charge and also told her explicitly that I was not to leave my room. I can recall a night where I had to go pee very badly and had a long conversation with my sister, but she didn't want to let me out. I think it would have been easy for her to do, she just didn't want to. Whenever we were alone at evenings/nights my mother put tape or a hair on my door so she would see if I had left my room. If the tape was loose or the hair gone my mother went berserk and smacked me all over the house. That one time my sister didn't want to let me pee and redo the tape and really the only reason I can find for that is that she was pissed at me. While all over I got spanked for having left my room while I knew I did not. Someone had removed tape/hair.
My sister got migraine and something that was kinda like the kissing disease, so a lot of memories are from her lying on the couch and me getting warned all the time to be silent since my sister was ill. She was terrified about spiders, even dead ones. I did her parts of her homework. She got key to lock her room since I stole her stuff. And I didn't, or well I did after she could lock her room. I did read her donald ducks whenever I could, which I had to sneak into her bedroom for. I know I got a lot of attention, but I also didn't ask for that. I also know that doesn't matter for feeling not getting attention at all.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
History - Part four again
Memory again, is an odd thing. The things you remember are the things that were in a way different. I think there's a movie from that even. Where the person wishes life was like a movie and he lives from memorable moment to another memorable moment (or maybe he didn't wish that).
But so is our memory. From your first schoolday to your first kiss to your first snowy christmas or whatever firsts you had.
So really all I can describe are events. The first time I ran away from home. I walked through the forest, broke into a caravan somewhere and stole the only edible thing there, a chocolate easter-egg (technically not breaking in since the door wasn't locked). I somehow had nowhere to go to and stayed quite close to home. And got found by my mother-on-bike who dragged me back. And from that I only really remember the anger because I made her go out in bad weather and what would the neighborhood say if I was gone. The other time I kinda made sure I was home in time so I was never missed. I biked to my grandmothers place, then biked back since I had no idea how to explain anything nor did I want to make my mother angry again. I don't even know how old I was, cept I did have a bike. Which took years before I got one, since I was a danger on the road according to my mother. I had to walk everything.
Everyday to the library, walking, all within a set time. So I crossed the fence at the railroad to skip some of the way to make sure I had time to pick four books and be home in time. She had a timeframe for everything. Time needed to walk home from school, to walk and be back from getting groceries, to vacuumclean, to study, to do dishes, clean the cages of the rabbits, cut the border of the lawn, peel potatoes, clean my room. And it had to be exactly right, if something took less time I hadn't done my best or I hadn't done it right. If something wasn't done when it should be according to her timeframe I was lazy, slow and wasn't doing it right.
But so is our memory. From your first schoolday to your first kiss to your first snowy christmas or whatever firsts you had.
So really all I can describe are events. The first time I ran away from home. I walked through the forest, broke into a caravan somewhere and stole the only edible thing there, a chocolate easter-egg (technically not breaking in since the door wasn't locked). I somehow had nowhere to go to and stayed quite close to home. And got found by my mother-on-bike who dragged me back. And from that I only really remember the anger because I made her go out in bad weather and what would the neighborhood say if I was gone. The other time I kinda made sure I was home in time so I was never missed. I biked to my grandmothers place, then biked back since I had no idea how to explain anything nor did I want to make my mother angry again. I don't even know how old I was, cept I did have a bike. Which took years before I got one, since I was a danger on the road according to my mother. I had to walk everything.
Everyday to the library, walking, all within a set time. So I crossed the fence at the railroad to skip some of the way to make sure I had time to pick four books and be home in time. She had a timeframe for everything. Time needed to walk home from school, to walk and be back from getting groceries, to vacuumclean, to study, to do dishes, clean the cages of the rabbits, cut the border of the lawn, peel potatoes, clean my room. And it had to be exactly right, if something took less time I hadn't done my best or I hadn't done it right. If something wasn't done when it should be according to her timeframe I was lazy, slow and wasn't doing it right.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
History - Part four
Waa, so tired, so drunk, so everything bad (ya I'll edit the grammar and stuff another day).
I had horrid dream last night, all therapists from last year transformed into semi-therapists from Ruyterstee. Too drunk to type now. Nini.
I had horrid dream last night, all therapists from last year transformed into semi-therapists from Ruyterstee. Too drunk to type now. Nini.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
History - Part three
No, I'm not still there, I'm not living in the past. I rather just keep getting thrown there. Small incidents. Big incidents. Every day life. It's one of my bigger flaws, my memory. I remember so much. And it's hard to describe the events. I usually refer to them as not-so-nice-things or something. Every time I try tell someone some of those events I get the feeling it's sounding like scenes from a movie. The trailer where they put all the really good action in three minutes, from a not so good movie actually, so after you saw the trailer the movie is boring or you just skip watching it. Somehow telling specifics incidents doesn't seem to make people see how it was (and in a way still is).
I have to repeat myself here, everything you grow up with you consider normal. Since you have nothing to compare with. I was positive that every friend I visited got beaten up by their parents the moment I left the house. My mother always acted nice and friendly too whenever someone came over to play with me. Or rather, I really didn't think it could be different at other families. There was always the layer that my mother showed when someone visited us. And it always was double bad when we were alone again. Always had I overlooked something in my behavior, my actions that my mother had jotted down in that special part of her memory, for which I had to be punished. Which could literally be anything. The way I had answered one of her questions, the way I had argued with a friend or not argued, the way I had shown the faintest idea of being sad or unhappy, the way I had talked too loud or too soft. There was no way at all to avoid doing something wrong, something that was overlooked before could turn into something I had to be punished for.
One of my jobs was to weed the graveled path that we had at the front and one of the sides of the house. Which was tedious in itself, but my mother was very picky about how it had to be done. The weeds had to be removed with the roots so it took like hours to get the whole path clean. One of the weekly chores. One day one of my friends wanted to play with me while I was weeding and she insisted on helping me so we could play sooner. My mother exploded that evening. I should have made it clear to my friend that I was to do that alone.
I still have hopes my mother didn't realize that no matter what choice I made it was always a bad one. I always had to ponder which decision would make my mother the least mad at me. She got mad because she believed I had made my friend pity me for having to do that job, which would automatically ensure she'd help me, which course I wanted because I was lazy. She didn't consider that the alternative (after having told I could do alone and that it was okay and soon done and not needing any help, really) that the only way to make my friend not help was to tell her I would get punished if she did. Which I thought would have pissed my mother off more.
My mother was great at cornering me. She taught me to look at someone while at the same time not looking at someone. Since both got her freaking mad. I am very good at watching something that's just behind someone's head when it's talking to me. If I looked down she said I wasn't paying attention. If I looked at her eyes she said I was too bold. Both was good enough for a smack in the face. It took me eight years after I left their house to be able to sleep on something other than my back (only because I was pregnant and couldn't sleep on my back anymore with my huge belly). My mother used to sneak upstairs to check on me and when she couldn't see my face she never believed I was asleep (which meant I was probably doing something bad). So I'm also reallyreally good at pretending I'm asleep. I also get really paranoid when I'm in bed and not able to hear everything or not recognizing sounds. I dislike everything that makes me unable to hear what's coming, closed doors, constant sounds that might drown other sounds.
Which isn't all that bad though, I can hear when my tea-water is boiling, I know what's happening in my house from sounds alone. Most of it isn't really interfering with anything. Except on bad hairdays. I mean over the years some really odd things I did moved more and more to the back. I'm not going all frantic anymore when I break something or get stains in my clothes which can't be washed out. Except, well sometimes it just breaks through again. I've worked too long to avoid certain reactions from my mother to not automatically fall back sometimes. It's not the excessive scenes that made me, it's the constant being on the lookout.
I have to repeat myself here, everything you grow up with you consider normal. Since you have nothing to compare with. I was positive that every friend I visited got beaten up by their parents the moment I left the house. My mother always acted nice and friendly too whenever someone came over to play with me. Or rather, I really didn't think it could be different at other families. There was always the layer that my mother showed when someone visited us. And it always was double bad when we were alone again. Always had I overlooked something in my behavior, my actions that my mother had jotted down in that special part of her memory, for which I had to be punished. Which could literally be anything. The way I had answered one of her questions, the way I had argued with a friend or not argued, the way I had shown the faintest idea of being sad or unhappy, the way I had talked too loud or too soft. There was no way at all to avoid doing something wrong, something that was overlooked before could turn into something I had to be punished for.
One of my jobs was to weed the graveled path that we had at the front and one of the sides of the house. Which was tedious in itself, but my mother was very picky about how it had to be done. The weeds had to be removed with the roots so it took like hours to get the whole path clean. One of the weekly chores. One day one of my friends wanted to play with me while I was weeding and she insisted on helping me so we could play sooner. My mother exploded that evening. I should have made it clear to my friend that I was to do that alone.
I still have hopes my mother didn't realize that no matter what choice I made it was always a bad one. I always had to ponder which decision would make my mother the least mad at me. She got mad because she believed I had made my friend pity me for having to do that job, which would automatically ensure she'd help me, which course I wanted because I was lazy. She didn't consider that the alternative (after having told I could do alone and that it was okay and soon done and not needing any help, really) that the only way to make my friend not help was to tell her I would get punished if she did. Which I thought would have pissed my mother off more.
My mother was great at cornering me. She taught me to look at someone while at the same time not looking at someone. Since both got her freaking mad. I am very good at watching something that's just behind someone's head when it's talking to me. If I looked down she said I wasn't paying attention. If I looked at her eyes she said I was too bold. Both was good enough for a smack in the face. It took me eight years after I left their house to be able to sleep on something other than my back (only because I was pregnant and couldn't sleep on my back anymore with my huge belly). My mother used to sneak upstairs to check on me and when she couldn't see my face she never believed I was asleep (which meant I was probably doing something bad). So I'm also reallyreally good at pretending I'm asleep. I also get really paranoid when I'm in bed and not able to hear everything or not recognizing sounds. I dislike everything that makes me unable to hear what's coming, closed doors, constant sounds that might drown other sounds.
Which isn't all that bad though, I can hear when my tea-water is boiling, I know what's happening in my house from sounds alone. Most of it isn't really interfering with anything. Except on bad hairdays. I mean over the years some really odd things I did moved more and more to the back. I'm not going all frantic anymore when I break something or get stains in my clothes which can't be washed out. Except, well sometimes it just breaks through again. I've worked too long to avoid certain reactions from my mother to not automatically fall back sometimes. It's not the excessive scenes that made me, it's the constant being on the lookout.
Friday, August 14, 2009
History - Part two
I have been trying to find out the how and why since I can remember. I wanted to understand. Now I'm not so sure if there's anything to understand.
Looking back I can find lots arguments why things happened the way they happened, how everything went from bad to worse. I still don't really understand though. The reactions I get when I talk about stuff happening in the past are usually the same, 'well your mother was nuts', like it explains everything to them. Yet it doesn't explain anything to me.
There's a point in every parents life where they can hear their parents talking (well if they listen that is), they look at their kid, say the same deadly phrase they used to get from their parents and go scared (or well they should be! or rather I should be really). As most people I think I promised myself (and my unborn offspring course) that I would never ever be like my parents. Except mine was more like a solemn vow. And yet, I could hear my mother talking through me. The most scary part was that I also could see the thoughts my mother probably had. How kiddo was doing all things on purpose to annoy me. If hell exists, it must be something like that.
So there I was, having really stupid thoughts about kiddo and at the same time being thrown back in time and being there again. The feeling of fear mixed with confusion. No fecking clue what it all was about and why my mother was so angry with me again.
So I tried again. Well I tried drinking more and I still felt like I should hang myself because I was badbadbad. So I called them. I wanted to talk. I wanted to understand. She said I lied, that nothing I remembered ever happened. And besides that I was a bad child anyway. And that was kinda the end of it. I couldn't really stay sane and be a semi-normal mother while I still had to pretend nothing ever happened when I was a kid.
In a way I feel sad it's like this, that I won't get the answers I crave, the answers that would make me feel different (or so I believe). I believe that it would be so much easier if I could understand. If I could talk with my parents how things got to that really bad point. But during all those years I could never make them (or her rather) understand I didn't want to talk about blame or the bad things specifically, just the need to know things and maybe hear for once that I wasn't all that bad. Most of the years after kiddo was born everyone pretended we were all one big happy family. There was one huge area nobody dared enter, besides some remarks that it was nice that all was fine now (which I always translated as: See, it was you! We only did what we could with the best intentions.). The occasional yourememberwhens always seemed so fun and normal but they made me scream inside since there was nothing fun and normal back then.
The one time where I had been brushing my teeth for hours and hours till I finally had enough courage to go downstairs to ask if I could stop now, a room filled with guests and they all laughed when my mother said she had forgotten about me. Nobody thought it was a bit odd maybe that a child keeps brushing her teeth for hours? And now it's like a funny childhood story for them?
How could I keep up that charade and not go freaking insane? I couldn't. I honestly tried. Mostly so I could believe we could have a normal relation. That we now were all grownups and should be able to be mature about the past. So yes, I ended it all. I know I will always have questions and I know if I kept on seeing them sooner or later I would try to understand again. Over and over hitting my head on that brick wall being my mother or the guilt or the shame or whatever reason she doesn't want it all dug up again.
Memory is a weird thing. But I know I didn't make it all up. I know I know, I know she knows, she knows I know she knows. So I'm alone with them. My sister says I shouldn't keep dwelling in the past, we are living now, things are fine. My brother has a loyalty-conflict and is torn between me and our mother and I can't help him with it. He thinks I should forgive, that the mother from my past isn't the same as the mother in the now. But it's not the point and I can't make him see that.
I am my past and I want to change the future that is connected to that past. I am a sore, whiny, self-pitying, frustrated bitch if I don't try my hardest to keep remembering that I don't have to be like that. And I remember. And I try to not let it influence me too much. Since I'm still there.
Looking back I can find lots arguments why things happened the way they happened, how everything went from bad to worse. I still don't really understand though. The reactions I get when I talk about stuff happening in the past are usually the same, 'well your mother was nuts', like it explains everything to them. Yet it doesn't explain anything to me.
There's a point in every parents life where they can hear their parents talking (well if they listen that is), they look at their kid, say the same deadly phrase they used to get from their parents and go scared (or well they should be! or rather I should be really). As most people I think I promised myself (and my unborn offspring course) that I would never ever be like my parents. Except mine was more like a solemn vow. And yet, I could hear my mother talking through me. The most scary part was that I also could see the thoughts my mother probably had. How kiddo was doing all things on purpose to annoy me. If hell exists, it must be something like that.
So there I was, having really stupid thoughts about kiddo and at the same time being thrown back in time and being there again. The feeling of fear mixed with confusion. No fecking clue what it all was about and why my mother was so angry with me again.
So I tried again. Well I tried drinking more and I still felt like I should hang myself because I was badbadbad. So I called them. I wanted to talk. I wanted to understand. She said I lied, that nothing I remembered ever happened. And besides that I was a bad child anyway. And that was kinda the end of it. I couldn't really stay sane and be a semi-normal mother while I still had to pretend nothing ever happened when I was a kid.
In a way I feel sad it's like this, that I won't get the answers I crave, the answers that would make me feel different (or so I believe). I believe that it would be so much easier if I could understand. If I could talk with my parents how things got to that really bad point. But during all those years I could never make them (or her rather) understand I didn't want to talk about blame or the bad things specifically, just the need to know things and maybe hear for once that I wasn't all that bad. Most of the years after kiddo was born everyone pretended we were all one big happy family. There was one huge area nobody dared enter, besides some remarks that it was nice that all was fine now (which I always translated as: See, it was you! We only did what we could with the best intentions.). The occasional yourememberwhens always seemed so fun and normal but they made me scream inside since there was nothing fun and normal back then.
The one time where I had been brushing my teeth for hours and hours till I finally had enough courage to go downstairs to ask if I could stop now, a room filled with guests and they all laughed when my mother said she had forgotten about me. Nobody thought it was a bit odd maybe that a child keeps brushing her teeth for hours? And now it's like a funny childhood story for them?
How could I keep up that charade and not go freaking insane? I couldn't. I honestly tried. Mostly so I could believe we could have a normal relation. That we now were all grownups and should be able to be mature about the past. So yes, I ended it all. I know I will always have questions and I know if I kept on seeing them sooner or later I would try to understand again. Over and over hitting my head on that brick wall being my mother or the guilt or the shame or whatever reason she doesn't want it all dug up again.
Memory is a weird thing. But I know I didn't make it all up. I know I know, I know she knows, she knows I know she knows. So I'm alone with them. My sister says I shouldn't keep dwelling in the past, we are living now, things are fine. My brother has a loyalty-conflict and is torn between me and our mother and I can't help him with it. He thinks I should forgive, that the mother from my past isn't the same as the mother in the now. But it's not the point and I can't make him see that.
I am my past and I want to change the future that is connected to that past. I am a sore, whiny, self-pitying, frustrated bitch if I don't try my hardest to keep remembering that I don't have to be like that. And I remember. And I try to not let it influence me too much. Since I'm still there.
Monday, August 10, 2009
History
Since I can't sleep, maybe it's about time I write it all down (who knows if it's constructive somehow). I tried so often and always ended up with weird half-stories, losing myself on details, scared of forgetting the important things (but what's important and what does it matter I forgot them? (not like I have forgotten anything)). I've tried the factual neutral approach, the how I felt during all the years approach, the start somewhere random, the start at the end and at the beginning. So many little failed stories of my life. Maybe I somehow really didn't want to have it all written out. I don't know. I could just be a lazy bastard too. So, another restart of this. And again, no clue where to begin. The short chronological facts then?
1972 born
1974 adopted
1980 my memory works
1983 grandfather dies, things go from bad to worse
1986 psychiatric hospital
1989 kicked out of hospital
Since then pretending I'm normal enough and trying to stay on the sane side.
Before 1980 I have two memories I can call my own (not the memories that exist because people tell you things happened and are integrated in some false memory that are true from then on).
My mother is riding a bicycle bringing me somewhere (to kindergarten?), we're getting past a plowed field with snow on it, I can remember the black earth and the snow, making a sort of black and white striped pattern and between the road and the field a pile of roof tiles (also covered a bit with snow).
The second is a visit from the whole class (or I think it was the whole class) to our teacher who just gave birth and me standing at a big (it was bigger than me (so maybe not that big *giggles*)) stone that was being used as a nameplate or something.
The only reason (I can figure out at least) why I remember these things is the feeling of oddness. From then on there's nothing odd anymore, just fear.
I think memories are always connected to something unusual. Something out of the normal feelings. After all these years so many things have slipped my mind (thank heavens!), all that's left are the real ups and downs.
I was eight (or so I think, looking back) and it was bad. Every day I did something (anything, everything) wrong and had to be punished for that. My mother had no way of distinguishing between intentional and unintentional wrongs. She was so positive that everything I did wrong I did on purpose and eventually ended up with believing I not only did that on purpose but also to hurt her. My memories are filled with sentences she kept telling me, mostly about what I did to her and how bad I was. I didn't know I believed it all till I thought the same things when my daughter got close to being eight. Or rather, I really thought and hoped maybe that words are just words and you can just forget them if they aren't true. For the past six years I have been fighting memories. Fighting to keep seeing the world through my own eyes and not through my mothers. Knowing something is untrue doesn't mean you also believe it's untrue.
When I was thirteen I believed I stopped caring, but all I did was giving up trying to make her love me. I stopped believing there was anything I could do to get her to like me. Which led to me being sent away since she couldn't handle me anymore. And she was right to do so. There's no fun in punishing someone that doesn't seem to be affected in any way. She didn't understand (nor will she ever I think) that it was inevitable. Five years living in constant fear, of never knowing what will upset someone, always being alert for the tiniest sign of an explosion, I just couldn't handle it anymore. What will be, will be. If I'm sure I will be punished no matter what I do, what's the use of me trying to be good?
The first night in the hospital I went reading a book in bed (yes, on purpose, since it was a forbidden act) and all I got was someone telling me to go to sleep. Nobody trashing my room, yanking me out of bed, hitting me, pulling me downstairs to stand for hours till I could answer questions the way my mother wanted them answered. So I went to sleep that night, I didn't even wait for everyone to be asleep.
When you're a kid, everything that happens is normal. And why talk about normal things? That I didn't like the way I was treated didn't mean I didn't deserve it or that it wasn't normal.
[to be continued...] <- I so hated that on television.
1972 born
1974 adopted
1980 my memory works
1983 grandfather dies, things go from bad to worse
1986 psychiatric hospital
1989 kicked out of hospital
Since then pretending I'm normal enough and trying to stay on the sane side.
Before 1980 I have two memories I can call my own (not the memories that exist because people tell you things happened and are integrated in some false memory that are true from then on).
My mother is riding a bicycle bringing me somewhere (to kindergarten?), we're getting past a plowed field with snow on it, I can remember the black earth and the snow, making a sort of black and white striped pattern and between the road and the field a pile of roof tiles (also covered a bit with snow).
The second is a visit from the whole class (or I think it was the whole class) to our teacher who just gave birth and me standing at a big (it was bigger than me (so maybe not that big *giggles*)) stone that was being used as a nameplate or something.
The only reason (I can figure out at least) why I remember these things is the feeling of oddness. From then on there's nothing odd anymore, just fear.
I think memories are always connected to something unusual. Something out of the normal feelings. After all these years so many things have slipped my mind (thank heavens!), all that's left are the real ups and downs.
I was eight (or so I think, looking back) and it was bad. Every day I did something (anything, everything) wrong and had to be punished for that. My mother had no way of distinguishing between intentional and unintentional wrongs. She was so positive that everything I did wrong I did on purpose and eventually ended up with believing I not only did that on purpose but also to hurt her. My memories are filled with sentences she kept telling me, mostly about what I did to her and how bad I was. I didn't know I believed it all till I thought the same things when my daughter got close to being eight. Or rather, I really thought and hoped maybe that words are just words and you can just forget them if they aren't true. For the past six years I have been fighting memories. Fighting to keep seeing the world through my own eyes and not through my mothers. Knowing something is untrue doesn't mean you also believe it's untrue.
When I was thirteen I believed I stopped caring, but all I did was giving up trying to make her love me. I stopped believing there was anything I could do to get her to like me. Which led to me being sent away since she couldn't handle me anymore. And she was right to do so. There's no fun in punishing someone that doesn't seem to be affected in any way. She didn't understand (nor will she ever I think) that it was inevitable. Five years living in constant fear, of never knowing what will upset someone, always being alert for the tiniest sign of an explosion, I just couldn't handle it anymore. What will be, will be. If I'm sure I will be punished no matter what I do, what's the use of me trying to be good?
The first night in the hospital I went reading a book in bed (yes, on purpose, since it was a forbidden act) and all I got was someone telling me to go to sleep. Nobody trashing my room, yanking me out of bed, hitting me, pulling me downstairs to stand for hours till I could answer questions the way my mother wanted them answered. So I went to sleep that night, I didn't even wait for everyone to be asleep.
When you're a kid, everything that happens is normal. And why talk about normal things? That I didn't like the way I was treated didn't mean I didn't deserve it or that it wasn't normal.
[to be continued...] <- I so hated that on television.
So tired
Yet so not able to sleep. I sit here, pondering, musing, cursing and crying. So tired. I lie in bed, wide awake. No way I can fall asleep, unless I stay awake long enough my body takes over. And then my mind is still racing and punishes me with odd dreams.
Do you hear voices, they ask me. Do you see things that aren't there?
No. I just have my mind and that's more than enough thank you. I know the difference between the reality I live in and the reality that is my life.
Do you hear voices, they ask me. Do you see things that aren't there?
No. I just have my mind and that's more than enough thank you. I know the difference between the reality I live in and the reality that is my life.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Pain
Being sober once in a while is maybe just some form of self-punishment. Auto-mutilation gets you too much unwanted attention (not to mention the hope and fear of getting locked up).
Without that little numbness the pains are so much edgier. The hot, throbbing pain of my joints in the background that flare up once every so often. The sharp, cracking pain of joints going bitsy off when I suddenly move while my muscles are trying to catch up. And then the headaches, the ignorable ones that just drone on and on and on, the big attentionseekers that keep me on the move at all times waiting for me to do nothing to explode inside my head and then the all-consuming ones that make me want to scream or bash my head to bloody pulp against the wall to make it stopstopstopstop. And always, when I least expect it and not ready for it mostly, the pain of knowing never to be good enough, never worth enough.
I lie awake in the dark, lie awake till I see the sun set. And I feel it all. No escape. It's all there. Carved out by the physical pains the sharp outlines of the shell that holds all of me. There are no masks or all masks are me. The insignificance of my existence. I've said that I'm afraid of letting the evil inside me loose. But that's a lie. I can't be evil, I am not important enough (well on the worldscale, what does anyone matter), I'm destructive only. Knowing I will never matter yet want to matter has only one way. Destruction. Burn Baby Burn. 'My life might not mean anything, yet I can make people remember my existence.' Dangerous thoughts. Dangerously tempting thoughts.
If I'm in pain, why aren't you?
Without that little numbness the pains are so much edgier. The hot, throbbing pain of my joints in the background that flare up once every so often. The sharp, cracking pain of joints going bitsy off when I suddenly move while my muscles are trying to catch up. And then the headaches, the ignorable ones that just drone on and on and on, the big attentionseekers that keep me on the move at all times waiting for me to do nothing to explode inside my head and then the all-consuming ones that make me want to scream or bash my head to bloody pulp against the wall to make it stopstopstopstop. And always, when I least expect it and not ready for it mostly, the pain of knowing never to be good enough, never worth enough.
I lie awake in the dark, lie awake till I see the sun set. And I feel it all. No escape. It's all there. Carved out by the physical pains the sharp outlines of the shell that holds all of me. There are no masks or all masks are me. The insignificance of my existence. I've said that I'm afraid of letting the evil inside me loose. But that's a lie. I can't be evil, I am not important enough (well on the worldscale, what does anyone matter), I'm destructive only. Knowing I will never matter yet want to matter has only one way. Destruction. Burn Baby Burn. 'My life might not mean anything, yet I can make people remember my existence.' Dangerous thoughts. Dangerously tempting thoughts.
If I'm in pain, why aren't you?
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Sober, awake and tired
How depressing is that?
I am counting the days. Again. Well I count the hours too. Again. Five more days of semi-sanity. And then? I don't know. I'm scared. I'll be alone for three full weeks. I don't know what will happen. I'm noticing I'm preparing myself, but I don't know what I'm preparing for. So tired. I watch movies and cry. Sometimes it's good to have an excuse for crying (although I have to admit corny comedies and cartoons are maybe a bit weak as cry-excuse, but it's better than nothing I guess).
What am I preparing for? I don't know. I have been drinking more and more past days, wondering if that's good or bad. I sleep and dream. Booze doesn't stop the dreaming anymore. So I'm sober again. And wide awake. It's not nightmares, it's just that dreams and reality seems to be mixed up all the time. And costs me more and more to shake them off. And too often I don't know if I've dreamed something or if it happened for real, or rather it's too mixed to know where the dream ended and the reality hit in again or the other way around. Is this just part of the getting older process (I must say it's a bit intriguing if anyone actually knows what changes in thoughts during that process) or does this mean I'm losing my sanity more and more.
I never was without random strange insane thoughts, but that's just what they were, thoughts. Thoughts without action are harmless. Not knowing if things are thoughts or dreams or reality might be another level completely. Should I be worried? I am. How to stay sane enough? Three weeks is a mighty long time.
I am counting the days. Again. Well I count the hours too. Again. Five more days of semi-sanity. And then? I don't know. I'm scared. I'll be alone for three full weeks. I don't know what will happen. I'm noticing I'm preparing myself, but I don't know what I'm preparing for. So tired. I watch movies and cry. Sometimes it's good to have an excuse for crying (although I have to admit corny comedies and cartoons are maybe a bit weak as cry-excuse, but it's better than nothing I guess).
What am I preparing for? I don't know. I have been drinking more and more past days, wondering if that's good or bad. I sleep and dream. Booze doesn't stop the dreaming anymore. So I'm sober again. And wide awake. It's not nightmares, it's just that dreams and reality seems to be mixed up all the time. And costs me more and more to shake them off. And too often I don't know if I've dreamed something or if it happened for real, or rather it's too mixed to know where the dream ended and the reality hit in again or the other way around. Is this just part of the getting older process (I must say it's a bit intriguing if anyone actually knows what changes in thoughts during that process) or does this mean I'm losing my sanity more and more.
I never was without random strange insane thoughts, but that's just what they were, thoughts. Thoughts without action are harmless. Not knowing if things are thoughts or dreams or reality might be another level completely. Should I be worried? I am. How to stay sane enough? Three weeks is a mighty long time.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Nothing new
I don't know.
People tell me I should look past the time I set. The time I will have to stay sorta sane and sorta socially acceptable. And I don't understand. Somehow I have trouble understanding they can see for themselves where they stand in a few years (besides the people who finish study and/or have certain ambitions regarding work, career, family-planning). And all of them just take an aspect (I aim to overthrow my boss and get his job, I want to finish my degree, I want to have x amount of children).
What life will you have in five years? I don't think they have it all sorted out. So how can they tell me I should set a goal for after what I aim for? I don't know. All I know is that I will have to stay sorta okay for the coming four years. Yes, I want to have a meaningful long-lasting relationship with someone that loves me with my flaws and worships all good parts and have a few children to waste earths resources even more. But I tried that and failed. So if that's not it, I will have to take care for the kiddo I managed to bring into this life and after that there is some huge void and I have no fecking clue what I want, will be.
Oh, I want so much and at the same time so little. I want peace of mind, nobody that bothers me, sit at home without responsibilities for anyone but myself. I mostly laugh at people that mutter and curse they have to do something while they don't have any offspring. Really, who cares. What does it matter you didn't vacuum the floors, didn't get groceries, didn't manage to get in bed before midnight. Course, you get dirty floors, have to live on whatever you didn't run out of and have trouble waking at 7am. But still, who's gonna tell you that's bad? It's just you that might make it difficult for yourself. The world will keep rotating, the sun will still set. So can I have my little dream of being able to just let it all go when the time hits kiddo is old enough to live on its own?
I don't know. Maybe I go nuts and kill three innocent bystanders while mutilating the clerk that doesn't understand I want to have something settled right now and not in three weeks, maybe I go utterly depressed and hang myself, maybe I just sit happily on my balcony musing over how fast kids grow and that finally I have time to invite those two studs and have a wild weekend. I just don't know.
Again, all I know is that till that time I need to not do all those things and do the right stuff. Which I've tried (and somehow managed for a bit) for the past fourteen years and in all honesty I'm getting fecking tired of doing the right things all the time. 'No, it's not allowed to grab that idiot and beat it senseless with a blunt object.' 'No, it's bad to set fire to that government-building no matter that there's at least a dozen people the world can do without easily.' Choices, choices.
People tell me I should look past the time I set. The time I will have to stay sorta sane and sorta socially acceptable. And I don't understand. Somehow I have trouble understanding they can see for themselves where they stand in a few years (besides the people who finish study and/or have certain ambitions regarding work, career, family-planning). And all of them just take an aspect (I aim to overthrow my boss and get his job, I want to finish my degree, I want to have x amount of children).
What life will you have in five years? I don't think they have it all sorted out. So how can they tell me I should set a goal for after what I aim for? I don't know. All I know is that I will have to stay sorta okay for the coming four years. Yes, I want to have a meaningful long-lasting relationship with someone that loves me with my flaws and worships all good parts and have a few children to waste earths resources even more. But I tried that and failed. So if that's not it, I will have to take care for the kiddo I managed to bring into this life and after that there is some huge void and I have no fecking clue what I want, will be.
Oh, I want so much and at the same time so little. I want peace of mind, nobody that bothers me, sit at home without responsibilities for anyone but myself. I mostly laugh at people that mutter and curse they have to do something while they don't have any offspring. Really, who cares. What does it matter you didn't vacuum the floors, didn't get groceries, didn't manage to get in bed before midnight. Course, you get dirty floors, have to live on whatever you didn't run out of and have trouble waking at 7am. But still, who's gonna tell you that's bad? It's just you that might make it difficult for yourself. The world will keep rotating, the sun will still set. So can I have my little dream of being able to just let it all go when the time hits kiddo is old enough to live on its own?
I don't know. Maybe I go nuts and kill three innocent bystanders while mutilating the clerk that doesn't understand I want to have something settled right now and not in three weeks, maybe I go utterly depressed and hang myself, maybe I just sit happily on my balcony musing over how fast kids grow and that finally I have time to invite those two studs and have a wild weekend. I just don't know.
Again, all I know is that till that time I need to not do all those things and do the right stuff. Which I've tried (and somehow managed for a bit) for the past fourteen years and in all honesty I'm getting fecking tired of doing the right things all the time. 'No, it's not allowed to grab that idiot and beat it senseless with a blunt object.' 'No, it's bad to set fire to that government-building no matter that there's at least a dozen people the world can do without easily.' Choices, choices.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The trouble with therapists
They depress me.
And I should probably leave it at this.
And I should probably give some of them more credit. Or maybe all of them. They try (or so I assume (although assumptions are reallyreally bad (but more about that some other time maybe))). They can't help it they are limited by their experience, the system, their education and their personality. And that has to match with the people they are trying to help. But that doesn't really help me.
And since I don't know what will help me (should I mention flamethrowers again?) they're probably a bit in the dark too. But I can't blame them for that. Maybe that's the whole problem, I'm nuts and I can't really put the blame anywhere. I'm filled with rage and I can't unleash it anywhere.
Which brings me back to depressing therapists. I have to lie to them. Which somehow doesn't feel right. But I'm scared they connect non-common behavior to the problem or make it into a problem or the problem. Even if some behavior is a symptom, I don't think it has to be fixed, since fixing the problem should fix the symptom. But going in therapy doesn't mean I lost my ability to think. I know what I am, I know how I react, I know what is part of the problem or not. The only thing I need help with is to find out how to fix my problem(s). So it's tiring and depressing to run into the therapists that are stuck on things they see as problems while I don't see them. And it takes too much effort mostly to get on a level where we are past that.
And I'm not able to have a coherent post about this right now.
And I should probably leave it at this.
And I should probably give some of them more credit. Or maybe all of them. They try (or so I assume (although assumptions are reallyreally bad (but more about that some other time maybe))). They can't help it they are limited by their experience, the system, their education and their personality. And that has to match with the people they are trying to help. But that doesn't really help me.
And since I don't know what will help me (should I mention flamethrowers again?) they're probably a bit in the dark too. But I can't blame them for that. Maybe that's the whole problem, I'm nuts and I can't really put the blame anywhere. I'm filled with rage and I can't unleash it anywhere.
Which brings me back to depressing therapists. I have to lie to them. Which somehow doesn't feel right. But I'm scared they connect non-common behavior to the problem or make it into a problem or the problem. Even if some behavior is a symptom, I don't think it has to be fixed, since fixing the problem should fix the symptom. But going in therapy doesn't mean I lost my ability to think. I know what I am, I know how I react, I know what is part of the problem or not. The only thing I need help with is to find out how to fix my problem(s). So it's tiring and depressing to run into the therapists that are stuck on things they see as problems while I don't see them. And it takes too much effort mostly to get on a level where we are past that.
And I'm not able to have a coherent post about this right now.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Existentialism, Weltschmerz and Depression
I know there is a link between those three. I'm just not sure what is connected in what way to which. Or well I think I know, but not able to find the words for it. But then again, it's fecking late. And I kinda feel a bit depressed.
We have luxury problems mostly. Did our parents or our grandparents ever had time to think about their miserable lives? I think they just went on with it. It's not that long when all you had to do was keep on breathing, earn a living, raise your kids and not whine since it wouldn't help anything. Now we have welfare, choices we can make (no matter we have no clue what we're actually choosing). I believe (yadayada, you can only believe in something that can't be proven exists, else it would be a certainty no? Which would kinda kill the believecrap) that I am born in the wrong time. It should have been earlier or later (well, one can hope there is a future somewhere no?), but this so isn't my time. Nor my world. So I'm born wrongly, then put someplace I didn't ask for.
The only real choice one has is when to end it and how.
Oh and my topic isn't the best pick. *curls up and weeps*
We have luxury problems mostly. Did our parents or our grandparents ever had time to think about their miserable lives? I think they just went on with it. It's not that long when all you had to do was keep on breathing, earn a living, raise your kids and not whine since it wouldn't help anything. Now we have welfare, choices we can make (no matter we have no clue what we're actually choosing). I believe (yadayada, you can only believe in something that can't be proven exists, else it would be a certainty no? Which would kinda kill the believecrap) that I am born in the wrong time. It should have been earlier or later (well, one can hope there is a future somewhere no?), but this so isn't my time. Nor my world. So I'm born wrongly, then put someplace I didn't ask for.
The only real choice one has is when to end it and how.
Oh and my topic isn't the best pick. *curls up and weeps*
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Insanity
Isn't bad.
I think there's only two ways out of thinking. Going insane or sucking it up. I think I did the latter for the past 20 years or so. And insanity really sounds like a swell idea.
Or rather, how can you actually stay sane when you think. How can you watch the world, the little people with their limited minds (including yourself course), the damage done every minute and not go nuts.
I believed there had to be a purpose to everything happening. I tried to keep it simple. If it has happened it had to happen else it wouldn't have happened. And everything happening is something like a lesson, something you can learn from or get something out of. Something that makes you grow as a person and if you hadn't learned it would repeat itself till you had. That every bad you encountered was the way to teach you something, maybe not at that time, but later on, when enough time had passed for you to see (where course the passed time could be anywhere from 1min to 300 years). That in a way the ability to think was always a burden but also had a goal. And now, I'm just not so sure anymore. People that think aren't happy, can't be happy. And I don't mean they are naturally depressed. A depression is a state of mind.
I watched a dragonfly today. It landed on my book and sat there for a few minutes while I watched it, from every angle, before it flew off. I wasn't stunned with the beauty or something crap like that. It just was there and I watched and I wondered. It just lives, till it dies. A perfect living thing who apparently doesn't care if it has a purpose or not (one can never be sure I guess since I don't think any human has talked to dragonflies about their thoughts).
There is no way out for the thinking people. Always questioning the why and never be happy.
I think there's only two ways out of thinking. Going insane or sucking it up. I think I did the latter for the past 20 years or so. And insanity really sounds like a swell idea.
Or rather, how can you actually stay sane when you think. How can you watch the world, the little people with their limited minds (including yourself course), the damage done every minute and not go nuts.
I believed there had to be a purpose to everything happening. I tried to keep it simple. If it has happened it had to happen else it wouldn't have happened. And everything happening is something like a lesson, something you can learn from or get something out of. Something that makes you grow as a person and if you hadn't learned it would repeat itself till you had. That every bad you encountered was the way to teach you something, maybe not at that time, but later on, when enough time had passed for you to see (where course the passed time could be anywhere from 1min to 300 years). That in a way the ability to think was always a burden but also had a goal. And now, I'm just not so sure anymore. People that think aren't happy, can't be happy. And I don't mean they are naturally depressed. A depression is a state of mind.
I watched a dragonfly today. It landed on my book and sat there for a few minutes while I watched it, from every angle, before it flew off. I wasn't stunned with the beauty or something crap like that. It just was there and I watched and I wondered. It just lives, till it dies. A perfect living thing who apparently doesn't care if it has a purpose or not (one can never be sure I guess since I don't think any human has talked to dragonflies about their thoughts).
There is no way out for the thinking people. Always questioning the why and never be happy.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Where is the way out
Or rather how much longer can I control my anger, my rage. Or how can I get it out of the system without harming anyone. Or how can I lock it up forever.
Or well maybe I don't want to control it any longer, tired of the fighting and the struggling to stay socially acceptable, to not get pushed over the border of sanity. So tired, so angry. And I can't see it. It doesn't seem to matter what I do, I stay beyond angry. And I'm scared of what will happen if I do let go, let it be. Cities might burn, people might die, buildings might be demolished. Or maybe nothing will happen and I will be happyhappyjoyjoy forever. But can I take that risk? So far, I think not. It is tempting though, since my rage is enough to want to watch the cities burn.
So I lock myself up again, take another drink, smoke another cigarette, rant some more. I've thought about lots of fancy topicnames (from 'Watch me lose my sanity' to 'Where is that anger-managementclass when you need one') and even why I should bother to be public about this. I guess I care enough to want to be read and not care enough who reads it.
Or maybe so I can tell people I warned them if only they would have checked millions of blogs to find mine *hides*
The long hours of the night, the endless hours of the day. Alone with the rage. Alone with the fear. Everyone is alone and I really wonder how they can cope with it. Deep down inside everyone should be aware there is only you and your sick thoughts. Or maybe I am alone in that also (and no, I don't believe that). So. How do you cope with it? What is it that enables you to live past all the crap? To shake it off like it's nothing. It goes harder and harder for me or rather I have more and more difficulty to just let things pass.
So many little things that irritate me and makes me want to scream and hit things with a bat. Or a flamethrower. A chainsaw.
I don't know. I really don't know. The world isn't fair, the people are mostly selfish. So what makes it worthwhile.
Or well maybe I don't want to control it any longer, tired of the fighting and the struggling to stay socially acceptable, to not get pushed over the border of sanity. So tired, so angry. And I can't see it. It doesn't seem to matter what I do, I stay beyond angry. And I'm scared of what will happen if I do let go, let it be. Cities might burn, people might die, buildings might be demolished. Or maybe nothing will happen and I will be happyhappyjoyjoy forever. But can I take that risk? So far, I think not. It is tempting though, since my rage is enough to want to watch the cities burn.
So I lock myself up again, take another drink, smoke another cigarette, rant some more. I've thought about lots of fancy topicnames (from 'Watch me lose my sanity' to 'Where is that anger-managementclass when you need one') and even why I should bother to be public about this. I guess I care enough to want to be read and not care enough who reads it.
Or maybe so I can tell people I warned them if only they would have checked millions of blogs to find mine *hides*
The long hours of the night, the endless hours of the day. Alone with the rage. Alone with the fear. Everyone is alone and I really wonder how they can cope with it. Deep down inside everyone should be aware there is only you and your sick thoughts. Or maybe I am alone in that also (and no, I don't believe that). So. How do you cope with it? What is it that enables you to live past all the crap? To shake it off like it's nothing. It goes harder and harder for me or rather I have more and more difficulty to just let things pass.
So many little things that irritate me and makes me want to scream and hit things with a bat. Or a flamethrower. A chainsaw.
I don't know. I really don't know. The world isn't fair, the people are mostly selfish. So what makes it worthwhile.
The Void Within
Mmm, usually the start is easy, same as the end. It's what's in between that poses the problem. You are born, you die. There is no way to influence your birth (or well so I believe), there is a choice to not have your end be random. You can end it with a bang or just quietly whither away or leave it to whenever something decides your time is up.
And there's always the time between those two. What will you make of that. Will your time existing change anything and does it matter if it does or doesn't? I don't know. And sometimes I don't even care. I probably should care. I probably should try find a meaning for all that happens. I probably should be happy and grateful for what I am, what I have, what I can. But I am not. And I'm probably (hopefully?) not the only one.
I'm not sure if doing this makes sense in any way. Just a way to keep me off the streets I guess, which might be a good thing. Nobody is unique, yet everyone is. Which is the key. Since you're always alone, no matter how many friends, lovers, family one has. But humanity isn't made to be able to cope with that. We want to be unique yet part of others who are of the same uniqueness. And we bloom in that, that there's equalminded who understand our petty thoughts and evil ideas. Who can see beyond our shell of decency and be able to embrace the core (of which we know is rotten and smelly).
And there's always the time between those two. What will you make of that. Will your time existing change anything and does it matter if it does or doesn't? I don't know. And sometimes I don't even care. I probably should care. I probably should try find a meaning for all that happens. I probably should be happy and grateful for what I am, what I have, what I can. But I am not. And I'm probably (hopefully?) not the only one.
I'm not sure if doing this makes sense in any way. Just a way to keep me off the streets I guess, which might be a good thing. Nobody is unique, yet everyone is. Which is the key. Since you're always alone, no matter how many friends, lovers, family one has. But humanity isn't made to be able to cope with that. We want to be unique yet part of others who are of the same uniqueness. And we bloom in that, that there's equalminded who understand our petty thoughts and evil ideas. Who can see beyond our shell of decency and be able to embrace the core (of which we know is rotten and smelly).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
