Sunday, November 10, 2013

What's a girl to do?

You told me I was special
You said I was your girlfriend, you would never leave me, begging me to stay, get closer, touch you....like that...

You were sweet to me
You sought me out from the other children
telling me I was important to you

you said this was love and I was special to you, that I felt so good...I was your smiley face.

What did a little girl get out of that deal, a dirty little secret with lies and pretend love, affection from a molesting hand, love from a drunk adult, a "special" feeling all to myself ,,,,protection from being discovered? professing of an illness in your heart and mind? providing a safe haven to foster a knowing a belief of value and life purpose in love,,,with you, for other broken men in the world. A life prepared for healing the darkness and soul retrieval

did you really love me, is that what love feels like...what would i feel about my value the special feeling in my belly...

I owed you somehow, loyal to a dirty experience wrapped in confusion of what is claimed to be love...

what is a girl to do?

you said I was important to you, loved me more than the others, professed in private how you felt about me, just me, more than your wife, more than the other kids, don't tell anyone, don't let out the secret of our love. You feel good to me, feels like love,,,

what s a girl to do?

You walked away day after day, right out the door while I professed my love for you by defending your absent behavior, your neglect, your lack of basic needs for the family,,,,denial from you even though you insisted your love was real,,,,come close to you and make you feel good while I felt desperate to receive.

You said you loved me, you said I was your little girl

is this love? It must be, your the big person, the parent, my daddy.

You feel good and I get abused by your partner even with your knowledge, what a sucky trade, an out of balance exchange of what you call love. You get a way out of what was hard for you and I got harassment from my siblings who felt left out and less loved than me.

When I question, you replay with a fantasy of what love is, all by yourself dad playing out a fairy tail of love for his child and all to make yourself feel good, feel in power in an emotionally molesting way...not good, not even even, abusive, not real.

here comes the best part,,,,,an apology, for what!? I owe you!? for being a child? for not making you feel even better than I already did?! Begging for a glance my way, begging for a look, an acknowledgement of my existence, devastated at your lack of protection as you sit 10 feet way while I get my face smashed in by your partner, my mother, love, love, apology,,,from who!? To whom? an apology from your your emotional whore?! Is that what you seek from me?

whats a girl to do?

You said you loved me, said we were a couple, took me out in public, proud to be with me, bought dinner, presents on occasions, announced our relationship as real......

we didn't stay together, that's what couples do when they are getting to know....we stayed friends for years.

You said it was just sex, attempting to project sex addiction onto me,,,,you called it a relationship without love....is that true, do you really mean that after our sweet time together, or did this come from a place of pain, non resolve, self blame, confusion of reality. Another denial of real love for a girl, a lady, a grown woman.

whats a girl to do?

you said we would be good together, a family, partners following years of a friendship. Your original family more loyalty received, abuse to my children with no protection from you. We lived in the basement but your sister lived above with more favor and money without question without discussion.

We struggled, we fought, we complained, we lost.....for months I begged for help, pleaded to get help from the outside world....little did I know you had strayed, in your heart you were gone, not knowing what to do to handle our explosions, not knowing what to do with me.

you left me hanging, you left me struggle on my own. Who is this woman you keep quoting, this woman you work with and laugh in silly ways about. Were we always just friends, did we never have a chance. I told you I needed some love, I warned you of my need for comfort, nothing coming my way from you. I had an affair, an affair of the body. Little did I know you had already left, had been gone for months.

I took the blame for the destruction of our union, our attempt at our own family, I did it, it was all on me. You let me take the fall in front of my children you let them believe it was my affair that took us down. You didn't own your part, your failures, limitations, you never confessed your affair as you watched me stammer and fall.

Whats a girl to do?

You said you loved me, wanted me to stay and never leave, be your wife, partner in life, happy, us together, never leaving or straying from our union, ever.

It felt like love, felt like partnership, felt special and good.

what is a girl to do?

I love you, I am so happy you are my wife....

oops slipped into bed with someone else, oops stopped on my way to work to have an affair, oops forgot to tell these woman that i am married in fact I told them we were divorced.

I told you I was sorry, what more do you want from me? So I had an affair, a few affairs, right under your nose, on our vacations together, lied, cheated, pretended to be single.

oops I had 5 profiles on the internet, oops got a vasectomy so I didn't worry about getting them pregnant, oops I slipped and fucked a slutty whore in our bed hours after you left the house and then told you it was your fault.

was I your wife, a secret, your lover, your extra whore, your confidant, your reason for a story filled with lies and drama, was I your life partner or a notch in your belt to prove your power, was I your princess or your prowess, was there anything real in what we did together or was it all a game.

I was all in, i thought you were too, I felt innocent, i thought you held me in that same likeness, i relaxed into your arms, into the thoughts of never leaving and having a husband to stand by my side, was i a pawn in your game of life, another story to tell, a whore for the other side of your life, a throw away....

what's a girl to do?

I quit, I give, i submit, i surrender, no more believing no more standing up, no more commitments, no more attempts at a love with stability, a love with true form, love which protects, professed in authentic heart intent, love that provides a place of safety and sweet surrender.

I give to the truth of being a whore, a secret, a sideline in men's lives

No more

no more lies, no more exclusive, no more believing in the sweetness of me.

it must be true, how do i not believe, one more man, one more year, one more moment to keep trying, keep showing up, keeping moving forward believing that if I keep moving ahead in health i will one day have that holy partnership, I will attract a man who holds me dear, believes in the commitment of love to each other.

I held you in molestation, I held you in emotional sanctity, I held you in adult love, I married you with complete abandon and forever commitment to move through whatever we each experienced in life. I held you, cared for you, protected you, supported you....where was mine, I didn't notice, when was it my turn to receive, not yet, not ever?

whats a girl to do?

I quit!? That's what I do

no more trying, no more gain, no more attempts, no more understanding, no more playing, no more believing

I give, it must be true, I am a dirty little whore with value in sex for you, value in making you feel emotionally stronger, more like a man should feel, I am the one who will do all the naughty things and echo your mean, sloven, sickly side of you, I am the loving no matter what woman who plays the part so you can feel better, take your rage out on me,,,,I am.

i hate feeling wounded , I hate being broken, not believing, giving up, playing the dirty whore that you taught me to be, giving in to your broken head and heart that insists its my fault if your not feeling better or playing the fantasy role for you.

I hate professing my pain, my broken parts, my surrender to sickness, I hate protecting my heart from pain because I cant even think about trying ever again, I hate providing my soul as a part to play in this great big world that I am nothing but a dirty little whore

whats a girl to do?

he put his arm around me last night, strange, un familiar.

5 years of recoiling, 5 years of crying, after 3 years no more tears, enough, I cant sob anymore even though I feel it,,,,I am tender hearted, i thought you knew that, I told you, were you not listening, did you not care,,,I don't know.

His body felt warm, good, strange after such a long time....hard to believe it has been this long, noticing the psyche that has fallen into place to reject, create walls, creative walls of protection, submitting to a belief that I am nothing more than,,,,

Whats a girl to do?

I've put in my time to transform, I've but in my years of therapy, retreat, daily practice of cleaning up my wounded parts

I've done my time....

whats a girl to do?

25 years of trying hard 25 years of trying too hard 25 years not understanding the rules not understanding the new rules. The old ones didn't work out the way I imagined, the new ones not understood soon enough to save myself. 25 years of failing 25 years of believing. Do I try again, do I consider believing in the new rules, do they apply to me or is this an illusion of reality I can not reach? Will I lose again, why would I consider any other reality than what I have known? Maybe it is true that what is good for other people is not available for me....

I remember the third grade looking outside of myself and believing those words exactly, good for you, love for you, happiness and great care for you.....just not for me.

Will someone understand that the way i behave is because I am so afraid, will someone hold me when I am scared and ask me if there is something they can do to help me feel safe again.

I felt it once, I remember,,,,why do you think I have this pain. Was I better off not ever feeling safe?

I had a system that felt pretty good and functioned fairly well,,,,fairly. Should I have left it alone and not tried in the first or third time?

This is not asking too much, I know because I do this for other people and I do it well,,,,I am asking for it back,,,,not too much,,,,just right.

whats a girl to do?

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Pink Bikini

I was only eleven, cute innocent, sexy as hell even though I had no clue of what that meant. Tan, smooth skin, perky breasts and a booty that any girl would die for, not a single dimple of cellulite.
Muscular legs just because, a figure that anyone would admire.

I don’t know where this bikini came from, I dint have clothes that were mine, only mine. It must have been a hand me down from somewhere, but this time I didn't care.

It was the sweetest color pink with off white ribbon sewn around every edge, top and bottom, it fit me just right, as if it was made for my body only. I felt so pretty in that pink bikini. I felt like a million bucks….

until I walked downstairs and my father who rarely looked at me, my father who didn't acknowledge my presents, my father who claimed he adored me yet didn't express it, my father who never said thank you, hello, how was your day, or what is happening in your world, my father who lived so far away, he might as well have never come home.

This time he did look up, this time he looked up in shock, gasped and said “put some clothes on!”
It startled me, it startled me because I didn't understand, I still don’t, it startled me because I did nothing wrong.

I walked down the stairs in my perfect fitting, appropriately clothed pink bikini, an eleven year old child feeling pretty.

His shame, his fear got the better of that moment, and I felt shame.

Even after years of being molested by another family member, that moment of shock, awe, embarrassment, that moment of humiliation was enough to make me feel as if I should cover up without even knowing why.

I still wore the bikini after that….

until I went babysitting. Still eleven, only in the 6th grade, not feeling well that day, it was hot, it was summer, the perfect day to wear my pink bikini, I didn't want to take it off I felt so cute.
Lying on the couch not feeling well, having a fever and wishing I felt like playing with the boys who were 6 and 8.

Their father came home in the middle of the day, took the covers away from me and said oh my, your not feeling well. He touched my forehead and then quickly moved his hand down my front and tried to reach underneath my bikini top right in front of his boys. I moved away, pushed his hand, was visibly objecting to his moves.

He talked about how perfect my body was, how cute I looked, my prefect shapes, this dirty old man, he had no right to lay hands on me,,,,he must have been 40, he looked 40, bald, ugly and short!

I was annoyed that he was trying to touch me, I didn't understand what it meant, innocent as all get out, I was eleven, sex, sexuality, touch, touch like that.

He tried to reach down my pants, what are you doing?

He asked me if I bled yet, I didn't even know what that meant!

I was shocked and grossed out all in the same breathe, I panicked, I had to get up and get away…
He told his boys to go play outside, they left the room, shocked and scared, just like me. They had watched as I objected, they watched me get scared, just like them. They walked out not knowing what to do other than do what their father told them to.

I told him I had to go to the bathroom, I got up and walked towards the hallway, he put me up against the wall and tried to reach underneath my bikini again, what does this mean,  what are you doing? I didn't understand but I knew it wasn't right and I knew I had to get away from him, I tried, he held me tight, I pushed harder, I got away.

I went to the bathroom with my mind reeling, thinking what am I going to do next, I couldn't stay in there, I couldn't call anybody, I couldn't get help. Who was going to help me, my abusive mother, my absent father, my cousin who molested me, the teachers who shamed me in school for being bad, the preacher who told me I was a sinner, the social worker who told me I was the bad child?

Who could I call?  What was I to do?

I don’t remember how I got home, I am sure he touched me again, he usually did when he gave me the money, that was normal but this time with the pink bikini it was much worse than before.
I guess my father was right, I guess the sitter man was right when he handed me 3 dollars, pinched my  nipples and told me how great they were…..no wonder stripping or prostitution intrigues me as an adult, no wonder I have sex, shame, body, value, treasure issues all twisted as an adult.
I have not been bored in my awake years unraveling these lines.

I don’t think I wore that bikini after that, I don’t think I believed I could wear something pretty and I don’t think feeling skinny was a good or safe feeling either.

It was my sister that told my mom that he would grab her tits when he handed her the money. I halfheartedly agreed when she asked me if he did that to me too and denied anything else happening. I turned to dust inside and shear shame.

Years of molestation under the belt so to speak prepared me to clam up with sheer terror to tell.

We didn't babysit anymore. I wonder what my parents did, did they do anything? Did my father go pound him into the ground? He didn't even look up to say hello. He should have,,, I would have,,,put that dirty old man into the ground!!!!

I have thought about the boys, what they saw, witnessed, what had been brought into their DNA as little children, did the mother know, did she have the capacity to do anything? I don’t know.
I didn't tell my mom the whole thing, I couldn't, he wasn't the only one telling me how pretty and special I was,,,,what was a girl to do in a simple pink bikini…

How that has messed with my head, how that has messed with my heart, how that has twisted my heart, how that has played a role in whether I let myself feel that vulnerable in a physical way, how I attract dirty old men and my body likes it as my wise woman revolts….confusion I must say.

Have I been sexual, absolutely, have I been excessively sexual, certainly, have I looked for love in all the wrong places, of  course, that’s a stupid question, what else is a girl to do when that’s what she has learned….it’s so beyond the head, we can’t sit back and say just do something different.

We do what we know as our value, in our unconscious with the world, where else was I getting love, who else was telling me that I had value other than being your sex thing, who else was telling me I looked appropriately cute in that pink bikini, telling me I had value and I was beautiful, , , , , 

Thursday, May 2, 2013

Abuser Voice


The problem with ptsd trauma history is that someone always has to be violent and rather than sit around and wait for the violence, I will be violent, because sitting around and waiting for you to be violent was unbearable….

the truth running through my being is that someone has to be violent or this is not a normal day, a normal week,,,,it is coming,,,,,it is going to happen so let me be the one to explode so then it will stop .....for now.

So I learned, somewhere I learned that if I would say something loud, if I would swear, slam the door, hit the counter, dump goats milk on your head it would release the terror. 

The terror of waiting for that explosion when I wake up in the morning, the terror of being hit in the back of the head when I didn't see it coming, the terror of your fucking voice running through my entire being.

The problem with ptsd imprinted abuse memory history is that somebody has to be violent, and if someone’s going to be violent it’s going to be me....

at least I feel a surge of power then, at least I feel some sense of power, at least the energy is running through my body instead of sitting in there vibrating so fast I can hardly stand it choking off my throat, my heart racing quadruple time, the energy running so fast through the tips of my fingers I can’t even feel them, the energy in the pit in my stomach so nauseous I could die,,,,,

if my mouth is moving the voice running out of my face, it feels like thunder, it feels like power,  moving so LOUD the energy is moving, if my hands are moving then at least it’s moving through me.

If I’m talking the energy in my belly is at least coming out, I’m not feeling like I’m not going to die in there, if I am on the attack at least I am doing something. I am doing something. I feel alive at least I feel alive. If I am quiet then I am dead.

I cant stand the quiet terror, , , ,the quiet terror.  

Sitting under the bush waiting for your giant foot to squash me dead. The quiet terror lying under the covers in my bed waiting for my bedroom door to open with yelling about something that I did wrong. Sitting in the room wishing I was invisible, wanting to be invisible, trying to be invisible, failing at being invisible. 

The quiet terror of sitting in the car knowing that I have no way out. 

The quiet terror sitting in my classroom not hearing the teacher speak because all I can hear are the voices in my head trying to figure out what I can do, what I need to do, what I can plan to avoid your rage, trying to figure out how to respond to your rage, some way, some how, never finding one, there is no way out but to sit and think about how to anticipate, somehow anticipate how I’m going to survive the night when I get home from school.  

How am I going to survive your attacks, so vicious and unwarranted attacks....oh so unwarranted my dear.

I discovered that if I yelled the silent terror went away. 

If I stomped my feet, if I jumped up with both feet and slammed them on the floor I could release, I could stand in my body long enough to tell you to fuck off.

If I stomped my foot, if I clenched my fist, If I yelled really loud if I told you to fuck off I felt in power against your rage, I felt somehow defense filled against your fucking insanity.

I felt my heart beat outside of my terror. I felt big enough to stand up to you.

The problem with that kind of abuse history is that somebody’s going to be violent and if I’m going to be in charge of that violence, it’s going to be me.