The Desperate Holdings On of an Ugly Creature
Trigger Warning: Incest (from the perspective of a survivor,) Shame and trauma scripts, Sexual Abuse, Suicide (actual method described,) Religious trauma after effects
I'm struggling with putting my thoughts into words right now. I don't know if I'll post this, but I wanted to try writing. It's July 11th. I feel like a corpse brought back to haunt the earth. In the small hours of the night (morning?) I allow myself to feel ugly things. How old was I when it all started? Was I a flirtatious infant? I don't know how to make this my fault. What did I do to provoke this? Why am I still a second wife, an object and the antichrist? God we talk a lot about incest and child abuse, but no one talks about after. I'm too old for sex, at 21. I was too old at ten. Sometimes I wish I could have stayed dead that night. I don't know how to tell my friends that I'm bad for them. I don't know how to tell them I'm the same as the cancer in W's body. I enjoy feeling loved by them too much.
I let myself think that it could be okay. For a brief moment, in between the long shifts and the suffocating nights, I allowed myself to hope. I didn't notice the knife until it was seated between my ribs. I'm not numb. God I wish I could be numb. Instead, I feel everything all at once. I feel it fall into the massive chasm in my chest where the idea of redemption used to live. Maybe I'm the fool for thinking "different" meant "better." This sounds like a suicide note. It could be, I have valium and a nearly full bottle of Absolut vodka from my birthday. Would God blame me? Would you?
Can I be forgiven for sins I committed before I knew about God? At what point does a baby become a sinner? At what point does a baby become attractive? Is it my fault?
This isn't a suicide note. This is the desperate holdings on of a man who has work in 3 and a half hours and just learned how early the abuse started. I should be composing myself. I should be putting the human face back on. I shouldn't be thinking about my fetal sins. I want to be acting human again, I don't want to face the ugly visage of what I was groomed to be. I don't want to face the way I miss it. I was born with a purpose, what use is an asexual whore? What use is my body when I'm in too much pain to perform? Does it matter if I'm pretty or not? I've been raped while hot and ugly and fat and skinny and sober and inebriated and a child and an adult and pious and dissident. Should I even allow myself to desire something else? Is there enough Xanax in the world to take away the knowledge of what it's like to be loved? Is it possible to get so high I can't tell the difference between the drugs and real safety?
I can't go to work and be a person like this. I can't be who they want me to be. I can't be who I want me to be. I want to be good. And I don't know if I can.