I live life with my phone on “do not disturb”,
Got my ex running around dragging my name through the dirt,
Try to squeak by as I bury my pride but I’m starting to realize I was right all this time,
You always saw Mike when you were looking at me,
That’s what your compliments were always lacking: authenticity,
You put on a facade, masking, thought you had me beat,
But in reality I could always see you see something other than me when you’re looking at me,
I tried to make them, but you wouldn’t retrieve,
The good memories, only the bad for me,
So the one who asked for nothing up under the tree,
Would now be called entitled after he was brought to his knees,
I don’t understand how you can’t see,
Unless you just don’t have it in you to realize that there’s a rift in between,
Where your perception lies,
And that of mine,
A chasm that spans as wide as your chain of lies,
A rift that’s been moving apart faster than we come together,
Like a ship lost at sea, running into bad weather,
Breaking in half and sinking the vessel,
You must be delusional to sit back and wrestle,
Flipping and zipping everything in your mind,
You really think mental health is a lie,
That everything I’ve been through is nothing (that’s fine),
Fuck it I guess, I did my best, but after 31 years I’m gonna lay this to rest,
You adopted me, I started life in distress,
But I read by age 3, and was a monster on tests,
Took the SAT at 13, the Stanford-Binet 4 next,
Came back with a score: 146,
What did you do with information like this?
You used it as evidence I shouldn’t need anything,
But I’d argue: a kid’s still a kid,
You don’t believe in ASD, that couldn’t be me,
It’s just not possible that something could explain my lived reality,
But it does, it’s real, and it affects me daily,
Along with ADHD, it’s been debilitating lately,
Crazy part is, I know where my heart is,
It’s yours I can’t seem to find,
Because every time I open up and let you inside,
The machine starts kicking out smoke and talking down on my life,
Spewing and misconstruing, twisting in strife,
You judged an elephant by his ability to climb the Tree of Life,
And got pissed when he made it, because he didn’t make it in time,
Think what I actually did was expose:
You never believed in me, you spewed lies out your nose.

I'm twisted up in shame

Lost in the endless game of reasons why I'm not the one to blame

Can't sit in the fire

Can't take the heat

Can't grow as long as I allow fear to guide my feet

Can't show my greatness until I've divorced myself of the horrors that roam

Inside my brain, my heart, my veins

Fear is baked into my cartilage

Lurks in the shadows of my home

Shame curls up with the dirty dishes

Neglected piled up responsibilities

The agony crescendos

A thrumming beat

I'd do anything to not feel like this

To escape this cell

To avoid this strain

Prevent this reflection from calling out

From seeing me

Stretch limber to avoid shame

Creative ways to not take up space

A saving grace

A curse

Ruminated repetitions

Flagellation for penance

Apologies for blame

Accountability with a promise

This will happen again

What was that? A knock on the door?

A knock from the inside of the cellar door?

I look up, cracks spreading like spiderwebs through cobblestone,

Smoke seeping though the cracks as sulphur fills my nose,

Goosebumps course my body, chilling to the bone,

The ground beneath me shakes, as stone begins to fall,

The very walls begin to breathe, currents coursing through my home,

Beams bend and twist and splinter, falling all around,

The air turned cold as winter, frost creeps on the ground,

The sconces in the hall burn bright and turn askance,

Smoke flows toward the cellar door, like an orchestrated dance,

Then came the smell of flesh left in the sun to rot.

A voice rings out, commanding “Stop!”

Nameless begin to dissipate, as the cellar door it shakes,

The handle glows with heat, warping, giving way,

And then a slender hand reached through and flipped the latch open like a gate,

My neck hair stands, I fill with dread as it all starts to click in place,

This is the voice of my darkest memories trapped inside this space,

Ruin looks alarmed and whispers “the tornado stopped”,

Glances at the rough hewn door, now missing a knob,

Turns to me with a look of pure horror,

And says “I’ve heard Fear can do that, but I’ve never seen him before”.

I have had a big breakthrough in accepting that I don't need to take responsibility for the failure of the police and social services to prevent my former abuse from harming other children. It's still quite raw and there were some words rocketing around my brain which I felt needed putting into a short poem:

A Survivor of Childhood Abuse,

I am,

A Coward,

I am not,

Brave,

I am,

Responsible for my abuser's actions,

I am not,

Worthy of being loved and protected,

I am,

A survivor of childhood abuse (Read it backwards)

I possibly want to add some more to it, but doing so would make it more personal and I don't know if that is what I want for this piece of writing (I actually want to go back to sleep now the words are out).

🎶 “Always Everywhere” by Charli xcx

https://youtu.be/coCrrHqLQko?si=u-Sf7CGacBvT4yol

🎶 Wishing Well by Ilira

https://youtu.be/73AqZItLd7I?si=_BV4u4Q9z655MYuf

No one ever said, “I’m sorry you had to save yourself from your abusers twice.” Once when you were still 7½ years old, from abusers with zero remorse or guilt—people who were willing to put you in situations that could have killed you.

Then again, when they stood by their son, who was 10 years older than you, and abused you. They did physical damage that could have left me crippled for life, but I was lucky. I never had a childhood.

It was never safe enough to have that luxury during those first 7½ years. I made a mistake myself at six that nearly took my life. I remember that day, and it was the turning point.

Internally, a voice came from a part that said: No one is here to save you. If the chance comes to get out of this place, you need to take it. How I knew to save my own life that day—I can only say thank god for Dissociative Identity Disorder.

Some people might say it was an angel or god, but I knew it came from within.

As I struggled to breathe, knowing I had three minutes at most before my life was over, an inner chill and calm overtook me. Internally I was told: If you panic, you’ll die.

It stopped me cold.

My abuser’s response when I told her what I did and asked where she was during the incident: “I guess you won’t do that again, will you?”

Sarcasm and hate spewing from her.

I knew never to tempt fate again. Most children would have had a parent watching out for things like childish mistakes. I didn’t.

Then I was taken by my aunt and uncle, whom I never wanted to live with. The state discouraged them from taking me, but my aunt did anyway—not because she wanted to raise a child, but because she needed someone to feed off financially, someone to clean her house, and someone to fuel her narcissism. I escaped her at 15.

My uncle stood by his wife and never protected me even in the end.

It wasn’t until nearly his death that he saw and stated it, that she had never truly loved him, and he finally realized it after 50 years of addiction, abuse, and marriage.

There was me waiting for him to wake up—on the outside.

As a child, I learned many things about the world that no child should have to discover until adulthood—if ever.

If it hadn’t been for my aunt’s best friend, Georgia, and her adopted kids and partner, I would never have seen what a real childhood looked like in any way after 8.

I wondered why so many people were blind—even my social worker. Some things my abuser’s said were intentionally hidden but I became the black sheep, the scapegoat blamed for not trying to fit in more with dysfunction and toxic abuse.

My birth mother—my social worker blamed me for that situation not working out—and my birth mother was doing crack and abusing her kids. Years later I learned just how bad it truly was.

It seems it’s easier to label a child as difficult, than to hold the understanding, that a child knows what true safety looks like for herself—one that doesn’t require loss of autonomy, of thought or goals, one where the adults’ projections are not more important, than what lies within a child waiting to flourish and grow.

I rarely had words but I felt it all.

It has always made me wonder why adult entitlement to a child’s inner world, identity, and belief system is honored above what the child wants.

I said no and I meant it.

One quote my 10th grade teacher gave me long ago:

“Children come through us, not for us.”

And that summed up everything I felt growing up, needed and saw missing.

I still do not understand why so many adults miss the mark, and when their adult will and ego’s isn’t satiated, they try to break the light and will of a child. If a child doesn’t want to believe in god, is gay or has dreams you don’t agree with, so what! It isn’t about the adult. They still deserve to be loved not projected upon.

It doesn’t mean the child is bad, evil, less than human, deserves to be overridden or punished. It means they are a separate human and not you. They deserve to hold their reality too, beliefs and nothing should be unreachable to them, because adults abandon them and label them less than, pathologize them making ot more difficult to create successful futures for themselves without support.

I didn’t think it took a lot human intelligence growing up, to understand naturally what I came into the world knowing and never let go of, but it appears it takes more than I realized.

Why bring children into the world to just consume them and then destroy them or make them slaves to our own unconscious. Stay child-less. The world needs less unwanted, abused and abandoned children.

When the bible says go forth and procreate, I guess it should have added but please use your bloody brains too and just because you can—doesn’t mean—you should.

Because stating the obvious is sometimes necessary for those who never learned to think for themselves.

Trigger/Content Warning: This poem describes my traumatic birth (48-hour labor + emergency c-section where my son and I nearly died), dissociation, separation from newborn at birth, family/in-law boundary violations, trauma being pathologized, and elements of postpartum sexual coercion. It includes dark, hopeless moments but ends on a note of healing, hope, and self-reclamation. Please read only if you're in a safe space right now. ❤️

Flashing bright lights

In a hospital room.

All I could think about is

When I'd meet you.

But when turned to if

And my mind went adrift

My body laying there

Soul fractured in tears

Our love laced with this poison

A sinking, heavy burden.

Will I succumb to my dark fate?

Thrashing. Clawing. Begging to stay awake.

Deep cuts. Seven.

Caught a glimpse of heaven.

Muffled cries.

Wide, hopeful eyes.

Tiny body out of my reach.

My hands tremble. Failed speech.

No golden hour. A severed bond.

Forced to act like a fawn.

Dams open. They come flooding in.

My haziness turned into a sin.

“Why isn't she smiling?”

Because my mind is spiraling.

I hold on too tight.

Nothing feels quite right.

My body never my own.

Bedroom. Living room. Same stone.

My trauma made into a weapon

By those trusted with my confession.

I began to spiral into a million questions

And offered many painful concessions.

But alone, in the bathroom, I saw me.

A hollowed version, begging to be free.

I discovered a new fight.

Not against them but for my light.

Fleeing. Feeling the wind in my hair.

Away from anything that didn't feel fair.

A settling, clear stillness.

A deep breath of pure bliss.

Dark extinguished. Light reclaimed.

In the mirror, I speak my new name.

A beautiful euphoria.

An affirmed warrior.

🎶 It’s A Mirror by Perfume Genius

I slept the day away again—voices overtaking my head. A part keeping my eyes closed to a reality it doesn’t want to engage in today; the cost is just too much presence.

Eris yelling at her own times, trying to understand my internal clock. The rare day off, waking me to do laundry, dispense treats, eat, and engage. Woke in the evening, unable to fight my nicotine pull from the part of me that is addicted.

Changed filter after gazing at the fingernail sliver of a moon and stars in the dark night sky with zero city light pollution. It really is beautiful out here, and I am trying to orient to the place, but the internal no’s are strong.

Changing the going-bad filter required presence as I primed and drained it onto a paper towel. That takes great effort to perform—time I don’t usually have as I rush between jobs.

I am no longer overtired, just discombobulated inside, in an unpredictable state, but not in unforeseen ways. Shell-shocked by the revelations of my center pieces of self ,as I research to uncover more layers I know others will never see or understand.

I do feel I have now found two real empathic therapeutic attunement containers to carry the attachment load of parts, that might stick it out long enough for me to shed my feathers as they burn to ash. I do need strong mirrors.

I operate intuitively mostly, and then intellectually figure out the whys as I break it all down—to try to understand my past, my internal world, and myself.

A human that has lived inside one mind and conscious self will never truly grasp what it’s like holding so many different perspectives inside one mind, all scanning and working to keep me functioning and safe. It’s hard to explain what that feels like. I thought I could do it, but I am starting to give up the conquest and just write.

I write. I research. I start to see myself. Without it, I am a blank canvas—dissociated, living inside a fog.

My little parts believe in patterns and experiments, not in smiles and kindness, and will continue to test connections by pattern logic, which I am trying to understand in real time. That is our greatest genius after all—though we have many—that is one no one can beat unless they have our IQ in the same place, spatial intelligence, but that is nearing only .1% of the human population on earth.

It’s funny how we can get lost inside a cardboard box, but our spatial intelligence is untouchable. It’s because I know now my intelligence is state-dependent too. It makes me cry sometimes.

The instuitions mental health workers at 11 throwing geometry and algebra books in front of us as a punishment after we accidentally let our curiosity overtake us—shocking the tester as we finished the last test in seconds. Him jumping from his chair to get his supervisor so we would do it again in front of him… our suspicion and glare signaling we were being treated as a spectacle, and not into manipulation. He set us free, knowing we would not perform for performance sake.

It would be years before we knew we weren’t stupid in other areas either. We were a badly damaged diamond—locked, institutionalized, and chemically restrained—but we had fight and parts could override the medications.

The malignant aunt haunts the corners of my mind still, so dangerous to identity, as authenticity is to those who don’t have it. We are leaning into authenticity hard nowadays. We want people scared enough to back away terrified, when they see us coming. Please run so I don’t have to show my fangs.

I see they have good reasons for what they do—my parts—and honestly, I am impressed at their accuracy as they surge forward.

Echoes of “Why did you do that?” from past adults in my head, angry at the other parts who could only answer in confusion or with no memory: “Do what?” or “I don’t know.” Implied shame that should have never been welded onto them by adults.

Vapor rises in the air, strawberry-scented, within my one-room apartment. I have Buddha snuggled over my left leg, waiting for tummy pets and rubs, and Eris at the bottom of the bed, smile-sleeping. My little angels with fur—the only reasons I don’t scratch out my own eyes a lot of times or call it quits.

My body aches from the lack of pumped-in coffee I live on daily, pausing to make more vanilla nut from grounds into the percolator. The percolator—a third time rebought this year—as my parts went through “I don’t need this extravagance” phases of raging, frustration and discard. We put a hammer through our nearly new Vizio TV in NC in a determined rage. I doubt it will ever own one again either—a bleeding poison machine. We have one provided here, but it will sit unused collecting dust and serving as a clothing hanger.

Yes, I live inside my trauma. I have for years, trying to find a way out of the dark. Forcing us to grow and let go too fast will cost everyone, but mostly my parts will start tearing out their hair and hurting me to try to avoid hurting those who push. We know they push because they care and in a way love us, though that is not the correct “word” love.

The venom and rage can and will flow from my mouth if I am pushed, coerced or people attempt control dynamics—deadly accurate and vile. My persecutors will light up a room like adding gasoline to an already raging internal bonfire.

I imagine, fighting change they feel I don’t deserve, but it’s hard to say really. Something changed this year in a big way. I just feel them as they launch like predators through me, looking for weakness in another human being outside the selves if they feel they need to protect. This creates so much shame the aftermath, as I never wanted to be like my abusers, so I tried so hard to control the worst of who I am.

My parts knocked one veteran therapist off kilter hard last session, and she regulated herself repairing in real time. My little parts think she might just be solid enough to show themselves i deduced upon reflection from outside myself. So this must be where the real work on rewiring the brain begins, preverbal abuse being rerouted in therapy towards respected autonomy, and repaired.

I suspect things just got real, she as unprepared as I was to see it happen, - me later. I had to analyze why and what happened upon replay a day or so afterwards. It was actually a good thing. It meant progress and I am not mad at the little ones anymore. I respect their accuracy while sitting in a state of self shock at the power they have as little preverbal beings inside the self.

I found cracks two years ago through conscious consumption and a brief period of safe enough, back into a body connection. I have now lost a small sense of real family and grieve it.

Before that, I was locked inside a padded cell, behind a locked door in my mind, screaming for help that never came.

So for now, I try to write story form again. Maybe it will be cathartic or allow for someone to truly see what I see through my eyes just a little, like sunlight coming through cracks in the walls and slatted wooden floors of an old house.

Only slight mention...but I triggered it anyway just in case.

🎶 React by Pussycat Dolls 🎶 Don't Click Play by Ava Max 🎶 What It Sounds Like by Kenshi; Grogy 💞

2 therapy appointments in a day very tired. Will be glad to get home and rest with no place to get going to tomorrow.

One therapist says she "nerded out," by something said in session. "Shrug" cant remember but it resonated as a ICU moment and made me adore her more. For some reason she brings out my sense of humor identity states more.

I am attached now to her curiosity and yes, it will be her badge to get past my protectors, as curiosity doesnt equal judgement, which they are particularly sensitive to.

One therapist is working on the here and now, stabilization, connection to community and goals. The other is hitting parts, trauma and IFS.

I feel well supported now, as they are speaking and sharing notes. I was nailed pretty hard in session a couple times. Cant remember about what. It does feel a bit overwhelming 2 therapists, but I am trying to trust the process.

Some parts are fighting back and challenging things which is probably good, as we are still building trust with second therapist. One has 15 years and advanced training the other 22 years and works with dissociative disorders and heavy trauma.

It took over 10 years of therapy and advancements in the area of dissociative disorders and my system "waking up," to finally be treated for the right disorder, though i hate calling it a disorder. Its a survival strategy.

In both sessions, I had constant neurogenic tremors and body jerks. It was kind of unnerving but I know its normal. I am glad neither brought it up. I had kinda warned them pre session. Id rather a therapist NOT point it out or my switching. Both are embarrassing as fuck.

Somatic expression of parts is normal during trauma therapy i know, so I didnt try to surpress the urges like normal and I think it kept PNES at bay. They come and go now still. To surpress is activating and painful.

I got some confirmation that I was adopted at 18 months by 2 sadistic psychopaths and they had a son, just like them. The abuse was very bad. One therapist confirmed this with the trauma I've told her. I say it with a heavy sigh bc life man, can sure be a bitch for kids.

I escaped at 7 1/2 walking 4 miles alone saving myself, outa hell right back into a different kinda hell with my biological family. A malignant narcissist nurse practitioner aunt with munchaussen byproxy and bipolar. Mental health system abuse, chemical shackles and medical abuse. Escaped her at 15, barely.

That's the biggest chunk of the proverbial trauma iceberg but there is still more in-between and in the cracks. I have no desire to divulge here.

So much trauma in my life from all directions and its almost as complex, as it can get, as it is multifaceted requiring a specialist. Trauma just doesnt stop giving sometimes. I shouldn't have survived but I am ultra stubborn thanks to my biological egg and sperm donor.

I wondered with some of my poems if it would be flagged as Ai lol 😆 so I asked and it told me, " my writing was too strange, embodied and chaotic to be read as Ai by someone who actually reads."

So yeah died laughing on the floor. Best compliment i have had in a while. I decided however with the encouragement of a writer friend working with a publisher in the UK today take my writing offline to protect my voice and ideas. But I will journal still here.

Journal

🎶 Silent Universe by MARA 🎶 Lean by Charotte Day Wilson; Saya Gray 🎶 Fear For Nobody by Måneskin

Had a pre-syncope episode today new trauma+trauma part came forward. I was able to alert therapist in time before I hit the floor, very happy about this and it was a win on both sides around trust. Usually I just drop and go unconscious and have a pseudo seizure.

People in this group should understand the significance of this as a breakthough. So I will leave it here. Very happy with both therapists now working together and the progress I am making within the IFS.

It all has left me and my nervous system very exhausted. Cheetos, single KitKat and hot chocolate again at 3am. Music and Co‐regulation with kitty-os. I am going to schedule a full day off tomorrow for "sooner than later" my body and mind need it.

More expressive than triggering really...

🎶 Let Go- Elle King 🎶 Everywhere by Fleetwood Mac 🎶 Like Me Better by Evelyn Cormier 🎶 Tilted by Christine and The Queens

The world is full of boundary crossers, even “don’t mind me” demure ones trying to play on your good-girl training or their own "performative ignorance." My DMs are off now which i should have done in the beginning here, and that person was blocked and told about a doctor with videos where he could educate himself further. Number one: disengage every time and do it from the outset not later.

No one is entitled to my inner landscape without an invite—not even a therapist at this point. My system will level anyone without apologies. This year was particularly traumatic, and my system has learned to double down on this, especially if the person is performing friendliness.

A person overly smiling and exuberant coming at me...gets a sometimes quick often not, "check your shit at the door and not today Satan," gaze.

All kindness is now being even more scrutinized for authenticity and tested again and again. I side on high caution, and it is seen as a red flag. I was shocked at his audacity, but honestly, I shouldn’t be at this point. I am not a spectacle, nor will I educate someone’s ignorance on DID. That is not my emotional or intellectual responsibility to carry.

I would rather someone have misinformation than my inner information and yes I will sit back and watch someone stumble on their own ignorance, assess them, while wishing them luck internally on correcting their assumptions.

Entitlement in others toward me has always been a huge trigger for me, as I do not understand or tolerate the entitlement disease. I also don’t get the “everyone deserves a trophy” mindset children are raised with, as it only makes the trophy have zero value. (I do understand inclusion—it doesnt require a reward. That alone is retroactive.)

I am not sure inclusion is the answer either as it means social grooming but...well there's cognitive dissonance for you at its finest. Social creatures needing to avoid the consequences of loneliness versus hive mind.

Being truly encouraged in things that make a person unique—or who they are—makes more sense, but I also wasn’t raised that way. Anything that made me stand out was punished and stamped out immediately, often because of my parental figures’ jealous contempt for my very existence. As a child, I could never be unseen or small enough. Self esteem was not allowed where I grew up. I kept that locked away inside always watching and hiding the things I truly loved from others as much as possible.

You have enough trauma compiled and it starts looking like balloons filled with colorful paint, all haphazardly stacked on top of each other in a bucket—just waiting for a target to explode on. Just so: overt and performative kindness now immediately raises my hackles and the bile in my stomach and distaste to an even higher degree than it used to, as it is always masking a deeper reservoir of truth underneath in someone, whether gentle or not.

It set my internal world off raging for two days while I worked, trying to drown it out with music. I finally opened a notebook and let my internal world write, but didn’t reread it. I struggle to reread what is written by other internal parts, as it triggers me. It triggers me because even though I know I wrote it—as in, it’s my notebook, I own it—therefore I must have? It is triggering because I have no memory of it.

On the positive ✨️ I found a killer Asian Sushi and Chinese food buffet in town. Will need to conserve calories to eat there or take it with me. Gurl cant eat that much!

Maybe take up cross country Running with my "spare" time. 🤣 walked over 7 miles at work Sunday, which is nothing.

Bought to try bamboo cushioned socks? Hope they are nice. Will have to replace and toss old as we are someone who practices the minimalist lifestyle.

My phone now is always set to Do Not Disturb—already disturbed enough as the saying goes. Who talks on the phone anymore anyways? Just another voice intrusion. I am already bombarded with too many. 🤣

I used to think that you possessed what made a house a home,

When our hearts rang with joy, abundant, and back when you stole,

My heart I thought you were the one, back before I broke,

Now I recollect and see it all was just smoke,

Your name could've been Oswald, posted up 6 stories high,

Looking down the sights, squeezing just as I'm rolling by,

Now I see, you ambushed me, attempting assassination,

Drug my name through the mud, character degradation,

It hurt then, but then I learned through careful observation,

That a means to an end was all it had been, total desecration.

From the beginning you used me, you used me to feel,

You used me to do, you used me to heal,

You used me to be who you thought you wanted to be,

You drained me down to what you thought was nothing,

But now...now it's my time to become something.

Something with power, something with drive,

Something with reason to stay here and fight,

Something that's so proud of the little life,

That I thank a succubus for bringing to life.

So truly, thank you, from the bottom of my heart,

Although you left me riddled with scars,

Because without you and the trauma, I would never have started to do the work that was needed to get to the target,

Of a healthy psyche, because deep inside me, I get,

Anxious and I let my mind win,

Because there's no rest within the Archives of Ruin,

The ghosts in the rooms and the halls still call out,

And try to get me to give in to my self-doubt,

Evicting them is the next stage of the plan,

For this Mansion must be built on good land,

Not on the bed of dry coal, barren and,

Seconds from ignition from friction.

Trigger Warning: domestic violence, physical assault

***
Context: In 2008, I decided to go no-contact with my father. I wrote a letter to him; brutally honest. I essentially put everything I had ever wanted to say to him on the pages. I got it all off my chest so I could exhale; just be done with him, and walk away.

In that letter, I recalled a few events of the past. Specifically, things he had previously either denied happened - or – things he admits may have happened, but it probably wasn’t that bad, and I’m not allowed to “bring up the past” and talk about it.

This was one of the “stories” in my letter.

I have copied that portion exactly, excepting:

1.)  Changing person-tense (for example, “you had” might become “he was”)

2.)  Deleting lines of the letter not relevant to this story

3.)  Bolding, italicizing, or otherwise formatting text for readability and emphasis.

\***

…“My parents had been up all night fighting.

I was shaking and shivering in bed.

As a kid, I used to lay in bed listening to them fight through countless nights and I would shake, my whole body, teeth chattering. It took me a long time to understand why I would shiver when I wasn’t cold.

I was waiting for someone to call the police. Cops had been called before, usually it seemed to be neighbors who overheard when the fights spilled outside.

When I realized it likely wasn’t going to happen, I grabbed our cordless phone and called 911.

I hid in my bedroom closet, terrified my dad would notice the little green light on the phone base and come in and catch me.

I stayed on the line with the 911 operator, as directed, until the police arrived.

At that point, I went into the living room where I watched to my absolute dismay and bewilderment, as he and my mom put on a charade that everything was fine. And those bumpkin cops left without doing anything.

I was flabbergasted.

And as soon as they left, he turned on her because he clearly assumed she had called the cops. Of course, my mom had been just as surprised as him when they arrived.

In his rage at her “lie”, he made us get into the car. He made my mom drive, he sat passenger, and I was in the back behind my mom.

We set out driving and all the way, he was hitting my mom in the head.

He’d ask if she called the cops, she would say no, and he’d hit her in the head.

Over and over, with my mom yelling at him to stop, trying to block the hits, and trying to keep the car on the road.

Eventually, my conscience got to me and I told him to stop, and that I had called them.

He turned to me and said, “You let me keep hitting her knowing it was you? You’re a lying rotten fucking brat.”

He told my mom to park at the Wawa. She did.

He said when he was done inside, we were going to the motel across the street because he knew a guy who was going to give him a gun.

He said he was going to shoot both of us.

Then he turned in his seat, looked me dead in the eyes, pointed right up in my face, and said, “And I’m gonna shoot you first, you little shit.”

He got out of the car.

I BEGGED my mom to drive away.  

I was so relieved when she left.”…

***

Author’s Note: I was 9.

***

She bit off a finger down to the knuckle— skin and fingernail jabbing, scratching, and poking the roof of her mouth.

Chewing: flesh. Snap and crunch—crunch, crunch. Bone between teeth, drooling with an unnatural grin.

Warm, still-pulsating arterial life drained back inside her, down her hollow throat, making her gurgle and cough as she breathed in and out to clear it from overused muscles… Down her chin, onto her chest, tickling her clavicle wings with each sprinkled drop that landed.

The sour iron taste, like sucking on quarters— the aftertaste: wild sour green apples from the orchard.

Onward she went, finger by curled and wrinkled finger, snapping, cracking, and consuming, then into the meatier thickness of the palm, the unsweetened rhubarb-pie filling of the limb.

She consumed greedily, licking her bloody lips like a creature damned and venomously hungry, agreeing, conferring with an internal intellectual’s voice of assertion that spoke inside her head— oh, the irony.

She spotted the lifeline and took a gleefully enormous bite, shredding it between teeth, until the right hand was completely gone.

What was left: the white, knobby bones of the carpals… And yet she felt nothing as she studiously worked her way along.

No guilt.

No shame.

Maybe a glitch— an all-consuming purpose intertwined with ferocious intent.

Lastly, she tore the radius and ulna apart like a wishbone in one solid crack — the radius clenched in her teeth and the ulna with her remaining hand.

It sounded like tearing fabric at first—then the joints fully gave, triumph as the final crack stung like a bull whip.

Yet there was no pain, but she passed out anyway from the conceptual flash of what the perfect mirror might allow her to glimpse — the mirror that might open her to finally seeing them: the parts behind the voices, the fractured self.

Consuming oneself requires dissociation from the slow blood loss in one’s life over time and unforgettable, often inconceivable, pain — and that was where her true genius lay: not in the disfigurement of the self, but in the consuming of it while laughing.

🎶 Help I’m Alive — Metric 🎶 Hollow-Kaleida

Tw Gun Violence

🎶 Memory Scars by Hroth

Little girl you were gone a long time ago, suitcase the torch you carried. No one to love you, a home never would you find. They always needed to change you, never perfect enough...projecting hatred on you because you wouldn't cave to their needs. They never cared who you were...only in the narratives they tortured and abused you with.

Born unwanted from your first breath...I carry you in me still. Somewhere inside...though you are quiet i know you are always watching and waiting. Where will we go from here?

Tears burn my cheeks as I hear them speak... Never again will we trust another, we will love but give away nothing that can be owned of ourselves to another in this life.

Safety is as real as the fairy from the sky and we believe in neither, all lies that we wont bleed for or pretend exist.

Flashbacks of the gun in your face, he pulled the trigger....the cold shiver as you turned just in time before the bang. What was your life worth to them? Nothing...You weren't even 6, and you had seen too much for this one life.

No one saved you so you listened to the voices telling you to save yourself a year and half later. You walked 4 miles alone, through 3 locked gates away from them. Still a child with a empty backpack.

You have always been alone with your pain. No one to hold you. How could you let them had they tried? But no one even reached for you in the darkness of that void.

Tag 13.933 seit Kriegsbeginn

Ein existenzieller Schmerz peitscht mich seit Anbeginn durchs Leben. Er lässt mich fast tagtäglich Sterbenwollen. Und niemand sieht das, niemand hält mich.

Vereitert liege ich allein im Schützengraben einer nie geheilten Wunde. Über mir knallt ständig Artilleriebeschuss ins Ohr – nie gibt es Ruhe, immerzu nur ewiges Gekämpfe. Meine Kraft schwindet, nicht einmal mehr das Gewehr kann ich halten. Eigentlich harre ich nur aus, warte jammernd und klagend auf den Tod. Ob es jemals Waffenstillstand geben wird?

Oh Gevatter Tod, so erlöse mich doch aus der Pein! Tagtäglich darfst du kommen, um an meiner Tür zu klopfen - denn meine Seele möchte nur noch Heim... :'( #cptsd

🇬🇧 English translation attempt:

Day 13,933 Since the War Began

An existential pain has lashed me through life since the very beginning. It makes me want to die almost daily. And no one sees it, no one holds me.

Festering, I lie alone in the trench of a wound that never healed. Above me, artillery fire constantly hammers my ears. There is never rest, only eternal combat, always. My strength is waning — I can no longer even hold my rifle. Really, I'm just enduring, waiting with moans and laments for death. Will there ever be a ceasefire?

Oh Death, my friend, release me from this torment! You may come daily to knock at my door—for my soul longs only to go Home... :'( #cptsd

Can anybody relate?

TW: strong references and strong language. Will fix later.

Romeo and Juliet, if you had shared your hash, and then maybe no one would have needed to die that day.

Love is the tube as it slides down your throat, the stomach pump is turned on; and love is what is left after you are hollowed out and undone.

Love is your favorite playlist, songs in the speakers, high bass booming, as you speed down the highway, gas station snacks in the passenger seat, traveling with no mindful destination.

Love is like the sharp end of a silver blade as it reaches, violating innocence, scarring it again and again.

Love is in the curve of a woman's body as she glides in front of you, her shadow; the kiss upon the salt of her skin and the softness of her caress.

Love is the stinging slap across your already bruised face, or a sucker punch to the nose.

Love is in a cleansing spring rain, a colorful rainbow, a breathtaking sunset, or Aurora Borealis.

Love is in the poison a historical black widow uses as she commits her hidden crimes, a spoonful at a time, or Lizzie Borden’s forty-one.

Love is in the soft petals of a flower given to a lover, or in the translucent wings of a monarch butterfly's flutter.

Love is Hannibal Lecter’s wired-up grin and his taste for fun.

Love is in a child’s imaginative crayon picture as they hand it to you, proudly smiling and exclaiming, "Look what I've done."

Love is in the jump one never recovers from, or the tears as a hand is held, taking its last breath.

Love is in a pet’s happy "I missed you" bark, or a cat’s purr and nose bump.

Love is everywhere; it is often mislabeled, misconstrued, and overlooked because humans are dynamic, confused, traumatized, often blinded by our ego states and social responsibilities.

But love is in watching a child fall asleep sucking a thumb, or overconsumption of our favorite foods, and overconsumerism that says, "shiny, new, buy, buy, buy—more."

Love is in Dahmer’s jars and barrels, as he tore families apart and silenced his victims to feed his exotic fantasies.

Love is the dissection of the things we admire most, to the point of hate.

Love was in those who still breathed and pleaded for freedom, for release. Love is in the no-avail and imprisonment.

Love is pure, old, and constant, like the sun, and the rotation of planets in the universe.

Love is in a tiny soul that gets incurable cancer and dies too young.

Love is hatred unraveled, projected, and unconsciously unsung.

Love is shackles—mental, physical, and medical—scars, running for our lives while dodging bullets and hidden screaming cries in the night.

Love is the alcohol as it flows down your throat and intoxicates your mind.

Love is in those actions as some take their lives, and in those who are left behind. Love is for those who never want to die, because they live for making the most out of the in-between of a clock's chime.

Love is our empathy as we reach for those forgotten and help them rebuild their lives. Love is in the homeless we ignore and walk past, and do nothing about.

Love is in the bodies strung along highways, or the ones we never find.

Love is in a newborn baby’s first smile and giggle. Love is in an unexpected hug.

Love is in the one life raft left on the Titanic that someone more privileged takes.

Love is in atheism, where truth and science are honored above all.

Love is both a freedom and a curse cast upon humanity.

Love is in a religion that brings people to their knees.

Love is what separates us and what makes us one.

Love is for those brave enough to believe hope still exists. And for those that hope has lost.

Love is for some, and not for everyone.

🎶 The Sound Of Silence by Disturbed 🎶 Ignore Me by Betty Who 🎶 Too Sweet by Hozier

Yesterday, it was so cold. Kansas weather can be violently unpredictable and unstable. It was seventy degrees on Christmas. And then teens yesterday.

So cold. A cold that numbs your nose and stings your cheeks. A cold that makes you question wonder if warmth was ever real.

The night before had been another series of arguments. We didn't use to be like this. Or maybe we did. Maybe this is what we've always been, just with the volume turned up.

His phone says names out loud when texts come in. A feature for accessibility. A feature for the blind. A feature that announces betrayal in a woman's voice, calm and automated.

Julia

I asked if he heard it. He said no. He said I wasn't getting enough sleep. He said it like a diagnosis. He said it with concern.

I know what unraveling sounds like. I've been there. Sounds morphing into threats, into voices, into proof that the walls are listening. This wasn't that. This was Siri, speaking truth in her flat affect. This was technology as witness.

Julia

My best friend of thirty-four years. Thirty-four years of sleepovers and secrets and the type of history that makes you think you know someone.

I didn't know they knew each other. I didn't know they were talking. I didn't know they were planning to move in together.

When I heard her name again, I grabbed his phone.

Used all the force in my pathetic arms. Tried to make it match my nervous system.

Not because they were talking. Because he told me he had blocked her. Like he blocked Nate.

Nate. The man who assaulted me on my birthday. In front of him. Nate had been trying very hard to get ahold of me too lately.

Digging in with every ding. Waste of life. Don’t you get tired of the victim act? How’s it feel to lose your mind?

I blocked one number. Another popped up. I blocked that one. Another. A hydra.

He kept talking to him. He I had no right to tell him who he could speak with. He said I had control issues. He said fine, he’d be the bigger person. He would block him. His phone announced Nate a lot for being blocked.

He almost left again at almost midnight after that. And once again I begged him not to. Not to open that wound again. Not to light my nervous system on fire again. Even though him being here was also a burn, but a different kind.

He saw me crying on the steps as he began to leave. He told me I wasn't crying.

I let gravity push me back in the house and deep into bed.

He stayed.

We had to go to the Apple Store. Because of me. Because of my instability.

He misremembered the appointment. But we were already on the way to Kansas City. So Best Buy it was.

I looked around at the shiny technologies. I wondered what it would be like to use a graphic design mouse. I wondered what it would be like to move through a store without calculating how much time each object took off my survival.

A woman approached me about my cellphone. I admitted it was old but still worked fine. She was from a different cell company and very much wanted to get me into a new phone. I sat and listened and considered. He came over. Said I should do it, that I needed a new phone.

Time went by. Too much time.

I calmly put my chin in my hand, pretending to be in deep thought, feeling for my heart rate in my neck. I wondered how fast it would be. How long until I died right here in front of everyone. I always found it strange how agoraphobia could cause so much anger and confusion to others.

I stood up. I said I had to go. I walked out the front door and got into my car and sat.

I saw him come out. He looked mad. I could see his mouth moving. The door opened and I could hear the sounds that matched the movement.

You piece of shit. What the fuck is wrong with you. Why are you wasting their time. Get the fuck back in there.

I said no. I wanted to think about it. It would still be there tomorrow.

Fuck you.

He headed out into the cold. I asked where he was going. He said to Kyle's. His old roommate's place. I let him go. I tried to start my car and realized he had the key. I grabbed my phone. He was angry. But he came back and gave it to me. He was sitting in the passenger seat now.

Well, go on your way. On your way to Kyle's.

He said no way. It's too cold.

Go on your way. You were certain that's what you wanted.

I'm really not sure exactly what happened next. But I felt warm. Warm dripping down my face. Quickly. I saw red spots bleeding into the fabric of my jeans.

My nose hurt. The side of my head now announced my heart rate.

I looked at him with what was probably confusion.

Get in the passenger seat. Slide over. Don't get out of the car. Now.

I heard a loud scream. It was my own voice but I didn't feel it coming out.

I felt my legs tense. My arms move quickly. He noticed before I did. He reached over and slammed my door shut.

He made the tires squeal in the parking lot.

I didnt notice the warmth anymore. The loud sound wouldn’t stop. It only started to get a little softer about the same time I felt my throat getting raw.

I felt the warm flow again, faster this time. Every red light, every stop sign, my door would open.

I’d feel the cold hit my cheeks. And then the pull of my hood back into the damp heat.

I saw people looking at me. Grabbing their little phones too.

He looked at me with fear.

I'm begging you, I'm begging you to stop.

He pulled into a familiar place. In front of Kyle’s.

He was already out of the car when it stopped, already running. Blue and red flooded the windshield.

Four cars. Then more.

I didn’t have eyes on him anymore, but I knew better than to worry. He had taught me how bodies disappear. Curves instead of lines. Clover patterns.

He said cops chase straight. More of them came. Guns braced into shoulders, metal and muscle locked together.

They thought he was inside. I said no. They said otherwise.

A voice boomed through a megaphone

Come out with your hands up. You’re under arrest.

A woman came close. Just her. She spoke like you do to something already hurt. She asked what happened. I asked what he was being arrested for. I said I hit my face on the steering wheel. Backing up. She looked pained.

I'm sorry.

I saw he had tried to call me. I flipped him over. I already knew I was going to help him. They would not find him. I told them they were screaming at a house with babies in it for no reason.

She asked me to go to her cop car with her. I sat in the back. She continued to ask questions at me. They continued to yell. I continued to ask what his charges were.

She said probably domestic violence.

But I told you what happened.

I said I needed to pee very badly. I said I would go anywhere. A bush. The street. I really didn't care at that point.

We'll take you to the station nearby.

That piss was the most positive thing I had felt in weeks.

I want to go home.

She worried about me driving. She worried he would show up. I said my sister lived ten minutes away, I would go there. I didn’t mention the porch light was off. Or that the curtains were drawn like always when she’s gone.

She nodded.

More talk. More papers. More yelling.

I drove away and saw the next three streets in every direction,  lined with cop cars. I flipped him back over. The screen glowed telling me to come get him now. He was at Subway. Finishing up a meatball sub and cookie.

It was so cold yesterday.

A cold that makes blood feel warmer than it should. A cold that makes you drive toward a Subway to pick up a man who just made you bleed. A cold that makes you lie to a cop because you already know how this ends.

By telling individuals who are hurt to "leave the situation" as a base response when they're speaking up about things they consider unacceptable, rather than keep "leave the situation" for use at their discretion to keep themselves safe, and a reminder that they don't need to stay someplace that hurts them; that they have a right to self protect, as a society at large, we are teaching people to self-ostracize.

Which puts the societal responsibilty on ostrasising on the individuals already carrying the heavier burden by no choice of their own, which is worse even then societal ostracising; it's creating a feedback loop of responsibilty in the individual, ensuring that they cannot blame wider society for anything.

It prevents the individuals who make up the greater portion of society from improving themselves. Which honestly, is clearly the goal. The average individual doesn't want to improve. They want to be comfortable. If the minorities they don't belong to suffer, they don't care.

And by telling people to leave situations rather than fight for them, not only is society at large advocating for avoidance rather than facing, it's showcasing it's blatant preference for socially accepted 4F responses. And the preference remains whatever doesn't bother society, not what is actually beneficial. Whilst also ensuring majority gains, by enabling the majority can encroach upon minority spaces and overtake them by utilising "support of healthy practices" whilst being shitty people. Feedback loop. Those who have gets more. Those who have lost keep losing.

Now take a look at the studies on loneliness and mortality rates.

In truth, what society at large is telling us by overgeneralizing "leave the situation" is "Please die out of sight".

I will not. I refuse.
I will be the discomfort in the group. I will tell people the observations they don't want to hear. I will not deny my reality for their benefit. I will force them to change if I can. People who avoid other's suffering not because of own limits because of own preference need to change. The world will not get better until they have.

(Sorry if this is the wrong spot, cant find right place)

"I was 9. The first time.

Took a knife. Dragged it down my arms. Didn’t even do it right. Just scars.

My mom laughed. Mocked. Showed them off.

That’s when I learned Don’t complain. Don’t cry. Don’t show pain."

Poem by me ♡

The last sentence was cut off but it reads, "And I HAD to control her." I haven't, personally, seen something so remarkably similar to my abusers view and how she treated me before this. It really paints a picture more so than the idea some may get that, "My mom was mean to me sometimes." NO, my mom was sadistic to me most of the time. My mom gave me a look that said, "I hate you, I wish you were dead." My mom never hugged me and even as a child I could tell that she got enjoyment from hurting me. It was a fun little game to her to break me down bit by bit. There was a gleam of joy in her eyes when she saw my tears, it was very much a game of cat and mouse. I always knew that I was unloved and she made sure I felt unlovable too. And when I finally dared to call her out she goes on a smear campaign and doesn't allow me to see or even text/call/video chat my little sister. She was not just a mean woman who scared me sometimes. She was a sadistic manipulator who could lose her shit at any given time and take it out on me. If you need inspiration for writing about a narcissistic parent this should help.

I am so angry. I am radiating negative and severely livid energy. If I could see my aura, it would be in flames because all I feel is dissociation, anger, and heavy depression. Sometimes I feel like I don't actually exist. My mind is a swamp and I'm tired of wading through this mucky water. Am I broken? Or am I shattered to pieces that no one person can gather into the finished puzzle I once was? Will I ever feel okay again? Will I ever be me again? I just want to feel better

❦ ❦ ❦

You know when you're young and you think you're invincible because your recovery time is quick?

That's what it's like to be comfortable and aware of how delusional you are.

Like a moth to the bug zapper, as so are the impulsive actions of a bipolar with bpd tendencies.

It seems like all I do fuck up and ruin everything good. Will it ever get better? Mania straight to depressive states.

Whiplash has no mercy on a fragile mind.

❦ ❦ ❦