..dear reader..

Txted my pal this morning to find out my chances of getting any weed today, she said probably not today but soon. Today is the anniversary of a still birth for the couple she gets it from.  This was enough to set me off, crying loud enough and long enough for wee man to hear and come in the room to ask why I was sad, why I was crying.  Still birth? In a hospital, with medical attention, the support of a long term partner/family/friends, a burial, a name, a date without being concussed, drugged or hit with enough mind control so you forget the specifics, feelings never go though.   Flowers, hugs, sympathetic GPs.  I don't think many of mine born after 22 weeks or so were still, to begin with anyway.  Why the little fuckers would hold onto life so hard I'll never know anymore than I know why I held on to life when I could of so easily just of let go.  Except of course to piss people off.  It was the thought of exposing my family one ...

Every time I arrive somewhere or fought to leave a location, it has been through the hope that I could find somewhere where I felt I had never been before but in agonuy, drugged, terrisfied or just not me.  Hoping that I could find somewhere without that crippyling oppressive atmosphere.  It gave me a sense of worth.  It was a horrible feeling that hit me everywhere I am sometimes.  A strange painful sense that I've been here before even if the images, flashes of body memories and the like seemed to be about something positive.  It couldn't of been me because I couldn't laugh like that.  Mostly though pains where sharp and the memories increasingly sequencial.  I never knew if I was reacting to the place where I was, the place I had been or the places I was going.  There was a group when I lived in Aberdeenshire ran mainly by young Scottish men and women in their early twenties and thirties from families who were known to have cr...

My sister's ex used to come up the road. I've tried to remember if it started when he lived down stairs from us but all I can remember is watching a film in his living room, I can't remember whats it called, its about teenagers having sex, named after a bar or something. But when we moved away he would visit in the night, like I said my dad had the keys and wouldn't lock the doors. He often used this drug on me, it would totally paralyse me but had no effect on my head or what I felt. I was totally conscious, he had some knowledge of working my alters dissociative states so someone was training him. He would get my little nephew involved to, he would touch him gently and ask him if he liked it and tell him he loved him afterwards. He was never gentle with me and would talk to my nephew about me, saying I must be a whore to let them do that to me. He had been training my nephew since he was tiny, one of his first words was 'whore' he would say it whenever I...

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 whoeve...