September 06, 2011

Looking forward.

Can't wait to get the books through, although I have a feeling that will change dramatically by the time I hold them in my hands. I'm going to have to deal with these memories and aim towards to a place where I don't need to smoke. That's the plan anyway...

Today has been a strange mixture of feeling crushed and okay. I am accepting I need a lot of attention right now and for the foreseeable future and am so much less annoyed with myself for not being 'normal'. I could smile at myself for not doing the dishes tonight, they are soaking and can be easily rinsed in the morning. I will need to stay busy tomorrow morning away because I will be weedless, which will be all lot more bearable now I've realised myself from the course and have ordered healing books. I feel like I'm going through something important right now, its really starting to sink in that I have options and futures now. That the decisions I make effects my future - fancy that..

My little spiritualism is still vulnerable but getting better. I know I still need it, some sort of vague faith in forces in the universe that are so far unknown. Experience and insight taught me it was bad to let someone else tell you what religious truth is, it is personal and unique to everyone. I believe that so little is understood about life in general but people's brains in particular that the truth would sound like magic. I believe in telepathy and shared hallucinations that can be manipulated. I believe in these things because I have experienced them and was charged with developing skills to enable people to control others telepathically. I am well past believing all this is just a pretty story made up to hide the truth because it is the truth that I made up stories to protect me from. It was all about extremes, and harnessing the powers that people have when they endure extremes stress. I wish I did not have these beliefs but it could be worse, after all I believe in 'group hallucinations' not resurrection or instant healing that I have heard other survivors discuss. I have those memories to but can't believe them, partly because it seems so impossible but partly because I was involved behind the scenes more. Something about the way I split made me very useful to some. It's horrible there is so much information in me that could help so many others but I am just not able to go to the places in my head that I would need to. But there needs to be more to me than 'ritual abuse', more than a machine that churns out the past for the benefit of others.

Saying that I know I have a lot more to say and will be blogging by thoughts and reactions to 'The Courage to Heal' to help me sort it all out in my own head and just to have a voice I suppose. But I'm keeping my odd beliefs with pride, for the moment anyway.

I couldn't say much of this to your face. I learned that talking about rape and telepathy in the same breath isn't too smart, kind of takes away your credibility. So I had to start compartmentalising it all, making layers of truth for me to uncover when the time was right.

Then of course I was always interested in spirituality, religion, ideas about the soul and such so maybe the abuse would have looked very different to me if my head wasn't full of the otherworldly already? One things for sure there was diffidently a lot of rape and a lot of drugs and the occasional murder.

September 05, 2011

Cleansing

Thats why you have to get down to gory details sometimes - it cleans. The dramatherapy must been working its magic. The invite to drink in a pub after the session this week is helping me feel brave and a social animal to though. It's very cool to have a friend. I've completly lost all interest in her sexually though and have gone back to thinking about a good honest working class men again, as I tend to do. I think I can say with almost total certainty that I would turn down one of them right now to: sex? yuck. Although I am vaguely warmed by the thought of sex at a later point in my healing journey... I hope I'm right in thinking I'm ready for 'The Courage to Heal', I went through a patch before of reading self help books and I'm actualy looking forward just to be reading anything in book form again. I have to be able to stay calm whenver I read something that I don't agree with. The issues are so major and aimed at the vunrable I'm so worried about the damage brought by bad advice that I expect to see it every where. I don't always give them a chance, how can I if it is making me feel very bad, very inferior and marginalised. I need to put my finger on exactly what it is in healing literature that I have a problem with, instead of avoiding the problem. I also need to cry, write down memories and curl up into a rocking ball a bit more if I am ever to deal with my smoking. All crying, rocking and writing is what reading that book did to me last time. I hate the feeling that some older women has so much power over me as I feel when I read some healing literature. I expect the writers to be in some sort of cult, maybe not a major regular one but an occasion one that had rare special occasions where I or another like me would be invited. How can I read on when I think that about it the writer? How can I consider myself healed if I can't even pick up a book on child abuse without falling to pieces? On the other hand, maybe I know something about the publishing industry that makes me distrust it, maybe my intellect and the extremes I went through have put me beyond the reach of most literature, maybe I really am better than all that? Bollox, of course because its literature that I can skim whenever I choose about issues I have searched to define. I trust in little tough me, she is getting stronger and loves telling me what to keep and what to ignore when I'm reading. Which is probably why all I can read is twitter and my own poems. I can tell in the way she holds her self, she's glad to be back.

He did (trigger warning)

I don't remember how it started but I remember making films where I had to 'drink Daddy's milk' they kept us dehydrated to encourage us to swallow, as usual with me, it took a lot of takes.

Don't know when it started without anyone else involved though, but it was bad in my early teens, until I learned enough violence to fight him off. But I remember the red glow of a cigarette and his smell in the dark when I was younger, and that horrible feeling that he was 'one of them' to and that I had no hope. He is an alcoholic and of course that doesn't mean he did it anymore than my mother's smoking is a means as a blocking her inability to stop it. But as I write this I see her screaming no and launching at him and an earlier memory of middle sis telling me it was all my fault. Did he rape me in front of them? That might of been to much for my mother, behind closed doors is one thing in the living room in front of everyone without any others - my mother tolerated it all by compartmentalising this would have crossed a boundary for her. Stuff at parites of course there was always drugs and it started too young for me to remember anything real. Just that feeling of being in a room after it happened, staring at the same objects and patches on the wall I stared at then. Telling myself then that I knew it was happening, that I loved her, think I stopped telling her it would never happen again. I was so small.

So am I going to end up remembering it all? Or walking around accepting that as a child and young adult I was drugged up by strangers, family and friends and handed about at parties like a toy. They would always arrange for any possible friends I had to be at the next one. I'd hang around with people I knew would fail me because at least then I wouldn't get my heart broken quite so much. How do I reclaim my body after that?

'She likes it'

I just don't get how getting someone wasted and fucking them in front of people could be entertaining. So it would happen again because I just couldn't believe those around me would let that happen to me never mind take part.

So I smoked joints, like I am now so that the present becomes the past, the pain turn to aches, my muscles relax and my brain turn to prettier things, pretty things in me that I kept for myself and no one else. I'm thinking I could maybe share them more now.

Self Help

The comments left on my blog post 'I am Selfish' have really helped me get my priorites in order. I need to focus on me right now, I knew it would happen. Once I moved away from my dad and the family home where so much hell happened I would find myself wanting to think all the time and not able to do much else. As much as I dont want to quit my studies, I've not been able to read properly for months because I can't focus long enough. Putting myself through an exam would not be helpful. I just hope that when I go back the OU will still be up for paying. I feel so grateful for the open university for all the courses and funds they given me, this computer, my flights to London for the Summer School, so much stuff in life that has been good and needed has come from the OU. I feel like I'm letting them down whenever I get a bad grade so quiting another course is not an easy decsion but one I feel I need to make right now for the best interests of myself and my wee man.

I'm just not in the right place to argue with the ideas of Descartes, Mill and so many others. Their ideas were used in the ritual abuse to, not that I can remember how exactly beyond books being used as physical weapons that is. Having intellectual dicussions with group leaders was part of my training/trials it helped them get right inside my head.

So, I've ordered 'The Courage to Heal' and a book on healing my inner child. I was lent a copy of 'The Courage to Heal' when i was in refuge for the first time but was no where near ready for it. It helped me see how I was still surving in a state of constant crisis no where near thriving, which at the time didnt feel particulry helpfull. I think is also contains accounts by ritual abuse survivors, which had a massive impact on me in terms of believing myself. I don't think going back will be a walk in the park but I need to do something, continuing the way I am has never or rarely been an option. I was always being damaged so my sense of self protection is geared to moving on, I was never home but now its different and have to turn all that energy into healing and its not easy. Healing and surviving can seem like opposites when its on going. How could I talk to an inner child that was being tortured regularly by people with great intelligence and torture experience, all she wants is to share the details. Details I couldn't handle when it was still happening, my body was screaming those details at me all the time I couldn't let myself see her if I wanted to keep going.

Now I have to put all the thoughts of what might of been, and might still be to look at myself as is. To accept the multiples that where abusers along with the warriorers, earth mothers, priestesess, police informers, party girls, international spys, property developers and fuck knows what else. I remember always resisting the abuse of children but got to really enjoy non sexual violence against people I saw to be 'real' rapists, I knew that if I kept 'taking it to far' they would stop using me. Remebering little flashs of the things I've done gives me very mixed feelings. I'm amazed and shocked that I could do so much damage to someone, then I remeber aspects of where the violence came from and stop thinking about it. I've got a lot of guilt, complex, twisting, ingrained guilt and I want shot of it.

September 04, 2011

New Tatties


 

The order of service was forced in my hand but I didn't want anything to do with it. I knew too many words would be missing but I was glad they'd used her favourite picture all hair, tan, smile and Scotland undulating behind white clouds gathering above. Although she swore she had a shocking hangover that day I was never sure. She didn't seem that drunk the night before when she came out of the dark of my tent at me her skin all smooth and cold like tatties out the fridge.


 

I looked like you when I was younger. A photo at the bun fight proved it, the cutting slope of our noses that ask to be broken. Earlier at the family grave I choked on the smoke of our shared vice as the grandkids threw dirt on her lid. I felt the words she used on me too often scar

across my brain, Yi can.


 

September 03, 2011

Brava (poem)

The tall sunflowers bowed their heads outside the tinted taxi windows. Back in Scotland the oil seed rape is short and half yellow. Earlier my sister yanked at my niece’s arm like an angry bell ringer or trying start a stubborn lawn mower the silence is still heavy but wasn’t enough to drown the homecoming of nights as warm as our hottest days. Taking me back to stand on the tiles, tired and relieved With someone around ten years my junior, snug and viable under stretchy pre teen skin. Their shock washed him out and I held the child to my breasts like our midwife was David Attenborough.

Surviving not thriving.

Fuck the studies, I need to focus on being a mum for a while. Being a mum and going to dramatherapy. His bowels have been a bit funny recently probably made worse by me letting him eat to much fruit and drink milk..Parenting myself as well as him is complex beautiful work and its full time I need to stop convincing myself otherwise. I understand why I do it though, volunteer for far more than I can handle though and it isnt always because I'm responding to pressure from society. There is issues I need to deal with or at least identifyed and understood a bit better before I can go back to assignments and exams again. I still dont see how I have enough support to stop self medicating, but I do feel supported becuase of twitter friends, comments on my blog as such. It's all really starting to open my eyes to a world where survivor narratives are central. I know I work slowly, to slow for people face to face but over twitter and blogging, I have the space to figure out who I want to present to people. Unlike drama therapy where there is no time to struggle and fail at presenting a front, just a moment when you had to express yourself, impossible to fail. It's working well together.

September 02, 2011

Hello September, Goodbye August

Not feeling to good realy, wobling on the edge of tears a bit. There is so much I can't handle, I know I need more time but I'm so desperate to make up for lost time that I spend to much time wishing. I'm grateful a lot to but I still want more. They can't just do that to be and then get on with their successful lives leaving me in the muck. I was already in the muck, they would say and I would struggle to disagree. Still though how can systems like police, social workers, communities be so vunrable that the sort of slavery I went through could happen so openly. By abusers are everywhere, they drive buses and taxi's, they teach at schools, they work in charaties and jobcenters and the truth is that many may have legitimate claims of me commiting violent acts against them. Violence was something that all my conscious mutiplies had to accept, some easier than others. How could you go about taking all that through the courts? Child Protection Police generaly have enough current cases to deal with, the economic climate of course doesn't help. But the bus drivers, the taxi drivers and the rest don't scare me like the celebs and the their girlfriends do. Too many memories of finding myself drugged in a bar with no mates and no one letting me leave. Everyone else with their eyes down into their drinks, waiting, talking quietly. Unpleasant. Of course they all said afterwards that i didnt try to leave. When situations like that are regularly happening I had no option it seemed but to learn how to fight. I got trained, my knowledge got me favours. At the very least if you fight with everything you have the bastards are all ready knackered before the rape starts. I didnt care if people died, I had even up on knowing what was going on with death a long time ago. I had seen people die, night after night then saw them on the way to school every morning so I got quiet good at it. I had known children that everyone denied ever existed. The game became more about betting on me winning, the men who bet on me would try and tell me how to live to give them better odds. At least in those days I go to have a drink in the bar afterwards and sometimes not be raped at all.

September 01, 2011

Talked about my sister

in drama therapy today. I drew us fighting in beautiful countryside when we had to come up with two characters in conflict. I drew it in pastels, so every week we had to go back an use out pictures my hands and jeans get covered in green and blue. I wanted to have them calling each other names like we used to do. She was older and better at it. I called her 'pig' she's call me 'cow', I'd say 'tart', she'd say 'whore' etc. I couldn't do it though and kept it to myself. I hated remembering the constant yearning in me to understand why, wandering about that Glen alone and trying to figure it out, I think I was 7.

Today I played the part of the character based on middle sis while young dude asked the questions I wrote for her. My questions were all based on asking her why she hurt me. My answers were short just whatever came into mind. Then everyone else could ask my character questions to the group 'teacher' had lots. Afterwards I talked about a greenybrowny feeling in my belly and we moved on to someone else. It's not easy when the focus is on you, but we all go because we need it, the spotlight that is, just for a second.

August 31, 2011

Wine night!

I have chocolate, some tasty French red and Lower rate DLA, which has put up my income support, which means clothes are being bought, Ladybird clothing - the best as far as I was concered when I was a kid - because I liked ladybirds. Always fascinated by gender bending, how could something called a 'ladybird' possibly be a boy? Anyway, I'm gonna buy tickets to see 'Mary Queen of Scots Got Her Head Chopped Off' with G. I love to see most things that are on, but after reading the play for school I have always wanted to see it. I remember the way Scots is used to explore universal themes as being fucking awesome. Liz Lochhead seemed to condense all the wisdom of Scottish women in a way the humbled and inspired me, her understanding of history, gender, war was formidable. As far as I remember I hope I don't end up siting there without a bloody clue and if G feels that way then fine, it will equal out how I'm going to feel all the way through 'Smurfs 3D' on Friday. Couldnt say no, wee man barred from nursery because of diairea and I struggle to get us out enough by myself, cabin fever setting in...

Did I mention I was really grateful about the recent rise in income... It just means so much to me and the wee man. Its the confidence boost that comes with enough money that is missed the most when there is not enough. There must be some mistake, here I am a parent with a 2:1 honours degree, enough money, no rape, flat of our own, more or less sane. It's all rather beautiful.

August 30, 2011

I am Selfish.

I wish I wasn't but it part of the healing I hope, so I will grow out of it. I need the time to focus on me, to figure out what I need, what I need to be without. It's not as simple as it once was, when all my energy went into getting out of what ever situation, relationship that was hurting me the most. Life becomes easy when your life is in danger, my vision literally, became tunneled, my whole brain focused on finding the door, the words, the acts of violence or the movement of money that would get me away from wherever I was. There was no need for consciousness it all happened by it's self.

These days my priorities are different. I have to do housework, get the shopping in, bring up my son, do the bastard ironing. It's all so much harder than run, fight or switch. People mean something, everything means something. In survivor mode everything and everyone is a tool to aid escape or not worth bothering about. I balanced every carefully up, did the best I could and didnt worry. Everything is much more complicated now that I am in charge of managing my relationships!

I hate how much I resent the housework sometimes. What is wrong with keeping a good, safe, clean home for my son? But still this persistent feeling that life is too short for regularly cleaning the bastard kitchen floor and that washing the friggin cutlery is a waste of my time and talents. I miss the faces, the hands, the little bodies that when I held I knew my role in life and my position in the universe. I was to protect them using every conventual and unconventual method my imagination and training could come up with. I so rarely feel that certainty anymore.

I did work in a kitchen in my teens to pay for my hash and hated it, I'm sure that hasn't helped me not despise all kitchen work and the inferior role that is associated with. Washing your rapists dishes is no fun.

But I think part of me is to scared to want to build my life around my son in case he is murdered or taken away like the others even though I know that's unlikely. I just hope my issues don't become his. When he was small and I held him I had to hold back all the memories of birth and babies but some broke though, mostly good ones when I loved and was loved so much easier than I feel I could now. I am ashamed of my desire for space from my current wee man when I think about how hard I fought to be in this position. Just to get pregant, give birth in a hospital, register the kid and live as a single mother on benefits. The life I have now was all ever wanted for so long, no guns, no glory just peace and love.

August 26, 2011

Drama Therapy

Tears, this week. Last week we focused on a young man with huge absent father issues (I got to be him). The week before, a really quiet bloke got madly shouted at when he played the role of Smily who played her own mother. She got right into it. It was one of the powerfullest things I've ever seen or heard. She seemed so controlled, the way she poured out that vile. I have only missed one week so far, very good attendance record for me.

It's getting close though and I'm terrified of the thought of losing control. Kneeling on the floor, imploring Smily, who was again playing the mother, but in this time for Griny who was dealing with her mother's detachment. I was the child again, asking for recognition, for respect, love, attention, anything from the parent. First for the young lad and his dad then for Griny yesterday and her mother. It's amazing really, makes me feel all hippyish. Its not easy to feel comfortable with your hippy side when I spent years of my life with a head wired for war. Hippyshit in war is insult to injury, it's the evilest of enemy propaganda because it doesn't encourage you to fight as hard as you need to survive. It's a cop out.

But in drama therapy, everything is valid, There is no taboos and your body is your tool for your own and others healing. It feels so clumsy trying to explain how it all works in the group and make up names or descriptions that convey people well enough. I definitely like mental ill people and drama therapists, but I knew that.. They're who I fought for (with crystals in my pocket - the darker the stone the better because I think everyone needs a bit of faith - it brings luck when the goin is hard)...

Then afterwards I met G.

Who (of course) I no longer have a massive crush on now that we have actually met in the Holy presence of Queen Dolly.

I had the soggy student pasta followed by Belgian waffles and chocolate sauce washed down with two glass (1 large 1 small) of actually semi decent red. She had the macaroni again, like in Edinburgh... Blimy I am interested in her in a whole load of weird ways. Nothing I am able to rush into though, unfortunately she doesn't seem the able to talk about anything at a level I need to leap into anything. She might get used to me, people have gotten used to me talking comfortably about abuse related issues in public places before. She didn't seem happy when I talked about Drama Therapy in the quiet bar and she works in social services, I'm a little worried shes trying to take her work home with her. She said I was lovely in a txt earlier on. I waited hours and txted back 'thank you xxxx'.

One thing we definitely have in common is relationships "and stuff" freak us us out.

August 23, 2011

Contact with abusers

I think I'm moving on from feeling a sharp pang of jealous isolated pain when I read about abusers not having a choice but to have no contact with their abusers. It hasdn't worked out that way for me. My abusers were family, all of them, my community, my school teacher, my friends, everyone I knew basically. There was so many networks some used all of us, some didnt. People pic an mix. Meeting new people was so hard, they would be forced into the abuse as well usually the sort that used options, like 'do this to them or we will do that'. Nowadays I am too crippled with socialising problems, post tramatic stress symptoms, trust issues and general bad health to get out there much.

There is no point wishing my life away. In some little way I believe there is more to me valuing the support I get currently from my mother and my relationships with my sisters that is more than resignation to situations outside my control. It has helped me see them as victims too, helped me seperate what happened from me because I had no option but to sperate it from them. Parts of me has forgiven my mother and my oldest sister, but as far as my dad and my other sister go its a very differnet matter. Now that I've moved out and away I doubt there will be many occasions where I see my dad or middle sis, they will no longer play a role in my son's life. I knew I couldn't cope on my own and had no where else to go but I mourn the life we might of had constantly.

I can understand how people think it is wrong that I still have contact and allow contact between my son and people who I know have done horriffic things to me. But I hear a lot less lies, I won arguments I refused to let it go. It has made me stronger.

So much more to reality than words such as 'abuse', 'rape', 'ritual abuse', 'satanism' can ever cover. I think I am too ready sometimes to not feel alone that I deny the unique horror I expierenced. I try to make something palatable for other people when the facts are simply not palatable. I tried so hard find another way out but this is the only one that worked. My trials are over, I dont expect to have house full of cloaked up rapists using forms of sexual and emotional torture that I cannot repeat. If I work, doing anything for anyone the money comes home to me. My son will know nothing of the experience of it, these things I am sure of. It's a different world, and every big scandal and toppled dictator confirms it.

August 22, 2011

Psalm for the unregistered children.


 

    Taking survivors' accounts seriously can help us decide whether lives     such as they describe could conceivably have been lived. Sarah Scott,     Beyond Disbelief: The politics and experience of ritual abuse (2001)     p.66.


 


 

        

            No cloaks here.


 

    But April snow pelts the jogger in shorts

and the granite memorial in a one pub

        two cemetery North East village.

The nerves of another wisdom lost to grinding

won't give up. I am not buried.


 

    but was a soldier as a child flat chested,

armed, sewing the heather with wire

        eating out of tins and counting everything

twice until the November

    when my peers took me back to the burn

        where I shared my plans to show me theirs.

        
 

                     Stones

        and cold Angus waters. One girl can hold so much.

    Like our old white hen dead beneath the hen hut; no more clucking

        amongst the common reds.

The air was turning green when the game keepers

    gave me my options, sky

and birdsong soaked up their empty souls,

         I chose the kennel

and further resented Ernest

        for over salting his tattie skins.

    It's not good

for you

        and he knows I hate too much salt.

    Uniforms set me loose, hosed of the dog shit, took me to the suits

then left me in the field

            with orders to ask for help.

        I watched the Scholastic ledger turn to cabinets

through my application

        Years on the phone

making holes in the wall with

            with a cork board pin sent me

and my E cups in a C cup bra

        to a warm Southern suburban study

    a golden tree dappled light full of savinours and art objects

        that I would have to kill to examine alone

    Make sure they know not to mention the money, emphasise costumes,

and if they cant remember any baby sacrifices make one up.

        In Latin as broken as he was.


 

    The bracken turned to split bones

all the houses are machines. I scrubbed carpets and rinsed

    signs from my body and no longer worried about what they meant

        You will see the world.


 

    drugged, dissociated and subjugated. This is a pewter chalice

either half brimming or fallow my god I could make any alloy shine

        Pulled to a T shrinking to a dot, just another zero,

no xs left to mark the spot

but still I reproduce, there are corners

    in every Holliday Inn

        that will be forever me.

            May hail


 

    clatters through and open north facing window

the cat stands on the space bar and the monitor lights

    up the room. I'm huddled and racked

        in period pain smiling

as Junior sings gaffuwing in his sleep.


 

    It's almost

        almost June. My dreams went from rust

to jade overnight, the bikes are opening up along the straight lines

that lead from the house. Outside my niece is singing


 

Someday my prince will come, we'll meet on match.com

and of to pub we shall go.


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

Admit it grrl. Your disabled.

Even the government thinks so.

Not that I agree with them much. My GP told me about someone who was recently failed for DLA, so asthmatic he could barely walk up the corridor. I guess sometimes the taboo nature of bad mental health can bring positive things as well as being a major factor in what keeps some people ill.

Have joined Triberr which I am very grateful for, @Prozacblogger and everyone else who has made me feel a bit less isolated even if I it makes me feel like I'm being touched. Realising this is pretty important, that I shut down at any sort of touching, emotional or otherwise. Thanks to G for the hugs that have helped me realise this to. Doctor on Wednesday morning, no word from any psychiatrist so need to chase it up and start getting real with her. I self medicate, I'm sure I've told her this. The current prescribed meds are either not working or making things worse. I've already cut down on them. I want another specialist and I want to know if I have aspbergers. Usually there is a lot of sympathy but nothing can be done. If the docs could legalise it they would. If I've found it to be the best treatment, stick with it. I've often went in with expectations of a 'drugs are bad' lecture but found myself being the only one that is saying there is anything wrong with it. Thank fuck for all the good GPs I seen over the years. Their compassion for me and insight into whats wrong with me have been the difference between a life without hope and a life with one.

I just wish they'd written better notes...

August 21, 2011

mutterings

How can you not get into music?

How could I turn down any oppurtunity to defend my self?

The police showed me a tape. It showed a bloke touching me and then me beating him. The bloke was missing. They thought I had agreed to it all. I didn't.

What was I supposed to do?

I forgive myself for being an agent in my own exploitation but this does not mean I accept that it will continue.

I wish I could tell you about the music, some of it was beautiful and it was mine. I made it. I knew what all the levels and dials did. I didnt need to disassociate. I was always disassociated.

Dolly Parton

... with G. Goodnight despite the state I've been in recently, too much traveling to get dangerously drunk and Dolly was lovely. What a figure man.. G was intersting, lovely at times but when I txted her to ask if it was a date she replied 'lol, dates and relationships freak me out' I didnt like this, espically at first but I understand I am in no position to criticise anyone one else for immaturity! Wasnt sure about her wanting lots of hugs though. I was bound to be a bit uncomfrotable with physical contact with the amount of anxiety I've been feeling. It's been horrid, really horrid at times. Really sliding into dysfunction which made my guilt ridden before I had the wee man who is currently next doors watching 'Dispicable Me' with a bowl of ham, raisins and cheese. I have some cooncil rocky, which is; apparently, shit loads better than nothing as I'm blogging this and not under the duvet or pacing from room to room.

GP this week, this isnt working. I need to feel I'm at least working towards a better diagnosis and better meds.

And Dolly, who I've always admired and respected... it was very good to see and hear her, even if the Queen Latifa impression made me slightly uncomfortable.

August 14, 2011

home

Well, my friend drop by and left a little 'friend' so I'm no longer thinking of sticking pins in the eyes of radio one Djs or fire bombing the exgirldfriends of lovers that drank my blood. Theres fuck all mysterious or supernatural about being scared of people who drank your blood. Its a fucking awful thing to do to another human being. To take the life force of someone else inside you without their permission. And thats without thinking about how they obtained said blood. Lots of believes about freedom coming from literaly destroying boundries. It doesnt destroy dualism only strenthens it. I wish I could say more. But this is primary an outlet for me, although I have a lot of time for people who have missions to educate and enlighten about abuse thats not where I am. I am all about me, this is all about me, waiting and doing my best to believe that its not going to happen again. I dont need to be split anymore, its ok to look down. All thats there is belly fat and there is nothing wrong with that, its cushiniong me from the outside world. Protecting me like a cacoon so I can come out a beautiful butterfly when it the time is right. And yes indeed, this is good grass.

August 12, 2011

Rocking

Just read a piece that says cannabis can help with aspergers tics. Although its been suggested I have it, its never been diagnosed but without cannabis I struggle. I rock, dig my nails in my fingers and bit my hand sometimes. Of course all that could just be my body feeling stressed because something it is used to having isn't there any more. I smoke because it stops me feeling like a victim, I can write essays, poetry when I have a smoke, without it everything feels like walking in deep dry sand. Of course it makes me feels weak relying so heavily on something that is illegal, that makes the very people who worked me more money but it has been my best friend for a long time now. A friend I over use at times, that is sometimes too strong, or polluted but it makes me feel alive and gives me hope. 4 times today I have read the opening lines to Charles Dickens hard times and then put it down again. Smoking endless roll ups and doing my asthma no favours. One thing I'm sure of I would need something or someone to provide the support I feel I get from smoking if I was to ever give it up completely and I cant see where that would come from.

I woke up feeling like there was someone lying beside me, it was calming, comforting but he's not here. He is married with children and businesses and a whole bunch of shit I don't have. I guess the clique about never getting over your first love is true in my case. To be honest I never get over anyone, too much memory loss to make enough sense of something so I can let it go. I go round and round in circles of remembering, heart breaking want, forgetting then remembering again. While the people who are the focus of it all get to move forward with their lives, their relationships, their careers.

I wish him courage and love and hope he wishes the same for me.

I wrote this without my best friend, its not nothing. But what do I do with the rest of the evening? Music doesnt help, just takes me back to the studios and reminds me of the people taking the profits from work I was raped into creating. TV doesnt help, it makes me feel isolated. My few friends are all working. But I feel better for writing this and at least I did the dishes! lol

August 05, 2011

Study diary

I am studying philosophy to help my brain, its not a matter of trying to return to previous understandings its about making new understandings, new ways of seeing. The old ones couldn’t of been that good anyway. But all the memories brought back about the circumstances in my life and my flesh that were going on all the other occasions I read or tried to read the same old texts. I argued against them well once do I need to do it again? Is studying just a form of selfharm by constanting picking at mental and emotional stabs looking for the perfect skin that was once there.

The 2:1 is precious though. There must be some mistake! I can feel it seeping into to be and making me feel less of a loser, good news. Couldn't of done it without Marge Piercy and my delusional pespective that reads Women on the Edge of Time as laden with historical and biographical fact. The same word in our notes 'bizzare behaviour' and the burning hot sense of humour.

Exam coming up, oh dear...

August 02, 2011

Cant get any page views for 'Song' - its beautiful people! bloody philistines. Only joking of course, LisatheRiver put a link up to it and every second someone spends on here means a lot. Its a difficult issue - how do you make ritual abuse palatable? Or least palatable enough to be taken seriously and given any thought at all..

I know I can't do the hours I need to do this now to be a 'writer'. I am the proud recipient of a wee bit disability money. Very proud recipient. He's 4 now, ordered new clothes and wellies for us both. Cant wait to see him in the rain in his new raincoat and fireman wellies - he will stand out for sure on any grey day :)

Couldn't believe how easy it was to publish from word, what a dough ball I am. Might use it more often makes for prettier pages.

Anyhow, cheers to an extra £200 a month, to a growing boy in new clothes and a mum who has eventually come to terms with her body enough to buy the size 14...

aplogiese to the vunrable overworked souls that probably made the clothes. It's not right I know I respect and hurt for you... I misunderstood something pretty fundamental when I voluntereed for single parenthood, i.e. the need for a bread winner...

August 01, 2011

Song

    


 

...taking survivors' accounts seriously can help us decide whether lives such as they describe could conceivably have been lived.


 

Sarah Scott (2001) p.66.


 

    

    Song.

For the unregistered.

    
 

            No cloaks here.


 

    Just April snow shrouding the bare legged jogger

and the granite memorial in a one pub

        two cemetery, North East village

the nerves of another wisdom split by years of grinding

    pulse on.

        

        I am not buried.


 

    but was a soldier as a kid, flat chested,

and initiated sewing heather with wire, casing the boothies

    lying in the lichen eating out of tins

        and counting everything

twice. Until my sister's birthday

            when they took me back to the burn

        where I shared my plans to show me theirs.

        

Air turning green when game keepers debriefed.

    Open sky and birdsong drown out their death.

         I choose the kennel and further resented Ernest

    for over salting his tattie skins.

        It's not good for you

    he knows I hate too much salt.

            

Green berets pulled back the bolt

    hosed of the grainless dog poop

        took me to the suits

            then left me in the field

        with instructions

to keep talking. The Scholastic ledger I dutifully kept

    turned cabinets to crates to warehouses

partly through my appeal. Bracken turns to bleached femurs

        the houses are marching machines.

     I scrubbed the symbols of my flesh

    and lost interest in the meanings.


 

        You will see the world.


 

    ..drugged, dissociated and under orders.


 

This chalice is neither brimming nor fallow

     gentlemen


 

my god I could make those alloys shine

        like moonbeams between my fingers.


 

    Pulled to a T

shrinking to a dot, just another zero, X marks the spot

    still I reproduced. There are corners

        in every Holliday Inn

    that will be forever me.


 

It's almost

        almost June.


 

Racked in period pain smiling

    Junior sings guffaws in his sleep.

        My dreams go jade

from rust tranced by the bikes opening

    up down the straight lines

        that lead from the house.

        
 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

'Criminal' part 2

I am depserate to write about the way the organisations worked and the sort of people who were in them. I dream about really getting down to all the little differences between people socially and how they were translated into acts of violence in both structured and spontanous situations. But I'm scared, I have no criminal record and there are no records of me giving statements or working with the police in any way. Not that I can access anyway, at the moment. I watch the news, waiting. Waiting for something that might bring about a breakthrough. I'm more stable now, I have a voice I'm not scared of the press. But there was a lot of very public, influencial people involved as well as drug or arms lords and gang leaders. I'm scared of the positions the hold within the public consciousness. I'm not even sure if I have the right to challange the common culture like that.

July 30, 2011

Criminal

I doubt there are many people who know about the political and physical realities of extreme abuse who isn't either an organised criminal or used to be. There is no way out without working the system and that means working illegally at whatever with whoever might help your situation, even if its just a tiny bit better.

I've been feeling like a fraud, the facade of being a 'good girl' runs deep. I am a 'good' girl and that surprisingly enough, made me a pretty good thug. But no one can be good or bad enough to escape intact anyway. Sometimes I just wanted to make people smile in a good way, when everyone had their clothes on and there wasnt too much pain. It was my way of saying 'remember me' the worse the abuse, the louder and more intelligent the voices. But you cant walk out of hell without getting fucked up, thats the whole thing about hell.

RIP Amy

July 27, 2011

Police

There was a clatter, a curse then a stretched
heavy silence. My clenched fist released
and rested on the scratched black
of the interview room table top.
I leaned forward to repeat
that same indifferent tone that none
of us bought. For the tape,
Detective Inspector Pinkerton
has just fallen on his arse.

Behind the walls the laughter rattled
I’m sure I heard the dogs
howling their tails battering cages.
Despite the hell, the horror, etc.
It almost, always makes me smile,
his flat flailing feat and manicured
hands grasping nothing
broke my face
into the smile I thought I’d lost.

Fist published by WomenWords publishing

July 23, 2011

Best Friend

River

The conception was a chore but
there were fireworks the night his minuscule doubling
numbers were captured by my uterine wall.
Tired of painting over the old dirty terracotta
curtains still days from their rails.
I watched bursts of ancient science
jewel the tight face of the black Tay,
and heard the crackles
like tide pulling through pebbles.

I knew his names long before
I found him watching me sleeping
from his aching elongated head.

First published by WomenWords Sunrise Over Manchu Picchu


Sunrise Over Machu Picchu: A Collection of Women's Voices

July 21, 2011

'Your trials are over'

We were in a drugs and incest drenched Fife village when I was told that. They were making porn behind the back of the pub and in the graveyard and wanted to involve me. All hell broke lose, people showing up or phoning then disaprearing again. Violence everywhere, me doing my best to keep drugged to that fine degree where fighting and not crying were possible. I knew there would still be rape and death but it meant I was free from one set of rituals at least. The most memorable ones at that. The ones that had seemed in the Glen in the eighties to be at the centre of it all. They were all over Jersey at that time to. Free from masonic conspiracies to keep me quiet. Left to the street, a dysfunctional family and the relationships that grew beyond what was instructed. But the longer I go without them, the people in whoes arms I woke up, came round or became lucid, the more the memories start to twist becoming something that fits in easier with everything else, something ugly. Can I keep a hold of the safety and love I felt in those moments without denying all the memories of them hurting me. It has torn me in two. Maybe it wasn't there fault but i makes no difference as my flesh wont forgive. My flesh wont walk away from safety either.

It's been more or less quiet since then. Execpt for that new year.

At least I am not asking that same old question as often as usual - Can I go home now?

Twittering

I read myself back into the footsteps
I refused to follow because it might
do me good and that makes them right
when they said ‘do as your told and
everything will be fine’ but as long
as its short I give it ago. The child is away
so mother plays desperate for views desperate
for trouble still flinching whenever anyone
thinks my name. I am a survivor and I stand
amongst the documents that prove that I was
there and he was here but today they are confetti
clogging the drains when it rains.
I walk on the ground but it feels
like wet paper.

Slacktivistism

I've been struggling with the raw writing on survivor blogs. I'm jealous of their articulation skills course and part of me wants to find a criticism to justify not reading more. But there is so much love and acceptance out there I am angry at myself, as always for never being able to look on the bright side. Although I have no right I can be a right snob, when things dont meet whatever ideas I have about what constitutes art. All that time with eyes searching for an exit, a weakness in the system that would lead to another hell closer to the surface. I cant just sit back and think about the good things I have sit all tensed up thinking about the bad.

But thats what rape can do, accepting the physical pleasure that sometimes happens along with the pain, disgust, terror, humiliation and sense of overwhelming injustice just feels impossible. I would make my self a million different people than do that. But it happens, especially if the rape is a regular thing and whoever is doing it is into the unequal sex side more than the torture. How can you have a body again after. I can't live with a the best parts of me assigned to different people either. In my early teens I read a bit of Descartes and thought I had it sussed. Its not ME its just my body, I am somewhere else and more importantly SOMETHING else. Until a guy in tech class suggested otherwise, I can't remember exactly what he said but I knew I was wrong. It wasn't some different material that was being treated like that, it was me and the only way to fight it I discovered was to take it very very personally.

Still dont think I am properly here though. I'm still well dissociated, I think. I blame it on the electric shocks, and other methods of brain interference but think a lot of it could still be shock. Shock so deep your brain makes you think you are on the other side of the room just to survive it. I want better diagnosis but cant get it if no one is prepared to back me up and say how bad the abuse was, how sophisacted and how regular it was.

July 17, 2011

hey beautiful..

All excited about a bloke that I met on match.com is now a friend on facebook. From the contenent grew up in Scotland, utterly, utterly delicous. Far too good to be true must be an arse wipe really...

Philosophy is moving on but still not reading. Writers block is one thing but readers block is even worse. Thank I founf twitter or a really would be going mental. It's like everytime I pick up a book its just another symbol of what I have lost, what I could of been and what I was. There is still a big part of my delusional brain thinks that none of it happened. That one day I will wake up and just start getting on with all the things that are so hard, like making friends, stopping smoking, managing a job, being an a student. I never stopped being in my early teens, when I still believed I might be okay. When I still had hope that my brain was looked after enough to be okay. That all that pain, shock, drugs and shocks wasn't a match for my big brain. Before I learned how to really bond with anyone. I can't move on from it, I'm 11/12 forever.

Child alseep on top of the duvet with his wee jammied bum stuck up in the air, hes ace.

Police chief quits though. Story still isn't moving fast enough for me. All the News Of the World Stuff after the Arab Spring really makes me feel like everything is changing. That the systems that I couldn't fight and destroyed me are crumbling. I wonder if their will be a phonecall and believe it is possible. I could dance properly, or could if I tightened the old pelvic floor a bit and warmed up properly anyway. Which is all a much needed distraction from not having enough money and not being able to stretch what I do get properly. I think it might be strangly linked to why I wont read any fiction, I cant contrate enough to read a supermarket novel then maybe I'm not ready to work. The whole idea fills me with terror, the way I'd act around most people just makes them ostracise me for being to shy and awkward. The bosses will only like me until they realise I can't do the job and by that point I'm looing for places to cry and getting really ill..

Anyway, there is no NoTW, Murdoch's in trouble.... and I have a cute bloke as an fb friend, and a girl date in August.. so why so I still feel so bummed out most of the time? oh yea

July 16, 2011

Estuary

It was a word in their games, I cant remember exactly what it meant but it hurt lots, down there, in here. Dj enterage once the djs have told them to bugger of. Not sweet.

Well that brought on the ouchies, painkillers not to keen to go down, I don't blame them.

Could I write a poem called 'Estuary'? not today.

July 15, 2011

Candel in rose quartz

It was a Christmas present from my mother from the year I lived in Glasgow. It's beautiful and means a lot even though I'm not exactly sure what it means. It was the year I sent her a letter saying I didn't want anything to do with or the rest of the family because of the abuse. She ignored it, which felt like an insult. Not enough people in my life to cope though. Didn't have the skills to get what I need from people. The only way I knew to see people was going to pubs then they shut down the local and yuppied it up I was lost. Not a bad thing either as it was a violence and theft infested dive but I hadn't gotten used to some of the people who hang around there. There's no way I was up for working (and suffering) in order to excepted into another dark corner of Glasgow. In the end I had to walk away from people who were probably did their best because I thought they might be accessorys to rape and theft where I was the victim. Who wants to be in a position where they find the only people the feel comfortable with are people who enagaged you in mortal combat, people that well.... well 'trigger warring'

bollox

Anyway.

I guess its the same with my family because I've seen their worst. There is not a fucking thing they can do that would give me a nasty suprise. I've seen it all, fought it and came to some arrangment that didn't involve anymore violence. But people I dont know, people who haven't abused me. Christ that would really hurt, Its always so much worse when its from some one I liked and with family/friends they give me constant pleasant suprises of showing warmth, generosity, love and honesty occasionaly to.

And of course I think all this is really, really fucked up..

July 13, 2011

Nausea

Been feeling ill every time I come back here after my last posts. Not that said very much, enough to put the nausea through me though. Essay done, started the next one as well. Two essays to do on the philosophy of religion, I'm much more comfortable with that, i.e., blind unquestioning faith is never a good idea but science and its philosophies are not perfect, proper open debate means saying open to everything including faith which has done and does some good stuff over the years, not just persecution and oppression. Might need to come up with a few examples and shit which I'm looking forward to. I hate fundamentalist Athesists so should get a passing grade at least. Changed my mind about taking a break after the exam, going to do a 1st year 'voice and texts' instead, then 2nd year English, then 3rd year.... Only because if you dont read you cant write and I find it so hard to read if its not part of a course. Annoying. Keep buying second hand books cheap of Amazon then not reading them, got some really good stuff, gathering dust under my bed or on my slightly squwif shelf. 'Things fall apart' is still at the post office. Must mean I'm not ready for it..

July 10, 2011

Phone tapping and organised crime

I remember talking to someone who I beleived was Rebeka Brooks. They had heard everything. That means they didn't just know about the crimes being commited by powerful people. They knew about the child murders. They heard me beg for help when I was pregnant. They knew everything I couldn't remember and needed to know, or so it felt.

But what do you do with infromation like that, they claimed they suffered with problems with the police to. I was disinclined to believe it, not that everyone didn't get hurt, of course. Everyone did, some just did better afterwards than others.

Eitherway I'm not looking for trouble, beyond blabbering on here of course. Watched Sky news for hours today, happy but desterate for further developments. They did do some good over the years but the filth they pumped out usually just brought out the worst in people.

July 09, 2011

1000 pageview

I make so much out of so little. News of the World getting shut down, the press all over the press, like any of it has anything to do with what happened to me. The press/police/thugs all selling and swapping phone tapped information, where I'd be, how injured I was, how regressed I was, who was pimping me, who was planning on pimping me. Which famous fucks where being ritualy abused which were organising it. All that information from taps about child abuse, rapes, murders, fraud and fuck knows what else just deleted. Not titilating enough. Repeating what I knew was essential for me to keep switching personalities. I had numbers I would phone up and just upload it. Clearly, without emotion, sometimes anyway. Who, what, when, where, why. Get it all out it didn't matter who to as long as it was out of me. Dreaming it would get out and I'd find away out that wasn't becoming like them, dreaming there would be public apologieses, arrests, jail sentances, the kids in homes that dont bullshit them and maybe even compensation. The real fantasy isn't truth though its the belief that relationships could be repaired and that it wasn't changed me completly and utterly.

I got some private apologieses though, they count for something when geniune but not hellish much.

July 08, 2011

Summer Blues.

Really hope we can get away for his birthday. Just been looking at holiday camps and trying not to cry. That inferior feeling of not having enough money, its shitty. But if I get back dated disability, and split the cost with my mum then maybe, just maybe... Its never enough, summers are always like this I want to be MOBILE. I dont just mean being able to drive and afford to keep a car. I want to be on the road, on a train, in an airport going anywhere that isn't here, where ever here happens to be. I need to be living out of suitcases, traveling from beach to sunset to beach. Its the only cure for that lazy summer reslessness I get. Sights just get samey so quickly and so completly that it burns to look at them; I need eye food, nose education, palate stimulation instead of mac and cheese and a trip to the park. We should be on the beach all day and dancing all evening then falls asleep and I look at the stars and listen to the crickets... *big sigh*

July 06, 2011

I'm a lesbian! (again..)

The rest of this really isn't that interesting.
I'm quite excited by it. Giving it a go again. I can't stop thinking about her and Dolly Parton. I even caught myself staring a Zoe Ball in a lustful manner. Scary. Sexulaity is a funnt thing. Can't say there is no regrets over men from match.com though. But I just can't see it, apart from my fellow poet but we might of lost our moment. He sent two fb messages tonight, one was the usual banter about the weather. The next just said 'I want to see you again'. I was really attracted to his excessive wordiness at the beginning, not sure how I feel about this change in tactics. Its just fun so far with lass though. I let myself doodle her name, remembering Carol Ann Duffy's 'Rapture' wishing I hadn't givin it away the the first girl that could be bothered to show up at my door.

Cleansing Rain

Watched Aljeezra for hours this morning, FIFA being criticised from a culture of luzury and secrecry that encourages curroption. The News Of The World critised heavily for unethical practices, questions about payment to the police from the press, it all makes me feel a bit better about the lack of a murder investigation in Jersey. Lots of 6 music too, quite a blissed out day. A smoke of medicore but mellow hash on the veranda watching the light releft of the rain bouncing of cracked tarmac. Used my weights, tried to put on outside clothes then took them of again and used the weights again. Made a proper tea which I at least enjoyed. Bliss interupted by wee man's tantrums but then he fell asleep in my lap at 6:15. Bloody lucky to have this flat with a living room that has windows on three walls, high enough to be cozy, no one above us.

July 04, 2011

The day started early and with vomit

Had better days, had worse.

That's one thing about being a ritual abuse survivor or an organised crime/intelligence services escapee, when you say 'it could be worse'; you mean it.

He did really well today, was a massive help to everyone but he was powered up and didn't stop talking all day. It's always a nightmare when he's like that and I'm off. Its the stuff he talks about feels like he's twisting an knife. So and so bought this, so and so worked at that. The worst talking is about people buying houses or his family in South Africa.

Now I'm sure South Africa is a natural wonder and not all the people there are thieves and rapists but if someone asked me to live/work in South Africa I would be tempted to garotte them. The shit that goes on over there just turns everyone to a complete tool, another cog in the wheel of cycles of racism, misogyny, inequality and violence. When he talks about how much the staff earn I want to jump out the car.

When he talks about people he knows and their big purchases I cant help wondering, how much of a percentage of that was directly or indirectly taken for me. Where did the money go from the regular rape scenes, or the occasional stuff. I used to mark notes when I could.

Sure its paranoia now but I would never of found out anything if I hadn't tried to quash fears put done to paranoia.

July 02, 2011

Silence

They just dry up sometimes, not like the times when it feels like all the words have got stuck in the tube trying to get out. Thats a different thing all to together, linguistic constipation, the worst thing is the worry over where and when there will be a movement. Theres is no where safe to really talk about the details, the issues can be dissucsed, the conditions the encourage it but the actual names, places, acts, timeframes all exist in another world, in a different language that no one can remember how to speak. But this isn't that, this has a silence to it that is closer to tranquility than suspense. Then theres the constant cycle of shock, denial over a strange but familiar feeling, 'fuck am i bored?'. I have been writing on here for over a year now, so many memories that dragged me under so effectivily for so long have an new layer to them. I wrote about them on here, they are not weighing on my shoulders like they used to. I am so much more than the sum of violence and will.

June 30, 2011

Study Diary

Its conversations in Thames House, and the home office that is making this essay difficult. Bastard government everything is their fault you know. I studied the same essay that is referred to in the assignment question as part of my education. I got really into it, took on the big boys in arguments, felt comfortable with the whole mind/body problem, had it all sussed out. Was well proud. Of course its hard being reminded of whatever the fuck was going on there but I don't want it get in the way of my studies much more than it is currently. Will not ever EVER take on 2 courses at the same time again. Ug.

So one more time, an essay on whether or not AI can produce something like a human mind. This could be a turning point to returning some sort of regular study habit that I can't bear at the moment. I could do so well - do I care enough? I've written a plan for it and will start it tomorrow, 1. read essay. 2. take notes on essay... I got 30% for the last one so this one means do or die under in examination conditions later on in the year.

Anyway, at least I might be going to see Dolly Parton with a woman soon, I had two pints of Guinness yesterday in an actual old pub served by an old friend and its stopped raining.
xxxxxx

Poetry and Politics

I'm a long term student of art and history and I history has shown art and politics as interdependant. Something to do with words, images, sounds and the things they symbolise that I can no longer articulate, means I'd rather read the work of modern African poets than try and decipher T.S. Eliot as beautiful as his work is. Eliot may has opened up my ideas about good writing but studying Okigbo and reading the poets in my The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry have changed my ideas about humans, culture and oppression. I want my Poems to have messages aimed at changing the readers understanding of something but I also want it to wow, to be considered 'good' art as well as having a voice that needs to be heard. I have 4-5 of them and its taken over a year. One of them is long though so that counts for something. I am getting so impatient waiting for replies from people waiting to see if work is accepted, I just want to get them out.

I've had parts of 'Anti matter' in my head for most of the last year, they never feel finished but I am starting to want to move on from these sorts of poems and go back to writing more prose. The comedy violence novel, it should only take a decade or two to get right..

In 'Anti Matter' I wanted to try and contain a strong reminder to readers about Haut de la Garenne and the investigations in Jersey. I wanted to make people wonder about how those teeth got there and the fact that somebody somewhere knows. I will never forget the day the excavations were announced, sitting on floor of our room with the new carpet, my son crawling and drooling behind me as I wept. Also wanted to convey I sense of the strength I got from doing every I could do to resist.

June 27, 2011

'safe' subjects

Trying to convince myself I can face studying tomorrow. I've been through all the mind body arguments, they were demonstated through the reactions of my flesh, in turning on and off and on of my genes. I exhausted the differing perspectives until my brain split, they broke my mind proving that the only thing that could survive was a computer. I don't want to go back to Descarte, I don't want to try and work through agruments based on definitions I know to be all wrong but can't prove. Using the flaccid tools of a crumbling langauge. I just don't have the heart.

Goddam noisy neighbour.

Feelin battered. Remembering how slaps and punches were sometimes regular events. Glasto remindin me of T in the park when my sister's boyfriend hit me and a barely noticed I was that shut down. I wonder if when I'm dead they will look at my skelton and say 'christ she was right, she was horribly abused.' The worst of the damage is in all the fleshy bits that will rot and look weird when there normal anyway.

Neighbour started her shit again, could do with out it. She slams doors so hard the whole building shakes and screams so high pitched you think its cats fighting. Didn't care first few nights here. I was almost soothing to here the rukus and not be involved. None of my business, not my family, not where I live. Progress = smugness

But I'm flinchy today. That pressure in my nose, like after youve been punched, remembering weekends when my parents were away. My sisters leaving them to it but they did try sometimes. I remeber being shocked at what my oldest sister who go through to try and get them to leave me alone. They forced me to smoke hash and swallow hash. I loved hash and felt it was a great loss when that to reminded me of them. Not sure how it ended, think I did a favour for someone with more contacts than the rapists, someone who had enough time for me to not want me to be treated like that. All I can really remember about their faces is the sneer, the nasty fake laugh and that cold practiced self conscious body language, like little boys being the bad guys from movies. Except they didn't play at the roles they took them to literal conclusions.

I hate feeling like this, more tea..

I haven't seriously believed in my writing for several days now, thats why I'm here, typying and listening to kool and the gang. I keep telling myself something will come up, but I can't imagine it. I don't push myself enough to be noticed. I feel too vunrable, too distanced and it's obvious, to damaged; to try and compete with people who have abused me at anything would be laughable. There is so much coherent writing, well strucutured pieces about ritual abuse 'Survivor to Thriver' stuff that I feel a bit unsophisticed and seriously uncool. Man, egos are bad enough but badly damaged ones -impossible. ;-)

I see them on their knees, scared and awake, talking to me as an equal.

People love stories but I don't feel able to share mine, although I still need them validated, still want people to like me even if I hold back on the only thing I have to offer - my stories.

Told gut from match.com how I felt about his hands. He phoned me. But I don't know what he said.

Mum gave me money from gran. Ordered fucking lovely office chair, but anything would be lovely compared to the backless, poop stained thing I sitting on at the moment. A good thing, a very good thing.

New books on their way to, for me and him, this is also a very good thing.

xxxxxxxxxxx

June 26, 2011

Humanistic Agnostic Evolutionist

I said I was an atheist, I'm not but part of me wishes I was.

Nothing makes me feel more otherworldly, so much in awe that 'religion' makes sense, as watching space physics programmes. The pictures of nebulae, the attempt to grasp everything within the human mind make me feel a sort spiritual humbleness. A need to pay respect to the beauty and vastness. Besides that surely its a natural response to question the purity of science after the Nazi's and their technologies. Likewise, scientific projects, institutions and companies paying for research have bottom lines the same as everyone else. Eroding the evils caused by ignorance is not usually a top priority. Science depends on theory in order to investigate and theory is subjective.

Like the first time I got barraged with bullshit I was only trying to suggest alternative ways of looking at things might be possible and not looking for a fight. It has raised on old fear of atheists. I was always interested in them, they were often outsiders. If I was going to get any real help then it seemed to me it was more likely to come from those on the fringes. But sometimes people are on the fringes because they are worse than everyone else, not better. I would wake up for them, hoping. There is probably anti-atheist conditioning to though of course. I was right about one or two though and learned to not love people because they were tortured for it.

Despite the effort put in to make me otherwise I'm not turned on by things that are shoved down my throat. Reminds me of the sort of preach to the converted feminists that puts people of feminism.

I believe in evolution. The older I get the more answers I find in the ideas of Dawkins and others that our behavior and choices are a result of genes being turned on and off and reacting to our environments. Brains are being made all the time, with different possibilities into environments that are changing. Social change are ideological revolutions are real and tangible. Hybrid vigour, survival of the quickest to adapt. Human institutions evolving to reflect new brain patterns, new ways of seeing.

Agnostic because of the awe of science and because I'm lucky enough to see a sunset from a beach, or look into the eyes of my son or think about the achievments of the human mind and feel absolutely certain that magic is real.

Ongoing family issue.

My mum phoned yesterday from her work. My 37 year old sister was intrusted with my mum's bank card and bought enough drink to drink herself into a stupor. My other sister was phoning, my 3 year old niece answered and said 'mummy's sleeping'. When my mum took my brother in law home after their shift the place was a mess and she was to drunk to speak. So moany sister got the kids the next day because my mum had to work. No more updates yet.

My mums moving on, taking her with her, granted but still putting herself first. Maybe thats not the best way to look at it, my sister has a diesise. We all have diseases but her's is arguable the worst. She's woman with a strugglying bloke. She can't go on benders and get away with like my working dad can. But on the other hand, how the fuck can she do that. We would take them, she could do what she liked for a day or two, a month or to without it risking the kids. My thoughts were just for the little one, hes such a smiley wee dude.

June 25, 2011

Better out than in.

I know how ridiculous this sounds.

Doesn't make me want to write this stuff. Some tidyin done, shelf up, bath panel undercoated. Beats making hits for whores. Beats.

My gran messing around with beetroot and liver showing how it was all made up. Messing up her spotless kitchen trying to turn what happened in something much more edible. Weaving words and levels of meaning as a poet. I played along but knew the differnece between old blood and new.

I'd seen him, others to but this one I knew. His name was Jake and naming him for them was academic, that was his name already I just shared it. Little people are made of such little parts, execpt their middles that go on and on. The longer it went on for the longer there was no way to escape it; it was my middles that were pulled out to.

Good Morning!

Making the most of the early morning. Wondering about the possibilities that a new psychiatrist will bring. Maybe they'll be worse, I have a feeling it will be a she, which is fine. I just hope she gives me chance, come on, deluisional disorder? No Post Traumatic Stress? No Aspberger's?. Give me chance here. The urge to discuss rich and famous as gone, wahay. Not daft you know much better to discuss, Sugarbabes, Tong, Beckham, McQueen and endless bloody footballers with police, social workers and charity staff no chance of it going on any pernament record there. You see, not daft me.

Got a tweet back from Trevor, had to tell him he was beauitiful.

First message on here from someone who isn't me. Thank you.

Feeling a lot cooler towards man from match.com. His mail about not wanting to start anything incase he moves away is on my mind whenever he talks about coming over. I'm not sure I can take anymore hours of being around those hands without holding them. Maybe I should tell him this? Hmmm.

Lovely, 6 music a break from shouty glasto coverage with Andrew Collins. Need to get into African music more, ace.

Smug and eclectic

Three new followers, @AllRacialJokes ('make fun of all'), @Unicornbooty ('Gay is good'), @Faithfullblogs (Christian) made extra lovely by the fact I hadn't followed them first. I feel all smog and eclectic. Its real democracy, out their in internet land, or least as close to 'people power' as has ever been achieved.

Makes up for friend whoes racism seem to get worse when I need him the most. Horrible.

June 24, 2011

I get by with a little help from my friends

In the end we all have to.

What a pishy day, started around 4:45. Unlikely to be a good start. Gave my best shot though, boiled eggs and scraped the last of the butter onto wholemeal. Took washing in and out. Got on of us showered and one of us dressed well before 10. Then went out and bought pies. Got very bored and tired and eat the post shrink donut. Eventually it was time to prise mini me from the puter and get him to nursery, at this point it started bucketing down. He loves it, I was cold and wet.

Walked to shrink, miserable, scared, vulnerable, Black Eye Peas on radio, mourning Fergie, legs sore, lungs weak. Man in waiting room on phone to his support 'Tell Dr whatever he's a liar, he said I'd get a CPN and (other visitors)' 'One guy came in and when I told him what I was doing to cope he just left' and best of all several time he says 'I took a lethal overdose in November' all in the tone of a business call. Made easier by the unexplained presence of a psychiatric nurse when I eventually go into his tiny, shabby office. Feeling like a window licker. Same questions, same answers. Dosage upped, and on the scales to make sure he was right about me putting on weight. He's leaving, new job, somewhere else.

More rain, supermarket, bananas, onion, garlic, wine, peperami, dodgy novel. Feel briefly better before its back into the rain, breif sunshine, collect gene carrier. Chatty, happy, strawberry smoothies. The storm above my head is unnerving as I make the spag bol but he's indifferent. I worry about the electricity. Eat too much spag bol, love it, during stories I am the wire from my bra start protruding into the edge of my boob. It's 8:30, 6 music stopped working and he's still awake. Tears, channel hoping, wine, friend eventually, and I enjoy Shameless USA, except for the sex stuff of course and the focus on the perspective of the handsome white educated young man because her life was just depressing before him...

Here, smoking, 6 music working. ;-) xxx

June 20, 2011

So far she hasn't shunned me yet...

for sending her an email about child sacrifice and my alcoholic father that was meant for someone. Well, its certainly an ice breaker, I don't need to worry about what she will think about it all.. I overuse disclosure as a way of testing strangers, not as bad as I used to but still have that urge. Especially in polite or formal situations. I start fantasting about talking about horrific injuries, who they treated children and the way it undermines everything that is upheld. Especially job interviews.

Lots of communications from the man from match.com. Hence the mistaken email, christ the things I do when I have no spliffage, scares me heaps. I'm definitely telling him a lot more about me than he is about him, but that might not be a bad thing. We share a lot in outlook, my scared brain worries that its dangerous because when things are going well, problems come out the blue at me.

I'm taking a break from studying after the philosophy exam. defo. In general I don't believe in the approaches taken by Western academia in regards to anything but don't have the energy or commitment at the moment to use their own arguments against them. Focus on typing the abuse, tweeting little a birdie in spring. Praying for disability allowance..

June 15, 2011

Reading 'Room' by Emma Donoghue

If I'm ever to make any serious attempt at writing me I need to know my genres. This is bastarding hard, considering my genres are ritual abuse survivor stories and lets face it the fucking tabloids. Not just all the cozy euphemistic long words of academia. I'm going to have to face up to all those books with the fake handwriting titles and cover shots of kids pulling the same poses I had to. What's the difference of someone taking a photograph of kid crying in order to distress the viewer and doing it to gratify? Part of the same system that uses children as a focus for our difficult emotions. Of course the cover shot kids will be treated differently, but how do they know? How do they know they are not photographing a kid who has made those same expressions but with even less clothes? How would they kid know the difference?

I never did and still don't. People who photographed anything professionally, might and did photograph me. It was pretty viral in some areas of some industries.

Any way there is no disturbing sepia photos of kids on Room thankfully. Any adult portrayal of children makes me uncomfortable but I am aware there is most likely partly my oversensitivity to the exploitation of other peoples misery for easy money. So I'm giving it a go. It is pretty compelling but to be honest the kid does start to grate after a while. It's written completely, so far anyway from his 5 year old perspective; in his voice, through his mind and that makes long reading hours pretty tricky. This annoys me a bit because I do like to get to the end of novels. I like to read for hours or not at all partly because my memory is rubbish and I will forget the beginning by the time I get to the end. Another reason is that if I can be bothered to read it means I am probably a bit overly emotionally involved in the subjects and I want it to be over so I can move on. Maybe the shorter reading sessions are working better in terms of not getting overly involved in a positive sense, I don't think it is going to give me any nightmares. The mother is too strong for me at times which stops the novel from being as challenging as I think it should be. The story is about how in some ways all the little boys fantasies have come true by being locked in with his amazing mum, still breastfeeding as any thing else so far.

I am lovely the feeling provided by their release though. Being stuck in a room like that, symbolic of the mind frames many people are trapped in. Especially me with the nature of my 'work' and 'gifts', 'privileges' and 'duties' in the scene. The mind sets I had to throw and weld together had to be strong and stepping out of them feels a bit like feeling real day light for the first time.

June 14, 2011

anyway..

It eased off a lot today, gets me thinking its just going to keep getting better. I do have a tendancy to think that, about everything. I wasn't going to mention but then I remember I started this to share, even if no one is listening. Just whats its like day to day, when the truths of your life are denied official, privately, publicly. Of course there is very deep self censorship. At the end of the day who the fuck wants to die for their words. Let the wine talk .... So I am going to say that I am very, very proud that Yoko Ono is now following me on twitter. She is a proper feminist in my books and they are slim on the ground.

I am not going to make in jokes about her lending me a tenner or anything that would be bad taste, and undermine the meaning of being a 'ritual abuse survivor' who has found the world where nothing is denied without consideration. Even if they do turn out to be white dudes on the job. Any how wine gone, smokes low, back to bed,

June 13, 2011

Write the pain away

and listen to music until the room becomes home again. Some days its not possible but it has been today. Nerves soothed, bathroom sink cleaned. Look at books to see the shape and remember the sound of words but stop reading as soon as it hurts. Take the painkillers, enjoy the silence.

June 12, 2011

After the definition...

I'm really glad I've put those pages up, its like they were burning a whole in my brain, in my notes. It's so ingrained in me, the perception that I can never be a participant in Western thought, just a subject, that I would be classified and therefore could never classify. Ritual abuse is just colonial practice and colonialism is Westernism, much of it a lot more subtle than the acts described in the empire history course I had to quit because it was all to familiar.

But when I try and read over stuff, I get this feeling that I do have a voice and that I am an active member of meaningful society which means there is more to Westernism than slavery and mind control. If this is true then my dreams have already come true, so what do I do next?

lol I guess... xxx

Ancient Propaganda

Day of ouchies seriously brightened by being called a Satan worshipper on twitter. In not generally very secure, call me a whore, a slut, a lazy bitch or a junkie even bits of me flinch. Call me satan worshipper though and it all goes crystal clear. I'm good. I'm emphatic and its universal not in a way that is restricted to people that serve my interests. I have always gotten off on arguing with people who have restricted ideas about religion. Haven't had much opportunity for that recently but now I have twitter I am satisfied again. It's safe, controllable and I'm already losing my appetite for it. It's not particularly constructive telling people their beloved texts are ancient propaganda. I do feel like I know what I'm talking about though.

June 11, 2011

A relatively successful day

Then why do I feel so bumbed out? Because I flirted behind the back of a non boyfriend, because someone told me god is against gays, or because I stirred up stuff by rereading and posting pages from the past. Or because I'm a bit of a loner and no amount of time on twitter can undo the betrayals of the past. Or because I have no crisps.

Talking to gorgous bloke on match. Too gorgous, I started to feel awkward like I have an extra head. Too many attractive rapists to not feel freaked out when bowled over by someone's good looks, sad isn't it but it was always worse being raped by someone who I wanted to consent to. Made me feel even more worthless, my feelings of even less consquence. I opened up spam porn by accident that is probably got a lot to do with it to, nothing puts me back like accidently viewed porn.

I dont want to end the day on that note though. Still looking forward to our 1000 page view party, still a good way of but getting there. Still wanting to read other peoples memories or opinions of abuse and see what that brings up then handle writing about it. Feeling gay today, like all the flirting with blokes is faked, its deep programming. oh if only I had someone to share my life with things would be so much better... pish

My Friday night involved helping my mother with chronic broncitus push a paino up stairs.

Okay, it was an big electric organ but still it weighed a lot more then we do.

June 10, 2011

Wimping out because of pain

Wee man not in nursery, the ibuprofen wasn't working. Feel guilty now. He's been a nightmare recently about nursery. He's happy when I pick him up but resists most of the way there. As for the essay, it might even be a fail. Not that bothered, I've the time now literature is over and the next module, is 'Minds and Bodies', Descartes, bring it on.

Think I should give my self a break from the structured stuff and just read and write about whatever I want. Use here more, tackle the old notes. No forces by big square brain into round holes.

Feeling better now though, might even put the washing out, or at least out of the washing machine anyway.

The more I think about the more justified I feel in attempting to claim disability. With the lawyer dudes help I will have a chance, certainly didn't on that form on my own. How many depressed people are able to be truely honest about how it effects their day to day living? As with the compensation claim though I don't like thinking about how much differnece a bit more money would make to my ability to look after myself and be the best mom I can to the wee homie. It's not fair, I hate all that work hard and anyone can achieve anything bollox, so they were lucky thats all. Lucky enough to not mind licking the right boots, lucky enough to be able to put career uber alles. Lucky enough to not be locked up, shot, raped, drugged, electroculated to an extent where they are unable to work all the way to the very top of systems that almost virtualy them. While most of the money on the world is just numbers being passed around, or just sitting there of no use to anyone.

for christ sake leave Germaine Greer alone!

There is fuck all wrong with radicalism, you dumbfuck mainstream motherfuckers...

June 09, 2011

#Twitter & #6music & ## = #happiness

Up to 16 followers, I guess like wee man and his computer I will start to loose interest in a bit. Bit obsessed at the moment, couldn't give a fuck about essay. I will do what I can tomorrow and post it. Every act of academia counts...

Will be drinking with mother tomorrow night, another mother daughter flitting and bonding evening. I'm sure it will go great except for the back ache from the humfing crap about. I'm so glad there will be more distance between her and my sister. She's an energy vampire, a rubbish drunk and an insenstive boot. Where as my mother is just shit at dealing with shit.

As for the sister that is going with her the is no reason to presume the horrible spirit downing monster will not return. And as far the brother-in-law that acts like women are the only ones with any duty to physical care... The way he talks her sometimes has really spoiled a few days for me.

They made me name people, so I put little reminders in the names. Footsteps to the truth.

Been getting that burning cervix feeling again, the only real solution put forward by doctors is coil or hormonale injections... Think I will stick to the little round yellow pills and the painkillers for the moment. Shame poet friend is fading away, I think more time with him would have been very good for me. And we would of made beautiful babies.

Where are my communicatio skills?

I used to get good marks for 'communication' at school, now I don't have the will or the ability. To busy thinking I know it all wish I could be arsed to prove it like I did in my teens. Writing essay's is shit when you have done fuck all course work. I took me a while but I think of Social Darwism as liberating. Feminism is the genetic responses to the cultrual climate. We are all dorment, waiting for the right enviroment to show our true colours. There was a fair bit of it at the scientific end of Satanism. It's truma and stress that turns genes on or of. I argued education and safety would do the same but they weren't interested in the same genes I was. They were all about breaking bonds, I was about making more of them and making them stronger. Annoying now that the kids that followed them will have a lot more 'bonds' in their life than I do.

There was a tweet today about capitalist being really bad at capitalism. That was explained because the bottem line is not money, its oppression, its politics. 'Satanism is politics in its purest form', cause politics is all about making your voice louder than others. So cutting out tongues and damaging language centers is therefore rational. Of course they same stability arguments used to prop at Arab dictators was used to prop up white drug dealing, child killing, porn producers and to delete my police records.