Christmas lights, Christmas nights.
Before we broke off I said to my therapist that I wanted to continue giving a brief overview of my teen years but I think we will be going back to talk about the eighties.
Its not images and sensations connected to the sexual abuse by my Scottish dad that flood every time I feel even remotely connected to my own sexuality. Its all about Savile now. I came round and remembered various times through out the years. Every time I would notice how much older his body was and how closely I had seen it age, how much my body knew him, it felt like big chunks of me had been cleaved of.
He was one of those that it didn't matter how much I did or didn't fight, who I did or didn't tell I would still myself being raped by them and them with the same void in their eyes. The flashbacks from previous traumas would be so common and so intense sometimes I didn't know when I was remembering something that happened when I was little, something more recent or if it was happening now. Men, cheap porn producers and vicious teenage girls would swap intel on how to manipulate this and when my tougher multiples that they couldn't get near were more likely to be around. It didn't matter where I went, someone was likely to try and get drugs into me. Public places, in the homes of friends and family, police stations, in anything I left in the fridge. Any cash was liable to be taken of me.
The sheer quantity of it all is starting to dawn. The regulars when I was younger, he played a big part in it all. He was big on the psychological stuff and causing pain. Possible baths with an uncle, regular vists to 'wooden house' with a bloke who was a lot more yonnger and better looking than many. It think Jimmy told me was a musician or something. Beautiful house lots of carved wooden furniture, kind of open plan downstairs. A smaller room upstairs on a matters or futton or something close to the floor, against the wall, slanted roof above, I think there was cladding or something on some of the walls. I was taken to the same place to make porn. The guy would make choose between objects of long curvy carved wood. Sometimes he would talk to me lots and touch me gently and try make me like him but then he would always use the worst one. It was his favorite he always and he would used it until I screamed. He said it was better if I felt good with him for a while before but it always made me scream worse. Sometimes he used my throat with the carved wood to.
Woke up chewing on my own very swollen sore tongue on Boxing day. My ailing mother who has been on antibiotics and steroids piped in 'oh I've had that too, its maybe oral thrush'.
Its all a bit familiar, nasty, horrible soul rot that is thrush, Christmas my mother and Savile on the brain. I had thrush in various places a lot growing up. I think I had it few months if not longer because it was in my face, my mouth I barely felt it for ages. I was very conditioned not go investigating any pain and discomfort in my wet places, it was always better not to know.
Like when the first thought when waking is about realising I was about to feel the full physical force of the rape and it was too late to hide somewhere. I hated that. I hate thrush too.
There must of been other Christmases though, ones far from Scotland and big draughty houses, endless infections and coldness. Being the bottom of the heap. Someone has looked after me, properly not like how I'm 'looked after' here. Maybe its something I invented by looking in John Lewis's window in December whilst thinking about the stories I made whenever I smelt Italian food - The Faraway land of the top the big wooden table where all the good stuff and never anything sore comes from.
I was generally always very conscious of how the word 'Gangster' had two very conflicting and opposing set of connotations for me. The best life and the worst. Love, safety, excellent health care, sunshine, fantastic diet on one hand and being raped all the time on the other. Torture, exploitation, slavery, murder, being kept, hunger, pain, feeling run down, traumatised, drugged, the eating of body parts, shit, kept starved and tortured with food, parents appeasing abusers in the promise of medical attention for their kids. Constant bastard thrush and catching every fucking cold, flu, stomach bug and viral infection that was going around.
I guess there is one set of connotations that bridges the heaven and hell though and that's all the blood and the screaming. Calling December Demember sometime in my teens and laughing, crying, telling others about it. Then heading into town to shit stir the stressed, emotional, pissed up normal folk.
Having Christmas here was pretty awesome, even if I did spend a fair bit of the evening hiding in my room because my good lass turns into a lecherous ugly young farmer after 2 sherries and I was experiencing an allergic reaction to sons my voice.
Natural yogurt, Dakatarin, plenty lovely clean water, booze, a Audrey Hepburn moose mat and coaster, a lump of ghetto hash, vitamins and a lovely wee house to allllll to myself for a few days. There is also no one thrusting themselves into said thrushy hot spots or otherwise irritating it and intentionally making recovery impossible. Torture by thrush. Think on that.. What would you do for Daktarin and clean lukewarm water?
What's that? Maybe we should open the Morgans? Well the wine doesn't need seem to be helping the mouth fungus situation and its best to make the most of well stocked me time :)
I'm a big fan of a big Winter Festival. As a time of indulgence and taking a step back to appreciate and make the most of what ever you have. The lights help put off the S.A.D symptoms during the darkest time of the year as does the fine food and drink. As for the 'Christ' stuff, its all lovely too if you interpret it outside of organised religion. A bloody good story about a baby in a far away land that would bring about the end of social injustice Its inspired some pretty bitchin tunes and art over the centuries It just feels to me that its the only thing in my cultural history that has been around forever, the justifications for it all may of changed but at the heart its about accepting and embracing the human condition and its place in something much bigger. Gotta do your best to organise a good winter festival for yourself, no one can do it for you and if you fuck it up your heading to longer winter months and wet spring already running on empty.
And Santa? Well if a couple of decades of high end Satanism didn't put me off than idiots forcing their tiny tots onto the knees of strange men in funny disguises in the name of consumerism isn't going to either. Besides some of that sentimental Victorian art is beautiful.
Its not images and sensations connected to the sexual abuse by my Scottish dad that flood every time I feel even remotely connected to my own sexuality. Its all about Savile now. I came round and remembered various times through out the years. Every time I would notice how much older his body was and how closely I had seen it age, how much my body knew him, it felt like big chunks of me had been cleaved of.
He was one of those that it didn't matter how much I did or didn't fight, who I did or didn't tell I would still myself being raped by them and them with the same void in their eyes. The flashbacks from previous traumas would be so common and so intense sometimes I didn't know when I was remembering something that happened when I was little, something more recent or if it was happening now. Men, cheap porn producers and vicious teenage girls would swap intel on how to manipulate this and when my tougher multiples that they couldn't get near were more likely to be around. It didn't matter where I went, someone was likely to try and get drugs into me. Public places, in the homes of friends and family, police stations, in anything I left in the fridge. Any cash was liable to be taken of me.
The sheer quantity of it all is starting to dawn. The regulars when I was younger, he played a big part in it all. He was big on the psychological stuff and causing pain. Possible baths with an uncle, regular vists to 'wooden house' with a bloke who was a lot more yonnger and better looking than many. It think Jimmy told me was a musician or something. Beautiful house lots of carved wooden furniture, kind of open plan downstairs. A smaller room upstairs on a matters or futton or something close to the floor, against the wall, slanted roof above, I think there was cladding or something on some of the walls. I was taken to the same place to make porn. The guy would make choose between objects of long curvy carved wood. Sometimes he would talk to me lots and touch me gently and try make me like him but then he would always use the worst one. It was his favorite he always and he would used it until I screamed. He said it was better if I felt good with him for a while before but it always made me scream worse. Sometimes he used my throat with the carved wood to.
Woke up chewing on my own very swollen sore tongue on Boxing day. My ailing mother who has been on antibiotics and steroids piped in 'oh I've had that too, its maybe oral thrush'.
Its all a bit familiar, nasty, horrible soul rot that is thrush, Christmas my mother and Savile on the brain. I had thrush in various places a lot growing up. I think I had it few months if not longer because it was in my face, my mouth I barely felt it for ages. I was very conditioned not go investigating any pain and discomfort in my wet places, it was always better not to know.
Like when the first thought when waking is about realising I was about to feel the full physical force of the rape and it was too late to hide somewhere. I hated that. I hate thrush too.
There must of been other Christmases though, ones far from Scotland and big draughty houses, endless infections and coldness. Being the bottom of the heap. Someone has looked after me, properly not like how I'm 'looked after' here. Maybe its something I invented by looking in John Lewis's window in December whilst thinking about the stories I made whenever I smelt Italian food - The Faraway land of the top the big wooden table where all the good stuff and never anything sore comes from.
I was generally always very conscious of how the word 'Gangster' had two very conflicting and opposing set of connotations for me. The best life and the worst. Love, safety, excellent health care, sunshine, fantastic diet on one hand and being raped all the time on the other. Torture, exploitation, slavery, murder, being kept, hunger, pain, feeling run down, traumatised, drugged, the eating of body parts, shit, kept starved and tortured with food, parents appeasing abusers in the promise of medical attention for their kids. Constant bastard thrush and catching every fucking cold, flu, stomach bug and viral infection that was going around.
I guess there is one set of connotations that bridges the heaven and hell though and that's all the blood and the screaming. Calling December Demember sometime in my teens and laughing, crying, telling others about it. Then heading into town to shit stir the stressed, emotional, pissed up normal folk.
Having Christmas here was pretty awesome, even if I did spend a fair bit of the evening hiding in my room because my good lass turns into a lecherous ugly young farmer after 2 sherries and I was experiencing an allergic reaction to sons my voice.
Natural yogurt, Dakatarin, plenty lovely clean water, booze, a Audrey Hepburn moose mat and coaster, a lump of ghetto hash, vitamins and a lovely wee house to allllll to myself for a few days. There is also no one thrusting themselves into said thrushy hot spots or otherwise irritating it and intentionally making recovery impossible. Torture by thrush. Think on that.. What would you do for Daktarin and clean lukewarm water?
What's that? Maybe we should open the Morgans? Well the wine doesn't need seem to be helping the mouth fungus situation and its best to make the most of well stocked me time :)
I'm a big fan of a big Winter Festival. As a time of indulgence and taking a step back to appreciate and make the most of what ever you have. The lights help put off the S.A.D symptoms during the darkest time of the year as does the fine food and drink. As for the 'Christ' stuff, its all lovely too if you interpret it outside of organised religion. A bloody good story about a baby in a far away land that would bring about the end of social injustice Its inspired some pretty bitchin tunes and art over the centuries It just feels to me that its the only thing in my cultural history that has been around forever, the justifications for it all may of changed but at the heart its about accepting and embracing the human condition and its place in something much bigger. Gotta do your best to organise a good winter festival for yourself, no one can do it for you and if you fuck it up your heading to longer winter months and wet spring already running on empty.
And Santa? Well if a couple of decades of high end Satanism didn't put me off than idiots forcing their tiny tots onto the knees of strange men in funny disguises in the name of consumerism isn't going to either. Besides some of that sentimental Victorian art is beautiful.
