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.