In Every Action I am Repenting for Sins I Never Committed
My writing style has changed a bit lately due to the natural fragmentation that happens after experiencing a traumatic event. Please be cool about it, I'm trying my best. I know I'm not the best writer/poet and I know it sucks right now.
Two days ago I wrote the post about getting SA'd. Earlier today, I showed it to my therapist. I feel weird about finally acknowledging it out loud. I don't feel better, I feel heavy and empty and childish. I really, really feel childish. I'm sitting in my bedroom, my childhood bedroom, listening to a CD I burned play on the Crosley jukebox I got for Christmas in 2016 and I feel like the same person I was then. I feel 21 and sixteen and twelve and six. I feel the weight of everything that has made me who I am.
The original version of "Cellars" by Charity Kiss is playing. I don't like the remake, it's too polished. The main singer's voice doesn't strain with grief anymore, the song sounds more like an ode to an ex lover than the gut wrenching pain of a broken man that's playing now. I suppose that's what happens when you move on. The pain gets duller and you pull yourself together, integrating the experience into your understanding of yourself. You become more polished, less jagged edges that leave others with unpleasant impressions.
I've written about grief before on here, I have a post titled "Childhood Grief" which is loosely about grieving what I could have been if I wasn't abused, at least as much as any of these posts are "about" anything. What I'm feeling now is grief. It all goes back to Connor. Every time I feel grief for any reason, it comes back to him. Usually I change the names of people in my life but I can't for him. He died of an overdose before he got the chance to graduate highschool. He was my coworker, possibly my friend although I'm not sure how he would describe our relationship. He's buried in Michigan, too far for me to visit. Too far for anyone to visit. I miss him. Not every day, not all the time, but when something reminds me I miss him. When I smoke a bowl, when I use a speed pour, when I go to the smoke shop, when I see a mouse. I wonder who he would have become. I wonder if he knew how much we all loved him. He died alone in his bedroom. He probably died scared. Did he live scared too?
Sometimes I hope there's a God, I hope heaven exists, so that Connor can be at peace. I hope heaven has mountain dew. I hope it has bongs and ketamine and Adderall. I hope it feels free. I hope he knows how much we all miss him. I hope he knows that we still talk about him. I hope he feels loved. I hope he isn't scared.
My dad is dying. Slowly, but still dying. He hasn't told anyone else, this is my cross to bear. I don't know why he only told me. He called me drunk and explained about his heart and how he won't take medication. I hope God exists. I hope my dad has to meet him and explain. I don't even care about getting answers to my questions anymore. It doesn't matter why he chose to defend my abuser, it doesn't matter why he made me run until I puked, it doesn't matter why he blames me for the assault. I take the "apology" money and spend it on things that make me happy. He made amends to me as part of his 9th step, it would have meant more if he did it without asking and actually apologized for anything instead of making me tell him what he did and then giving a generic "I'm sorry." It would have meant more if he didn't go and do it all again, but without alcohol to blame it on this time. I've tried so hard to help him. I've tried so hard to be good.
I worry there's something in my heart that brings all of this stuff to me. In every action I am repenting for sins I never committed. I truly am sorry for existing. I don't know how to make it better. I don't know how to make myself right. I have dreams of my own, I have hopes for my future. I have ambitions. I have them because someone told me to. I allow myself to want because I've been given permission. I know this is deep programming, I know this is the subservience that was beat into me. I remember rebelling, and I also remember the consequences for it. My body is not my own. My body is a vessel for whatever you want it for. I'm better. I'm healing. I'm safe. Lies I tell myself. I don't want to be a person. I want someone to let me be a dog. I want someone to tell me how I can serve them. I figure it out without explicit instruction, but it feels wrong to assume what someone wants from me. I think most people feel bad wanting things from me. I think most people are ashamed of their needs. We're taught not to use people.
I'm not sure how to end this. I started by saying I felt childish. My childhood wasn't the best, so I guess it's apt to feel shame and inferiority and be reminded of it. I have two more days off. Two days until I can leave the world again. I have to be a person for two more days. Maybe I'll take a benzo. I don't want to be Lin. I want to be what people expect of me.