January 31, 2012

Mum

She stayed over last night. In the morning I had a lot of hetro sex dreams, wandering about looking for a man to have sex with, I'm not sure if I found someone. During the day I have had increasing memories of having sex with my mother. I call them memories they are more like impressions of memories. Its not like I can say they are new but its been a while since they have felt so real. The way she touched me and rubbed against me gave me much more physical pleasure than abuse from my dad or men. It's not like I can see her face in the memories, maybe it wasn't her, maybe I'm just putting these feelings onto her because I have rarely felt, very close to her. Even when I was little.

What I can remember clearly that amongst the carnage of 2001 I was having sezuires, flashbacks, lots of memories that I was reliving and accepting as part of my past. Until one day she came over and I couldn't do it anymore. I remember standing on the stairs in my flat in Aberdeen with the grey carpet and the light pink walls and not knowing what to do, I couldnt handle whatever I was remembering about her so everything got pushed back again. She said I didn't have a son. I stopped healing, had a mental breakdown. At some point later I remember being in my Dad's living room I think middle sis was having a go at me about all the acusations I'd been making, had the police picked my dad up at his work? I'm not sure, but someone got me to make a statement that caused the family some short term trouble. I said they all had raped me and that they had all been raped. My sister was enraged insisting she had never been raped, my oldest sister just sat there drunk, and nodding. I said my mum had given me an abortion. The old fashioned way where they put impliments in the womb to cut up the baby into pieces and take it out piece by piece. There was a bucket I was sitting on the edge of my bed, she said it was okay because I'd had an epidural and so wouldn't feel anything. One of the skills the government types were interested in was telepathy, they thought it might be brought out by truama, in the right candidate of course. To me it was a gift, evolution, a fluke, whatever. Anyway, I heard the bairn scream and was sure that was why they had used that kind of abortion on me with no head drugs. I was compleltly conscious, the scream haunted me for a long time. The details were clear in my mind for a long time, but not now. When I was little I was sure she had put a pillow over my face and tried to suffocate me in the cot. She looked like a zombie, no eye movments, slow dragging movements. During the abortion she was business like, told me to keep quite cause it didnt hurt, she is a nurse after all.

Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe they just made me think that.

But when I'm anxious I dont want her anywhere near me and sometimes when the wee man was tiny I felt like vomiting as I watched her holding him. What about the others Mum, could you love them to?

I knew that when I moved down here that those feelings towards her would come back because I had more time, more space without them to think. Maybe I should have gone further, but here was the only place where I knew someone would help me with all the endless work required with fliting and making somewhere my own. I could go back to Woman's Aid I suppose and get a transfer somewhere out of Scotland, too far for her to visit often. At the time my main priorities were getting away from Dad and his drinking and middle sis and her psychoness. I've no credit left now, just debt and although this is hardly a 'good' area I like our flat it gets lots of light, the neighbours are alright, its ours. The thought of volunteering to be homeless again and starting from scratch is way to much.

My mum is my main babysitter, so that I can go to dramatherapy. I know she herself as she is at the moment is no threat to my son. If some hell turned up at the door I'm sure she would let it in but whoes says I would do any better. Of course in an ideal world I would have nothing to do with her but in this world my son loves her and she gives us a lot of practical support. Practical support that has been absolutly essential for us. As far as I know social services aren't in the habbit of taking kids away for the weekend and giving them back because single mums are going mental and just need a bit of time and space.

Part of the problem I have with routines, with housework, with pretending everything is fine is a reaction against the way she always did, like nothing had happened. The tea got made, the dishes washed, then settle down to watch some TV with a glass of wine.

So I'm back. Back in this stuck place where maintaing the present takes everything I have and leaves nothing for relocation plans. I know there is not much point in regrets but I wonder sometimes I hadn't invested so much in people that when they got out never looked back maybe I would have more left for us.

January 29, 2012

'Wholeness' by Suzie Burke: a very personal response.

I'm glad that Burke's book exists and others like it but all the survivor stories I have read so far have left me feeling like there is so much more to be said, so much more that needs to be learned and the writers did not put as much of themselves into writing as they could of. I do not want to take anything away from the extremely important work done by Burke's and others just that I feel I need to explore the issues such books raise in me and how little I feel they are addressed. As I said in the title this is a personal response, the abuse I experienced occurred over a longer period and involved many more people so it is not surprising that I should finish the book thinking 'is that all?'.

The first thing that bothered me about it was the beginning where she describes her life first in terms of her relationship with her father then her husbands. As a feminist this is frustrating for me, surely there were other important relationships in her life as she grew up but these are not explored. Her relationship with her mother is barely touched on beyond stating that her mother suspected but did nothing. There is little exploration of how this affected the writer. Due to my difficulties with my mother it is not surprising that I search survivor stories looking for something thing I can identify with some sort of help. Recently I have started wishing again that my mother was not as big a part of me and my son's life as she is but I don't know what to do about it. I really don't feel strong or self supporting enough to tell her to fuck off forever and then stick to it. The role of woman and in particular mothers in abuse either directly or indirectly tends to be glossed over. In Burke's case her mother was more interested in money and wanted a boy but very little else is said. I couldn't help thinking there must be more to the woman who gave birth to her than that.

The portrayal of the main abuser, her father, was also pretty flat. Maybe I can not remember any examples of her father showing her any love because he never did. But the writer believed she had a 'normal' upbringing for so long there must of been moments when he behaved fatherly towards her, even if this was just to manipulate her, she would not of felt this as a child. I believe as survivors we have to explore the good and the bad of our incestuous families, when nothing but hate and neglect is shown a child tends to go numb but when there are happy moments we sometimes think that things will be different from now on, we come alive again, we hope, we feel. Good times can make the bad times so, so much worse. I believe we have to be careful when simplifying out stories so they can neatly fit into a paperback, surely we write to challenge preconceptions not confirm them.

I can understand people not being interested in what motivated their abusers, especially when we are talking about satanic ritual abuse but to me calling some one an 'SOB' just isn't good enough. It may sound strange to say but perpetrators are people to. How the fuck does someone get into something like that, did they ask around at the pub because they wanted to spice up their lives? Were they initiated at a young age, as an adult? Did they hear about it through involvement with child porn? Or did they become involved with child porn through the ritual networks? I do not have the answers to these questions in my current situation but I still think these questions need to be asked. Putting a big circle around it all and calling it evil teaches us nothing.

It is these questions, around why ritual abuse occurs in 'advanced' civilisations and my need to answer them without turning to very texts that were used to brainwash, undermine and disenfranchise me that I am increasingly uncomfortable with notions of 'God'. To me faith in such a higher omnipotent being can curb peoples' intellectual and spiritual growth. Although Burke states at one point that she does not affiliated herself with organised religion, she believes her children should go to church to learn compassion. If compassion isn't taught in the home it wont be picked up anywhere else but I understand the social and communal aspect of church going. I just have a problem with people turning to others for answers they should seek out themselves. I would never want to diminish any one's experience of faith and healing I just wish people had more confidence in themselves and the whole human race. We are the darkness, we are the light.

Another thing I have been thinking about and not just because of reading 'Wholeness' but because of other books I have read and by own efforts at writing, is how much sparing of the details should go on. In Wendy Ann Woods' section on ritual abuse in 'Triumph over Darkness', the words of survivors were edited to extract the more 'gruesome' aspects. As someone who has thought about writing for as long as I can remember the thought of my words, my experiences being sensationalised or tabliodised (and they have been) is sickening, never mind the fear that too many details would be used by current abusers but I am also sick of feeling like I have to protect other people from what people did to me. I believe(optimistically maybe) that everything that happens should be discussed and needs to be if there is to be real moving forward both individually and culturally. Ritual abuse thrives on taboos, not just in terms of what we can and can not speak about but what we can not think about. It has been explained to me that satanism is all about 'liberating' people from these taboos. I do not know if it was a baby or a doll that Little Suzie was forced to sacrifice. I do not know if the writer knows. It matters to me. The reason I read and want to write about such things is not to give voice to those of us that survived, although I'm glad that it does but because of all victims that will not be writing anything, simplified or otherwise about their experiences. They are dead, they are 'missing', or as far as the state is concerned never existed to begin with. I identified with each one, especially from the black men slaughtered in Fife that I refused to believe were bad, the white kids in Jersey to the little black boy I saw ripped apart in Glasgow, every cat, sheep, baby, child, prostitute, fetus and everyone else in between held a part of me. I wispered 'I love you' to as many of them as I could. I matter, so do they.

There are only a few experiences of ritual abuse actually depicted in the book and again I do not know if this is because there was only a few or because the writer is keeping much to herself. As someone who experienced uncountable abusive cults that either inverted or simply reinterpreted every main religion and many others it is silly of me feel I know better than someone who 'only' experienced incest, prostitution and 'a bit' of Satanism at the hands of her father.

In conclusion, I think survivor books should not try and soften any blows, if people can't handle it don't read them. We have to learn how to handle the worst or the secrecy and the silence will last forever. Easier said than done though...

January 28, 2012

Where to now?

It got a bit weird for a while last night, for a little bit. I had been reading 'Wholeness', the abuser father of the narrator was an anesthesiologist who injected her and gave her pills before she was molested by friends of her dad. I started to feel a tingling all over which reminded me of the times I have been put under to have teeth removed and for the laparoscopy. It wasn't particularly intense and it felt unnerving rather than scary. Unlike the woman in the book I have mostly been conscious of the fact that the 'normal' family facade was just that. During my teens the 'me who had never been raped' was a pretty thin veil, not enough of a personality to even call an alter. I don't know how many times I swore to my self 'I will never, never forget this', I would often loose the details through the hypnotism or whatever happened afterwards but I rarely lost the feeling that awful things were happening and that I had to fight.

When I tried to sleep and old familiar state returned, one which I used to exist in pretty much permanently but haven't felt for a long time. My eyes can't stay open and I flicker - day time R.E.M. I could feel patterns and voices coming from different parts of my brain, different parts of my body. Low down in my belly there was movement, sometimes it beats in time with music. I got up to watch TV to see if that would calm things down, I was unsure about just going with it. Like it used to be I have an increasing sense of anxiety that only goes away when I start the flickering again. In the past the more I went with it the harder it become to resist and it looks pretty freaking, sitting at the dinner table, or the check out que REMing. It was how I used to organise my brain, my personalities and memories.

'Wholeness' also describes a lot of physical problems caused by repressed trauma and that got me thinking about my aching uterus. Unlike the author I don't have any current 'spirit guides' I have vague memories of sending them away because they had no idea of what they were dealing with and I didn't trust them. I have no perfect therapist to take me back, but I see an umbilical cord attached to a grey baby, I see myself wailing and holding her on my bed in my old bedroom. Sometimes I'm seeing black, like the baby is charred and when I touch her the black slides of to pink, white and red beneath. I have no 'whole place' to take these souls, having no where safe meant not having something to protect. Anything that was special to you was a target for them and they were experienced, relentless and well educated in all kinds of religion, spiritualism and healing.

I decided last night to ask G. to take me back to the Glen. I now she'd do it but she's the sort that is always helping people out in a crisis and I didn't want to add myself to list of people that need her. I was looking at pictures of it on the internet, advertising holiday cottages, and a hostel that I think was the school. A hostel, Haunt de la Garenne became a hostel to. I felt quite light headed looking at the pictures, the houses all done up now, the patches of brown on the hills on the way in or out that I was always trying to derive meaning from. I still think it should be done but I don't have the soon-as-possible feeling I had last night.

I do believe to only way to stop feeling so tired, run down and unable to cope and move on so much is to stop using all my energies to suppress memories but where I go from here I have no idea. In the past remembered things became forgotten again. Seeing my mum again always made it impossible to keep them as part of my consciousness. At the end of the day, my mum and the rest of the family were the only ones around to feed, dress and talk to me.

January 27, 2012

I Could Do It...

write a whole book about me that is. Although not today because I'm tired and irritable. Been spending a lot of time walking that fine line between weeping and not weeping. I wish I could just cry, I'd feel better then, that relaxed, cleansed feeling I used to get after cutting. I'm not even tempted to do anything like that though, carrying and giving birth to the permanently hungry fairy prince sorted that out. Maybe I would of grown out of it anyway.

The new psychiatrist isn't a big believer in therapy. She said she's not sure dredging stuff up helps and she's right there is not point in dredging without the proper support to deal with it all. I still want to do it though, wish I lived in California like the women who wrote 'Wholeness' did. Could really use some of that looking deep inside to see the parts of myself and visualising to give them what they need. Memories keep pushing but they rarely break the surface. There's been sex memories today, but who with, when, where are how are still a total mystery.

I dreamed about the Glen again last night, I do a lot. So much so that I want to go back to see it for real to remind myself the landscape and buildings are real. Can't get there without a car though and I given up on that at the moment. I can't see how I can ever get the confidence to drive never mind the money. I just don't feel ready to go forward get, I don't know who I am, I don't know where I come from, if my family is real or how much they abused me. I don't like not knowing. I want to know what my weaknesses and strengths were. Who my friends are, who my enemies are. They all know my name, but I don't know theirs. Not without switching anyway and I don't do that unless survival requires it.

In the dream last night I left the family somewhere to walk back to the Glen. My dad supported the idea my sister ridiculed it. On the way there I met someone and we crashed a wedding party and took pound coins that were lying around. The town had sculptures and mosaics, a plaque said it was twined with Florence. Everywhere sold ice cream. It was too far so I got a ride on a cow, a rural man led us into beautiful countryside.

I know its not just the Glen I want to go back to. When I got the back dated disability, I went to Tuscany, visited Florence and then Palermo. I wasn't sure what I would achieve by going to Palermo. I knew I had been there before but going back didn't bring much to mind but my knees went weak when we stepped of the plane.

If I could go anywhere tomorrow it would be back to that Scottish Glen, to show myself that the dreams I have that it is a city now with very high rents aren't real. That the big house isn't as renovated as it often is in my dreams. I want to take the fairy prince as if to show all the parts of me that are still there that things do get better, they don't take away every child I have. There is no one I'm close enough to take us and even if the NHS gave me therapist its unlikely whoever it was would have the skills to be of much use.

There's no way I'm going to get a job as soon as he starts school. I don't know how we'll manage but I need the time to myself, to find therapies, to find myself without the compulsion to be someone else that happens whenever someone enters the room never mind in a work environment.

January 26, 2012

Dream Dance Therapy

Had a fantastic laugh out loud dream last night. I was reading Triumph over Darkness by Wendy Ann Wood in bed, its very simply written and maybe that helps the messages of hope and healing get through. Anyway in the dream I was very drunk and very happy, falling over, getting lost, dancing with other weirdos in weird jerky styles. I didn't feel like a weirdo though and they didn't look like weirdos either just people, experienced people dancing and letting off steam. I ended up in Cardiff, where I snogged a the member of a boy band and got a lift home in a a big black flash truck-car. On the way to the car I passed a stretch limo it had something on the roof, I'm not sure what if was - a piano or something and I remember looking at it and saying 'tasteful' and who ever I was with laughing with me. At one point in Cardiff I wondered off down this narrow street of white houses and realised I was alone, but all I had to do was say 'stereophonics' in a Welsh accent, when I turned round all my funky jerky friends were dancing down the street towards me.

Quite often when I dream about physical/sexual contact in dreams its alienating and/or I spend the rest of the dream trying to find whoever it was thinking I wont be alone anymore and often being shunned. It was different this time, we saw each other twice in the dream and there was no pressure no assumptions just comfort and pleasure. Although of course we were both very drunk. Likewise if I dream about seeing other peoples' wealth I usually feel robbed, inferior but not this time, it didn't matter to me. I love being drunk in dreams I get to see what I'm like in states I would never remember if I was in that state in real life. I was funny, happy.

And thankfully it wasn't a real boy band but rather the boy band of my dreams because I have never snogged or had any kind of sexual contact with any member of any boy band ever, and never would of course, never ever..

Dramatherapy today, were reviewing our progress because the current teacher/administrator/leader whatever is leaving. I wouldn't say I have come on leaps and bounds but I do feel subtle differences. A little more comfortable in my skin, a bit more accepting of who I am. We started the session with music and copying each others movements to music, it felt horribly awkward to begin with but became great fun. I tried not to stare a Kay too much, she works at the theater and has a supporting role in group. Felt funny around her to begin with because shes young, attractive and works in a theater but feel a lot more comfortable with her now. By god the girl can move, I wanted to sweep her up..

January 25, 2012

Recovery

Felt less awful today, especially after my 'Wordless Wednesday' award. People have called me 'strong and courageous' before but it was hard for it to mean anything. It wasn't a choice, I woke up, sometimes in the middle of being brave. Answering back, making phone calls, remembering everything, smashing up their objects, smashing up their people. I get too cocky about the violence and omit that one of my survival skills was nothing to do with violence although it did motivate it. I fell in love with people, I would see someone who had something I needed, a position of power, a personality trait, a way of seeing things and would dedicate my life to giving them as easy a ride as possible, sometimes literally. I would fight their abusers, hide their money, give them new names, new identities, everything I couldn't do for myself. I was well aware that part of my motivation was just that, to give someone something that I needed but couldn't get. But there was also the hope, that if I helped enough people enough ways someone was bound to come back for me as I had for them. I didn't work out that way, even on the rare occasions someone did try to help me as I had helped them they were generally ill equipped and ignorant of what was needed. Seeing them try and fail was no confidence boost, it just ground it in even further, I was doomed. The best I could hope for was isolation, NHS support and a family that were no longer involved and that is what I have. As much as this brings satifiastion, I try not to beat myself up too much for wanting more.

I will never become a business women, musician, a dancer, or see the 'legal' money again. People would pay a lot for the sort of information, insights and skills I had. It was so good to work my multiplies for myself. But now I am left in a position where I avoid all serious stress in case they come back, the multiples and their skills, their insights and their experience. The memory loss terrified me, it means I can't trust myself and I'd rather be doing nothing than being doing stuff I am programmed to hide from myself. What the point in being Wonder Woman if you never remember what you did and never know if you won or lost the fight. I get flashes, of properties I thought I owned, of business I believed I was running, of war work that saved a lot of people a lot of misery.

It shocked me that those I thought I loved were so determined for me to take orders, to be a whore. But in a way it made it easier, seeing Ferris and Provenzano making deals, ignoring me, drugging me, taking advantage made it so much easier to walk away. The world isn't ready for fair trade cocaine, clean heroine, unraped policemen, celibate escorts or an abuse free music industry. Its their loss, I did my best.

I am not integrated I am sleeping.

January 23, 2012

Can't lose what you never had.

It's just my late teens and early twenties I want back, not to see him again. It's this latest virus thats making me feel ultra depressed, its not love sickness. His wife was on the wrong list long before she met him and he walked straight into it. He was always blind to the amount of genuine conspiries behind our life 'choices'. Listen to me, no wonder people think I'm deluded. In Glasgow I knew he was in trouble outside, the back of a car, a group of Fife men, one with a video camera. I was standing at the bar, trying to be indifferent, trying to be what I had to be if I was to become anything in that city. I couldn't do it. I put my drink down and ran out there to put the video camera to its best use as far as I'm concerned, as a blunt instrument. The violence is always a blurr afterwards when its me thats doing it, but during it time slows and I feel like a force of nature. After he'd pulled his trousers back up we sat on the street with out backs against the car, weeping. I said I had loved him, he said he still loved me. Before he left to go back to states there was all kinds of promises, all sorts of discoveries, he pulled is wife off me at least once. He's a soft bastard though, I knew he wouldnt remember a lot of what went on until it was too late, just like me. Maybe he's remembering and thats why he's on my mind so much, there were times we felt for each other like we were twins. Other times I would scream his name and he wouldn't hear a thing. In October 2001 my mum picked me up from a friends spare room, mentaly shattered, starved and so weak I could barely stand, halucinating movements in the cornor of my eyes, people faces twisting to devils or their whole bodies becoming transparent. I stared at objects along the road, still clinging to the hope that he'd 'rescue' me from family, and friends that would rather I'd just slip away. He phoned and described some of the pictures I sent him, the fields, the road, the water tower.

But I dont regret ever turning him down, we were victims and young, our lives weren't our own. He was wild, hungry and social I was dissociated, sensitive and terrified. We didn't stand a chance and it broke my heart on a regular basis that he refused to admit it. His family were incestous and ritualised to a degree that was much more conscious than my own family. They were a coven and he was a gifted child, something to my bled, broken and to feed from. Mine (I think) just took orders. But we had some good times together, drugged up and living in the moment. As far as I know he is still a working, family man but I got the sense that there might be something going on when our mutual friend let me now that he had talked to him recently. As much as I wanted to know I didn't ask, I dont trust our mutual friend that much because he's an ex of mine and no one got that close if they didn't comply.

I wish all those government boffins and nazi scientists had figured out a way of washing away emotions as successfully as they can memories. There's a constant feeling of waiting that will not go away. As much as try and make plans for the future, to think about what I want to be as just find myself thinking about him and the decision I made that when the shit was over, when my trials were done and I was free, I would have him. The world stoped turning for me back then before my hope got broken, I even look a lot younger than I am but for him, time passes.

Well its better to be seventeen emotionaly than six, or three.

January 19, 2012

Winter

We haven't been getting on as well as we were. It's only to be expected I have had three colds in the last three months. Each one hitting a a lot harder and longer than the one before. He was great at first, leaving me to sleep and not shouting or repeating himself lots when he talks. He's sick of it now though, too much Tom and Jerry, too much time with a ill, fatigued or pained mother. As the last cold faded in to a nagging cough and general knackeredness one of the lumps in my armpit started growing again. I knew I couldn't go through what I did with the last cyst, which was to be in constant pain before eventually giving in and going to see my GP. She lanced it after spraying my hairy red swollen pit with some sort of freezing spray and talked about how her daughter had used the same spray when on holiday as she squeezed out the red smeared clotted stinking green sludge. My eyes watered. She said she had never seen one so big.

So this time I went for the antibiotics. I completely rejected feeling like my stomach had been turned inside out and went for the penicillin. She was half way through reminding me of the downside of penicillin when I stopped her. I've remember now though. It stops the pill from working. So now I'm hurting, my moods are swinging pendulum like and I feel like puking when wee man wants more than one kiss or licks my face. He doesn't mind me being not much fun for a little while but its been too long now.

He's hungry all the time, the other day he ate two bowls of noodles and steak for lunch, the day before that two fried eyes and a sausage. Still snacks constantly. Brain throbbing at times at hearing 'Hungry Mummy'. Tonight he ate steak pie including the pastry which is usually treated with utter disgust.

We had a chat. I tried to talk to him about mummy being not well and how that wasn't fair on either of us. His concerns were pretty much all food based. He said he didn't want to 'starve to death' when I'm ill. I always get up to give him pieces, fruit or something when I'm feeling awful. I'm glad he's there to force me out of bed. Watching him enjoy eating something that I've prepared fills me up to. Not that its a constant joy of course but knowing he is sustained, fed, hugged and loved without being tortured and manipulated, raped and sold is lovely.

How can I ever even want to write something that had a chance, even a small chance of coming back to hurt us? Some memories make me stronger, some make me scareder. Some memories make me feel like I have no need to write or talk and others make me feel that to stop trying would be catastrophic. I talked about what we are going to do when I'm better and the weather is warmer. He said he wanted to play with me more. We agreed to spend Saturday tidying our bedrooms and playing then made a deal that there would be no stories tonight but he would give 5 tomorrow. There is only so much 'Cat in the Hat' a woman can take.

I've pretty much put given up on quitting smoking again until after my February birthday. Yes, like the Queen I have more than one. If I had the chance to buy cannabis I would. Mum gave me a spliff tonight and it provided a great relief I'm not sure of I would of thought to talk to the fairy prince without it. It's like I get stuck in loops and need a kick out of it. I'm sure the citalopram is helping but its not enough when I worn down by a body the is constantly hurting and remembering being at both ends of levels of violence that cant be believed, even when there seen.

Tweeted Trevor Nelson again and had to stop myself from asking him to marry me. Still paying for match.com but dont go on. There all too ugly, too far away or too boring. I shouldn't have chicken out of meeting the French dude that looked like a model but keep having images of him making moves on me and me being stuck in a program to consent. No rush.

January 16, 2012

Performing Arts

I looked it up late last night, courses starting new. Voice projection and audition preperation. What the Doctor said really stuck in my mind, 'Your still young enough to do anything you want to do'. That and the women in a shop who spent 10 mins telling me how young I looked for my age. Folks who went nowhere near as I did carry a lot more scaring.

I'm lucky.

Looked at Humanities postgrad as well, would love to do that at some point. But I need to look further for my healing than books and hiding. Acting out could be exactly what I need. In dramatherapy we did work on how it feels to be in the spotlight. I was dieing to burst out 'I love being in the spot light, as long as I'm okay and I know what I'm doing there its fantastic!' I felt like I should be able to give examples and I couldn't. I felt like a freak - but in a good way.

The college isn't that far but its 2 bus journeys and is full time. It's the only thing at the moment that I could consider doing full time. I have to do something before I do the 'get a temporary job and end up doing it for ever' thing.

It has always worried me. I knew I would get out but how could any one espace the depression, the PTSD, the lack of experience as a society member, drug use, the general dysfunction without giving up who they were before. What was I going to do when I had choices, when things were a lot more complicated than deciding who had to take it for the team today. I want to learn about how I move and take up space, how I relate to answers and how to listen to my own voice.

Sunday, January 15th, 2012.

My sister said nobody cared.
I said it was her that didn't care, my arms burn and twist.

He just took me, he had decided I was going to be his first so he engineered the opportunity and did it. He couldn't see any reason why not to do it, he believed in love. I didn't know what to make of it. I didn't blank it out, or scream, faint, or go dead like I usually did. It didn't feel like the worst thing in the world. I even looked at him and felt comfort in his looking back that I never thought could be a part of sex. I was about 14, he was younger. In some ways it made things so much worse. It felt good, it gave me core of faith and peace that I needed. It brought me a sense of treating flesh as something that wasn't disgusting I had keep double checking myself in the mirror, suddening I was cute. But it also forced contact between the parts of me that fought, schemed and went through all the truama and the parts of me that just hungout in my bedroom eating toast, drinking tea and thinking about stuff.

January 14, 2012

Holiday Poem

Tomorrow all this will be over twitter.

The smoking in doors, the irregular sleeping hours and random eating patterns
will cease, the Fairy Prince returns. I will have to clean and shop.

A few conspiracy theories and antisocial memories seep out. I feel
no more fear than I did before. As it laps
around, shrinking and stretching both our horizons.

Tomorrow the medicine taking, Tom and Jerry Show watching
and dish washing
begins again but without the noise that was there before.
We will swash buckle across the park, over bridges and across the burn
to Morrisons for chips, peas and cake. Peter Pan and Captain Hook.

Until then I leave the radio on and let the others seep a little
closer to my senses as their faces turn to remains.

First - more tea

Saturday morning bliss.
The thick socks I bought myself for xmas, supplies in.
Brew made and junior (bless every perfect aspect
and direction in his precious body
and gentle and lionlike soul) is elsewhere.

Wrote about murder, not of a baby or child. Someone who was registered. With family, with history. I dont feel much in the way of fear or regret about it, I'm sure it will come though. I just feel a little bit more like a human being, a little more like I am part of my own body and mind more than my past.

I was imagining I was trying to explain something to someone in a pub. When I didn't have the luxery of not being to remember. When I had to give people answers. Not because I was tortured into it but people needed answers. They needed alternative explanations about all the shit that was going on had gone on the wasn't based on manipulating them to an agenda that did not and would never have their best interests as a priority. Even if most of the time all I could do was mutter broken memories in loud clubs or scream the half names on deaf ears before seizures followed by that flashbacks that went earth quackes and tsunamis through me. Left crumpled and gasping on floors that were sometimes sticky, sometimes polished or bleached.

Torture rarely worked on me anyway, it just made me unconscious, incoherent, or broke my mind. It does that to most people I think. There is far too much acceptance and glorification of state sanctioned murder and torture in the West. People think because we don't live in openly vicious dictatorship it's ok. They think of James Bond and his lot jet setting around the world murdering people and interfering with other countries internal affairs. He cant possibly be a bady. He's white and educated. Look at him, he's proctecting us folks from the nasty stuff we are to vunrable and dumb to protect ourselves from. Besides he looks amazing in that bonny suit with his nifty government issue fire arm and bank account.

I'm a British citizen who was tortured at Thames House and other locations by people who I believe to be by MI5 officers and others employed by employees of Government Secret Servives. This began when I was a minor. I know of many other who have similiar experiences. I have spoken about this to Women's Aid Workers, police and social workers of varyess ranks and specialties, members of the press, health professionals such as psychologists, psychotherapists, GP's and nurses. I have also talked of aspects of what has happened to me to family members, aquanitances, friends, lovers, civil servants who administer benefits,people over the internet and in pubs.

I feel much better now, thanks everyone. Collectivily you become something close to making me feel better about it all.

January 13, 2012

Dust Settlin

I cant remember what he was saying, what he was spitting and ranting about now. I never got used to the words,I blanked them out like I could with physical pain and intimdation. I just went deaf instead of numb. I found the senses were easily manipulated when necessary. I could make my self temporarly partially or completly deaf, dumb, blind or numb at will. Provided my will was motivated by extreme levels of stress. Anyway, he was a nasty one, a long timer, the dirt in a graze that could never be washed out, he had the oppurtity, skill and will to discover my limits and push me past them. The type that never got to deep into the hiarchies behind the day to day bullying, currioption, rape, torture and slaverly that manipulated the easily percieved power stuctutures behind peoples lives.

Or as some mights say,
'A thug who had done well for himself'. He was the kind I found it difficult to escape from. I could tell he was about to get physical, in the pub in front of everyone, I was about have my bones broken, teeth knocked out or worse, either way I was heading for the near by accident and emergency if something didn't happen soon and it didn't look like anyone else in reasonably well populated bar was going to move.

I was lucky. I had been in situations like this before, enough to have lived through various out comes and I was an adult now and he had been on the extreme edges of life for long enough for it to start to show. He was losing his heart, his sofa had become increasingly comfortable for a while now. The pressure of everything that I had been through either directly or inderictly was transformed into energy that built me up and I went for him.

Oppurtinities throughout my life early made me believe that it was possible to use violence as a primary means of defense instead of sex. I was well trained in both so I was confident early that it was the right decision. The only way I could walk out of this with my head held high enough to survive enough the PTSD. Or die.

Some one grabbed me, half the room was cringing. He held me and hushed me like a father might so I didn't hurt him. But I could plead and he let me go and I finished the job, quickly, swiftly. I rarely remember any of that. But afterwards as I stood there close to the blood and the mess and the silence and was reintigrating my multiples, establishing some means of regaining approximate sanity in my brain, a man walks in. He was cleaner, freshed, healthier and better educated than everyone else. I knew him and was relieved to see him. He helped me out of by £5 denim jacket with the fake fur around the colour and helped me into some sort of warm cozy jumper and jacket, that thick enough for the winter outside and left with. .

Outside in the back of the light and air of the car wrapped in contrasting dark and nutral colours, I felt fine with no qualms about casualy, playfully even checking out the driver by leaning over his shoulder from the center of the back seat. Smiles. I ask,
'Whens the work?', after I have settled back into the gentle warmth of comfort I had not known for a long time. He says,
'Thursday'
'What day is this?'
'Monday'
'Cool'.

January 07, 2012

January Disease

Been twitter stalking people I used to know. I know its a bit unwise, of course it doesn't feel great to see the tweets about their interests, career and friend filled lives, the photos of the 4 kids and their horses, when I live in a street when kids smash car windows. There was police everywhere today, blocking roads and asking people where they were going, its a very different life. I still get upset thinking about how their lives dont seem to have been affected by the shit we went through, they didnt have as much of it as me. It's a reality check, they're not going to be showing up anytime soon. They have to much pleasantness in their lives.

Fuck them.

I'm hardly the type to be a footballers wife or DJ's girlfriend. It was fantasies, fantasies that got me through. I look at them and their industries and feel greatly relieved as well as hard done by. It's not like they dont know what goes on beneath the surface, they were fully educated in it and still choose to be a part of it all. Whereas I puked up and ran away.

I understand in some ways I still find it too easy to seperate the loving feeling in the memory of someones arms from the knowledge of who they are, and what they have done and what the currently tolerate. Maybe its just like the way that they sperate the past of their collegues, bosses etc from their current relationships with them. What happened happened, no point in letting it spoil a current career opertunity or social occasion.

But the images, the sounds, the smells of dead and and dieing babies make it very easy for me to walk away from anyone and anything. Even if I'm walking away from a fight, by being on my own, without friends, without a job, without interests I know (or believe at least)that I'm not involved in systems that hid and hide the pure curroption and exploitation at exists at the core of so much.

It different know though, I'm older, safer. Things have changed, I have a lot of good stuff going on. And as my new doc said I'm still young enough to do anything I want to do. Why then is it so hard to move on. I dont want to abandom the dead. I know working for a new life does not change my love for those unregistered children, doesnt change the fact that I sacrificed myself to try and help them but I still dont want to let it go. But there is nothing I can do, I cant force myself to remember more, even what I do remember I find it impossible to write or say. It's a world beyond the English language and I need support way beyond what I am capable of finding when my instincts are still telling me to withdraw.

There is some comfort in knowing that people I once loved are sleeping so soundly tonight, their time so joyfully filled and their health so taken care of even if I cant forgive them for it at the moment. Still when I lie down tonight I will be thinking of them, their arms, the promises, the love the seemed to work so hard to convince me of. But how can me perceptions ever be right after what I've seen?

Maybe I will do that post grad course after all so I can work on my own, looking after old stuff.

Sounds exciting..

January 05, 2012

Happy New Year..

I'm back!

Sort of..

Haven't been sleeping well for a while now, crashed out on the couch today for a wee while as junior watched tinker bell. Now I'm awake, lots of bed related anxiety..

Stopped smoking and then started again...

Xmas good on the food front, not so good on the lack of bike and ipad for junior front, very bad when found sis with drink problem crashed out on her daughter's bed as they all went mental around her. Why it still gets to be so much I dont know, I think its because I see her in me and hate it. I don;t want to talk because I'll hear her accent, scared to think incase I'm repeating her though processes, the ones that make her hide drink in her room and say she has no money, that means she can put up with crap from a man who doesn't love her, that help her manilpulate and exploit everyone who cares for her.

Junior was Joseph in nursery show, well chuffed.

New doc said she didn't know me well enough to know whether I'm delusional or not. Wahay..

Still no idea about what to do with the rest of my life, lost interest in writing because I dont have enough clear memories. Lost interest in most people because they are all too far away.

Still see G though, but dont know how to talk to her. She says I'm amazing and that she loves me when shes drunk. I fantasie about men from the past but am glad my life isn't mental anymore. I watch too much TV and go cold at the thought of working, studying or having sex again. I'm not ready yet.