April 29, 2012

April is the cruelest month..

When I mentioned to Nushrink that my sleep was being disturbed by vivid oppressive dreams and nightmares every night he asked if there was anything significant about the time of year.  I said something about it being spring and how I often have sleep problems at this time of year but couldn't say much more.  I think he wants me to go further with him, give more details but he will have to be patient.  He also wants me to be very careful what memory work I do on my own but I never get never far and never try very hard.

I looked up the calender part in Epstein, Schwarthz and Schwartz's Ritual Abuse and Mind Control the 19th of April marks the 'the first day of the thirteen-day Satanic ritual relating to fire ... This day is a major human sacrifice day, demanding fire sacrifice with an emphasis on children' (p.26 - 27).  I see charred skin and remember the off hand way in which a young man threw a newborn into a bonfire after an older girl in the Glen had given birth, just picking it up by a leg and swinging it in with an indifferent chuckle, in mid conversation with one of his mates. 

Part of me wants to see more to see everything part of me knows I can't handle it and probably never will.  I see a bonfire by the river in another part of the Glen near the pond.  There was lots of people there some of the kids there are now high profile.  I can't see anything else but there is maybe a sense of excitment, a pride at being dressed up.

I rock and mumble a song to a blackened charred infant, older now, maybe.

The weeks before May day never any fun; 'the Greatest Sabbat' where 'Seminal fluid is mixed with dirt and insects and inserted into the vagina of a virgin (p.27).  A virgin? Where do you get one of them from?  I think I was chosen for that at least once.  There was lots of rape from a specific man before or after to ensure I conceived to convince a 'religous' Satanist group who would then look favourably on a recreation group for possessing a girl that could conceive through such rituals.  Sometimes married woman would get pregnant at a similar time to girls used for breeding.  The child they had would be killed and the breeders child would be brought up by the higher ranking couple to be trained in abusing the biological mother, to be a tool against her.  Boys were best for this so they could rape her when old enough and impregnate her.  They do love their products of incest.

I used to be obsessed with DNA tests, its a shame I wasn't sure I could ever trust the lab or whoever delivered the results, can't remember any of the results anyway.      

Tired but not sleepy

Changed my twitter to profile to just say 'survivor' but I haven't really been feeling it lately.  'Victim' fits better.  I know that's not strictly true of course, I'm not being forced into anything anymore but I find it so hard to really imagine a better life.  There is so much damage, so many abusive relationships for as long as I can remember.  One of the books talks about a silver lining, someone who made you feel human, cared for and loved.  I'm not sure I had one.  I don't have the strength to get beyond it all.  Everything I have gets used up on the day to day, the viruses, the single parent hood, the living with it all.

NuShrink said I seemed to be opening up but I know I don't talk coherently much.  Things just evaporate when I start to talk or write and I'm left feeling dumb.  He says I could just do nothing and continue as I am.  I have a long way to go with him.  If I thought like that I would be dead, a drug addict and a prostitute, a Satanist. 

Tonight I remembered car journeys with my dad when I was about two/three and deciding just to go sleep, being told to go to sleep.  I tried to talk about my parents friends when with lived in Fife but I didn't get very far.  The ones who cried when we left, I think they told me I was good, I think I saw one of their penises the other night.  One of them took me to a pond with trees around it.  I was attacked by a goose.  It hurt and I was terrified.  He really consoled me, talked and held me until I had calmed down in a way my father never could.  I didn't want to leave him.  Did he say 'it' wasn't going to happen anymore not with him, that it was very wrong? Did I say I didn't mind when it was him?  What I do know was that he gave me a teddy and it was my favourite.  When we moved houses in the Glen it fell of the back of the trailer, I remember seeing it on the mud in the rain outside the farm as we passed.  I begged my mum to go back for it, it wasn't far from our new house.  She left but didn't come back with it.  Maybe the farmer's son took it.  I don't know.

Anyway, I find it hard to think of sex of something that anyone who loves me would want to do to me.  People that love me do it any cry and say sorry after.  Then the hold me, properly, nicely.  I think in my teens my dad would weep after sometimes but I wasn't there.

April 24, 2012

Type 3

Shakey from the Ventolin, stirred up by the news, dead spy suspicious circumstances, forget about the truth, press/police/politicians corruption: likewise.  And wee man has been ill and grumpy.  Mild four year violence pretty regularly, I hate it, don't want to be scared of my own son but I am.  Naughty step/thinking space employed several times today.  He's stopped listening to the word 'No', I can't look at him as just someone else that ignores me when I say No.  Been too lax on him recently, too wrapped up in my own tiredness and struggles.  He got his appetite back today though and tomorrow is another day, he's well enough for nursery, I'm well enough to clean.

The goddam dreams.  Intense, vivid, often violent and impossible to decipher.  Family turns bad again, so I take wee man out in search of safety but the locations keep changing, Glasgow, London, Aberdeen I tell myself.  Later he's a girl, Henrietta, until a yellow car runs deliberately over us and shes scared into a cat I carry around over my shoulder.  A pub once used by Shakespeare, called something Type Trio.  It goes round and round in my head.  Type 3, Type 3, I'm Type 3 but I give nothing up.

Fun at the Fair.  I'd of loved to of been one of those girls that hung around fair grounds, snogging the boys from the waltzers.  Wee man just like me when I was little, just wanted to go in the fun houses.  They have such cool fantasy fronts. Fairytales made real.

Next time with NuShrink I'm going talk about my dad and how I cant get past him when it comes to sex.    

April 22, 2012

Happy Earth Day.

Very happy to say that my own little patch of earth is doing well, the twins have settled in fine.  Its great.  Not that I'm entirely comfortable with it, of course.  What with it being illegal and all.  But I can't deny all the myriad of positive feelings I have about it.  Daft hippy shit like having a relationship with growing things.  Nurturing something that can never be violent towards me.  I saw a book on Amazon about the benefits of marijuana and it brought to mind the good stuff.  The sudden sensations of being in my body, how its aching from tension and needs stretching, exercise and care.  That mental motivation to get shit done.  To tackle mess bit by bit, taking lots of breaks and deal with it.  That feeling of being able to know myself and love me. 

Of course, there is always going to be a part of me that disapproves.  The 'drugs are bad' part, that wishes I didn't want it, didn't need it, to remember, to think, to feel, to create.  The part that wants to be like the other mums I meet, with social lives, sexual partners and a greater tolerance for part time work.  The part of me that wants to be a 'good girl' and thinks that means doing what authorites tell me to do but I can't let others dictate what is good for me.  It's not like 'authorites' have ever kept me safe.  The exact opposite, memories of abuse by men in suits, outside in the Glen.  Sometimes the sight of an expensive car can still ruin my day.  Straighting their ties and talking tech.  I don't want that feeling of being locked out of myself, of the world or hating people (and myself) for not giving me what I need.  It's my life.  I have found something that I think is a beautiful, beautiful thing.  Something that I don't have to associate with the criminal classes to access..

Goddam criminal classes, not very happy at all about the over dub girl joining my drama therapy.  I hope she'll prove me wrong but I don't think she's open minded enough for it.  Her constant anxieties are not something that will do me any good to be around and she's too rough with her dog..   

What a snob I am.  It is pretty universal though, anyone who seems to represent any social class makes me uncomfortable, pissed off and alienated.

Watched One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest, what a fucking masterpiece it is.  Last time I turned of just before the electroshock treatment part.  Watched it all again this time.  I was so in love with the Chief in my teens.  Still am a bit.

April 14, 2012

Living and Growing

So the twins are in. A bit late they were literally like beansprouts by the time I got back from my mum's. I'm having the whole infinity with it again. Feeling for them. Not sure about the led though but only time well tell. This is Scotland remember, not much of acceptance of medicinal benefits of banned substances. I feel writes growing in my mind. Little capillaries linked what I was, what I am and the kind of life I used to dream about. Maybe that's why I dream about the Glen so much. Getting so close to the contours of pine forests, the hit from rhododendrons. Something happen in my when I spent a lot of time outside an moving around out there. I feel in love with the rural landscape and it made me feel like a poet.

Still want to punch middle sis if I see her for more than a day and a night. She keep repeating in her usual style when drunk, that she 'loves' her nursing work. I'm glad she is getting on better with her two. She still turns into my dad verbally after she's had a drink. That same selfish lifestyle that sapped away everyone else's resources. The same verbal dramatics and constant resorting to cynical attempts at wit. Wit that can make both of them great company when they are not all twisted up in denial and depression. The same psychotic repetition.

Mum said she wanted out of nursing, like she's had enough of it. Caring for Grandad has maybe got to her. I'm glad something has. I don't think he's quite ready to go yet.

Things stop spinning for a little while. I see myself as more than commodity. I start moving things around so it all works better. Feeling pretty good.