1:07 a.m. - Thursday, Dec. 31, 2009
Just Reflecting
I moved out when I was 20 years old. A year later, I moved to a different state. I have been trying to run away from myself since the cognizance of my own existence.
I have always been shy. Sometimes, crippling shyness. Bound and gagged. Painful, forced cohabitation with other human beings. Even family. Maybe it began with family.
I have also had body issues - since the first day I was aware that I even had a body. And while I always attributed it to my weight - I had awareness of flaws in my body before I had weight. Before I was even six years old. And looking at pictures . . .I was a freaking adorable 6-year-old. And it's painful to see a picture of this innocent little six-year-old girl - and know that in her head, she felt like something was wrong with her body. She shouldn't speak because it was enough of a nuisance that people had to even look at her.
I don't know why. And maybe I'm wrong. But there has to be a REASON. Why did I feel that way? Isn't that not normal? So maybe I'm connecting dots that aren't there, just to give me a sense of why this has happened. Why I struggle now. How to make it go away.
My parents both worked full-time. And from the time I was a baby to the time of the discovery of the incident, I went to a babysitter every weekday from 8 to 4. I can only remember bits and pieces of events. But a few flashes of memory pervade the emptiness. A few distinct, clear, powerful moments.
I remember fear of the babysitter's son. I remember hate, dislike, powerlessness, shame. I remember a moment when he took my friend and I into the woods behind the house and forced us to take our clothes off and touch body parts together.
And after that day she wasn't there anymore. And I remember being alone, and knowing that he and his friends were coming home from school. And running away from them. And hiding behind the shed - behind a sticker bush. And him finding me there. And telling his friends to watch what he could make me do. And holding a sticker to my throat and telling me to take down my pants. And laughing. All of them.
And I never told. To this day. But my friend had told her mother. And her mother told mine. And my mom asked if it was true. And I must have said yes. Because I didn't go there anymore.
But I can't remember all the details. And sometimes I can't even tell if what I remember is real.
But on a different note . . .and maybe related maybe not. Maybe it doesn't matter. I became very quiet. Holding things in. Feeling associated with eating instead of verbal expression of emotion. And became body conscious. Both extremely sexual at a young age and extremely uncomfortable in my own skin.
And it still holds true today that sex is not associated with love. I find it very difficult to have a sexual relationship with the one I love now. At this point, impossible. I orgrasm to thoughts of being dominated, humiliated, used, abused. Not loved.
And I feel physically unable to speak in certain situations. Like my mouth is cemented shut. I regret words. I regret my existence.
So I never got too close to anyone. Even family. And now I'm estranged.
My grandmother is probably close to dying. Doesn't recognize people, doesn't know who she is. We went to visit today. I couldn't speak. Relatives didn't acknowledge me. Like I shouldn't be there.
It was painful not knowing what to say to this woman I barely know. Who loved me so much when I couldn't return love. Who I left behind in my hurry to get away from myself . . .and isn't it ironic that in my struggle to detach - the one person I really wanted to escape from was with me wherever I went?
�
�
