The sum of my parts
Reading Olgo R. Trujillo's book, have stopped after the part when her dad gets her brothers involved. I remember that hope to, seeing my sisters with him. They want to help me, to talk about the truth unlike Olga though I can't go into any detail about what happened next. It's not even blackness, just that the nanny part of me stops me from seeing any more like 'dont worry your pretty head about all that my dear'. There are flashes of my sisters on top of me anything else gets pulled back before it comes to the surface. I love the fact she writes about her eyes moving back and forward, the flickering, daytime REM I've talked about in previous blogs, inner restructuring.
I'm sure I used to hold moments in my fist like she did as well, until it was found out and I had to think of something else.
Left hand making cord shapes along to Beth Orton, I used to think that the first thing I would do when the trials were over was learn how to play the guitar properly, to read music, to play, to create on my on terms, for pleasure, for healing. I tried before but it was so hard, I couldn't just pick it up and play like I used to. Hard to dissasociate guitars from industrial horror.
I thought it was just a fantasy until I saw the cuts on my fingers. Then I remembered the little feat on the peddles and the way men looked at me. Rape music.
I think I need a shrink, one that I choose. There would be some very, very hard times though, its so hard to commit to making things worse even if in the end it would make things better. I can't see how things would change much just bungling along they way I am.
Finding one that accepts ritual abuse is probably hard enough, nevermind one that accepts involvment of the state and the places they sent me or being forced into studios to create/produce for well known artists.
It's been in films, games. Soldiers, mercinaries sent out to gun down black people in huts. We went to school with our hands aching, still trembling from prelonged use of automatic weapons.
It's easy for me, I was there. How does someone believe it if they weren't there, if the knowledge isnt in them all ready?
I'm sure I used to hold moments in my fist like she did as well, until it was found out and I had to think of something else.
Left hand making cord shapes along to Beth Orton, I used to think that the first thing I would do when the trials were over was learn how to play the guitar properly, to read music, to play, to create on my on terms, for pleasure, for healing. I tried before but it was so hard, I couldn't just pick it up and play like I used to. Hard to dissasociate guitars from industrial horror.
I thought it was just a fantasy until I saw the cuts on my fingers. Then I remembered the little feat on the peddles and the way men looked at me. Rape music.
I think I need a shrink, one that I choose. There would be some very, very hard times though, its so hard to commit to making things worse even if in the end it would make things better. I can't see how things would change much just bungling along they way I am.
Finding one that accepts ritual abuse is probably hard enough, nevermind one that accepts involvment of the state and the places they sent me or being forced into studios to create/produce for well known artists.
It's been in films, games. Soldiers, mercinaries sent out to gun down black people in huts. We went to school with our hands aching, still trembling from prelonged use of automatic weapons.
It's easy for me, I was there. How does someone believe it if they weren't there, if the knowledge isnt in them all ready?
