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    Woof Contributing Member

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    Decanting: Let it breathe

    Discussion in 'Progress Journals' started by Woof, Oct 25, 2015.

    I don't know if this is a good idea, but I'm going to try it.
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    I need somewhere private to decant my pain and let it breathe, and then maybe one day it will make some sense, or it will mellow and won't hold on to me any more. If it exists out here, and not on my machine, it feels like I'm removing or processing it more than if I write a diary... or something. It is in here because it is a core part of my writing progress, because:

    • These problems are what stop me writing, but they are not ones I want to discuss publicly, though they are self-perpetuating the more I try to ignore them. So, this is a compromise that allows me somewhere to feel like I can track my personal progress as much as my writing... though the two are as closely related to me as my body and breath. It also means I can get things out of my head and focus on what makes me happy instead... and write!
    • These entries are also what I want to use one day to write about anxiety, for children... to fictionalise parts of my life and demystify them from my adult POV and apply my experience retroactively, so children can become more aware of what mental abuse is. I want them to know it is not normal, or even just another/different way of living, and how to reject it themselves and live better, or to support others fighting to reject it. Top down support is limited and often inadvertently mirrors abusive patterns and systems, but peer support is much more successful. Having friends is almost impossible when all you have ever learnt is to hate yourself, but it is crucial in heading off problems early and avoiding the development of self-destructive behaviours. One day maybe I can use what I have learnt to help others, in ways my mother couldn't and won't.

    ADMIN: I wish this were wholly private, but I'd be naive if I thought it was, even if it wasn't explicitly stated that you can view this. If you think it's inappropriate, that's your call, clearly, just give me a chance to copy the content if you would before deleting it. It is writing related, for me, but I understand others may not view it that way. If it seems at any point that I am suffering, I probably am, but I have offline support and I will be okay... I am not, nor ever have been 'at risk'. I will always fight for my life.
     
    Last edited: Oct 25, 2015
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    ...........................................................................................................................................................................................................
    If I were a dog, I would have been crate trained with love till I was two, and then every day after they whacked the sides with iron bars, kicked at the door and screamed... but it was still the only safe space I ever knew, and I still got back in. It was better than being outside, submerged in it. I never realised I could leave. Even now, looking back, I can't see how I could have gone, removed myself into anything better, because all I could see was monsters, and now that's all I remember. I never had a chance.

    At school, I was weird and wrong and foolish every day of my life... and I believed it because when I went back home I was told the same. When I went out, everything went wrong and everything that was not perfect was a personal attack... because that's what I knew. At university, I couldn't understand why not everyone spent everyday in constant fear because everything is frightening when nowhere is safe. When I tried to find work, the only job where I felt safe was one where things were worse than I imagined them to be: here was my place, the horror that I always knew was waiting to consume me, and I was coping with it, I was a success in my sallow, bloodied eyes. And I was strong, I was good, I took it all for ten more years until I finally broke under the weight of their capitalist, misogynistic, inhuman spite. I would not be that any more... but then what was left?

    What is left?

    A new me, starting from primary school again, in a time when I believed someone loved me and that there was hope and possibility for something new in my future. I think I have to resolve myself that it is too late for a new family now... and that would only muddy the waters again anyway, for a new generation, but maybe I can be a whole me again, at least, and learn how to enjoy myself in balance with the pain, the shame, and the venomous self-loathing that shaped my reality for 32 years. I have to let it go, even if no one else will.
     
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    Today's instalment of WTF: I am a bad person because I want to eat chocolate the night before I'm going to the dentist. Not two separate events -- I would like some chocolate AND I am going to the dentists tomorrow -- but a clear causal relationship, naturally, and one that requires condemnation, clearly. I don't think like this in any other situation, only in relation to myself, and I feel completely powerless to stop it lately. The worst thing is I can hear my mother asking me the same thing when I ask my partner 'Tell me I'm not a bad person because...'. The gift of self-loathing that her father gave to her and I was chosen to inherit.
     
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    Envying the dead: a young boy dies in horrific circumstances and what registers with me was how lucky he was that he was loved by so many. What would people say about me: Who? She was a bit weird but I guess she was okay... sometimes. She made me uncomfortable. Why couldn't she just be normal? Did she really think she was okay? How did she ever expect to get on in life looking and acting like that? Everyone knows she could have done well but she chose not to, being stupid... she got what she deserved. And I realise these are the voices that are there in my head daily... the spooks. It's not just about the boy, but that I think everyone hates me, always, because that's what she wanted me to believe so I would stay at home. It was never going to happen though: even under the burden of hatred I always knew I couldn't breathe there... but it had to get to the point of no return before I could jump. A pattern that repeats itself with work: my body, my mind's own way of calling me out for putting myself in the same situations over and over again, even though I don't have to any more. I should be free.
     
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    Fairweather forecast: They wonder 'what happened'. I was such a happy child. The scream rests, unspoken, on my lips daily, 'You. You happened. You threw me to the wolves and watched as they ripped everything I held dear to pieces... then you applauded them.'
    Foulweather forecast: They say I am the strong one, but what they mean is I know how to take a kicking when it keeps on coming. What they mean is they can use me up and I don't know how to say no.

    I wonder what it was like to be me, 0-2 -- that joyful me that clearly felt so loved I spent my life trying to get it back -- I don't really know. I've closed so much off, at risk of existing; causing pain by breathing. I wonder what it's like to know love and acceptance... can the one exist without the other? I wonder what it's like not to think, just to be.
     
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    ...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................And when the new year chimes in again this year, I will make a resolution for once and I will have to keep it: no more suffering in silence. No more sitting in the corner holding all the pain, letting them leave it and walk away. No more blaming me for living: I cannot bear it any more. I will find a new family, love them and ask them to love me, and hope it's the right one this time... no, make sure it's the right one this time. I can make good decisions. I can be worth something to someone. I can be me and exist with happiness. I can do this; I don't have any choice.
     
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