Saturday, September 15, 2012


I hate quiet.
With the absence of talking or music everything is louder; the noise of my fan seems to fill the room until I can't breathe.
It hurts.
Physical pain is brought upon by complete silence I'm sure of it.
Silence is one of the worlds worst tortures; endured only by those who commit the worst of crimes.
You are in your own head and I know that place isn't comfortable right now.
I know that when you get quiet; when you stop voicing things to me even small little things, that something has gone wrong.
Very wrong.
But how can I fix it?
How can I pull you out of your head and hold your hand the way I want to?
How can I make you feel needed and loved?
I know you feel incredibly small; insignificant, but I do not know how to make you feel like you are important.
Rather, I do not know how to show you how important you are.
When my life dangles on a thread you are the one that pulls me back onto solid ground.
Your smiles are my anchor when I'm lost in my sea of despair.
How can I show you what you do for me?
It hurts to sit on the sidelines.
To watch you struggle with your thoughts.
I know that feeling.
When you are WRONG.
When you see yourself as the soul reason the people around you are suffering it's not exactly easy to believe anything positive about yourself.
And why should you?
Because I say I need you?
But what of everyone else and what if I decide I don't care about you anymore?
I know that.
Those questions you can't answer.
Those hateful words that circle your head.
The ones that rarely ever ring true.
So as I struggle to get my thoughts out; tell you I love you in not so many words, the silence takes over.
It steals my voice and suffocated my thoughts.
We both sit here in our misery struggle for words or thoughts anything to make us feel as if we mean something to the person on the other side.
But we come up empty handed.
Because you cannot see how perfect you are and I see none of myself.
I just wish I could hold your hand; make you feel not so alone in your pain.
You really aren't alone.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

I hate dreaming.

It's hard to talk about these things.
I hate being honest with myself.
I hate allowing myself to remember.
I hate myself for it.

"It's hard to stop,, you know?"
There was this girl that was in inpatient and outpatient therapy with me.
Both of us were in the psych ward for a suicide attempt.
She was abused sexually like me except her abuse went on for six years.
Her father is in a New Jersey prison.
He will never be allowed out of the state and he cannot live within 100 miles of her.
She told people.
She got charges pressed.
I didn't.
My therapist knows about the rape.
He knows it went on for four years but he doesn't know who it was.
He doesn't know that I live with him.
When this girl and I were in PHP together(we'll call her Andy) she broke down in therapy.
She talked about her abuse.
Later when we were waiting to get picked up she told me and another girl more.
We were talking about relationships and sex.
I told them I hated anything sexual.
I hate being touched and I NEVER touch myself.
Andy looked embarrassed.
She said that she did and then said "It's hard to stop,, you know?"
And there was the ugly side.
The truth I never wanted to admit.
The reason why sex feels so wrong and disgusting to me now.
The reason I can't stand being touched and I feel dirty all over.
Because I had enjoyed it.
Because after a while it stops hurting.
Your body doesn't know it isn't consensual.
It doesn't know it isn't supposed to feel good.
So when it stopped I was confused.
Not only because one day he was on top of me pushing and grunting and the next he sat there like nothing happened.
But because a part of me had gotten used to it.
A part of me thought that it was normal and got used to that feeling.
That part of me craved that feeling.
I hated myself for it and I still hate myself.
So at night when he was supposed to be crawling into my bed and he didn't I'd wonder where he went.
When he was supposed to be knocking on my door when no one was home I'd wonder why he wasn't on top of me.
Before I'd go to bed at night I'd create that feeling for myself again.
Replacing his prodding sweaty hands with my own.
And after I had realized what had happened I was mortified.
Disgusted with every part of myself.
I would go to sleep with a sticky sweat pooling on my stomach refusing to let my fingers go beneath the blankets.
I'd wake up with out any pants on.

My dreams are always memories.
Memories or what could happen if he came to my room again.
And every morning for a long time I'd wake up with sticky fingers repulsed by my own existence.
I was afraid to sleep over other peoples houses; afraid of what I would dream about.
I remember pulling my hair out when I was little.
Clawing at my stomach and thighs with stubby nails or shoving food down my throat until I felt sick.
It was my way of self harming.
My way of trying to externalize how disgusted I was with myself.
Of course when I found out about cutting and broke a picture frame during a panic attack the only thing that seemed right was to pick up the long jagged glass and slice into my flesh.
Starving seemed right.
And when I got there purging seemed right too.

There was this night at Kelsey's house we slept on the floor in her living room.
I woke up in the morning because her brother was sitting with her on the couch talking.
After a few minutes her brother asked if I had a nightmare.
I told him no and asked why.
"You were pulling your hair in your sleep and it looked really painful. And well..."
At that point Kelsey told him to shut up.
I never really understood the look she gave him.
I do now.
I only pulled my hair during those dreams.
Because when my brother was laying on top of me pushing into me he would wrap his hands in my hair and pull as hard as he could.

"It's hard to stop,, you know?"
Yes I knew.
I knew very well.
Because now even when I don't ever touch myself consciously, I'll dream about it.
I'll be sitting in a room tapes of my abuse playing behind me.
A college room with people studying to be some type of doctors in front of me.
And I'm not facing the "movie".
But I can hear it.
And I can't help it when my hands move on their own accord.
And I'm sitting in the front of the room with strangers staring at me watching my touch myself to tapes of my own rape.
I'm crying and silently begging myself to stop.
To run.
But I can't because I still feel the weight of him on top of me.