Got Out, Sick But Dealing When I Can...

I went to Looney Tunes today. I wasn't planning on it. I saw A's car there and I like talking with her. She's just as angry as me and intelligent. She is also "in touch" with her emotions. Well I mean by that that she isn't uncomfortable with them.
I went to far I fear. I told her exactly how I felt. All the self hatred and pain and desire to maim and kill came out in a horrifying stream of emotional talk. She just wanted me to change something and leave the situation that I'm in. And I known that that is what most people want for me. I am raw. I am an open walking wound.
Last week I went to the bank. I dress like a slob. Basically I just don't care. I was also sick and I wanted to be comfortable. My broken zipper on my fleece hoodie with the patches hung open and my Pajama shirt hung out. I had on a pair of sweatpants that still had paint from when I helped P out with the posters. My comfy slippers scuffed on the ugly laminate tile floor.
A person I knew from high school, Kelly "served" me. She implied that I was a hopeless slacker by saying that I must be just hanging around lately. I was bleary and I do not do comebacks so I replied, "If you say so." I wouldn't give that c^nt the time of day in public but the b!tch couldn't be ignored. Afterwards I played the coulda/woulda/shoulda game with my damaged psyche. The past of being constantly bullied throughout elementary, junior and senior high came down on me like a curse. My mind reeled with the years of being called names not just by the scum bags like her in school but by my own parents, family. "Lazy", I can't even list the crap that I endured for years.
The worst of it all is as I left I turned around, waved and said, "Happy Thanksgiving!" I am a mark and I felt it. Visions of slicing her fat neck open slammed me and my Mother's chattering annoyed me. I knew if I told my Mother she would say something stupid like: "That's in the past now." or "It couldn't have been all that bad." I couldn't stand thinking that I wanted to punch my Mother in the throat.
Still when we got in the car I told her, "That's one of the sh!theads who made my life hell." I figured she needed a face to go with the constant bullying. There are many. I dwelled on the years I actually lived here, under the radar carefully not showing my face in public. Shopping after 1 am in grocery stores to avoid the past and the people I feared hadn't changed an iota from childhood. Walking around town at 5 am to avoid faces and the possibility of recognition. This c^nt confirmed my fears.
Living in fear. Living it every day. The stalking that my husband committed against me for years was nothing compared to fearing that many people I used to know will catch sight of me. RD being my Mother's plumber must have sent the 411 out there that the loser was in town.
The reality is that these people are small minded sad little people. Taking pleasure in my pain, seeking to humiliate me to make themselves feel better. I know that although I am no celebutard or rich and famous whack job I am still in a better place than them. I always was and always will be. I don't set out to hurt people to gain pleasure from it. I don't enjoy seeing someone squirm under my questions. I am attempting to climb out of my hole, be honest with people and undo the damage that people like this have inflicted on a child who was an outsider. Lucky them. They can keep their company. These are not people I want to be associated with.
I wonder to myself do I have to conquer the fear or is it a survival technique. A way of shielding myself against people who have no empathy. Is it better to hide and limit myself so that I can strengthen my own identity and understand the damage that was done? Or should I go out and try to be as shitty as they?
I talked to A about it. I gave TMI. I made her cry; the tirade of self hatred and emotions was too raw and real. She understood it and it hurt. I felt ashamed that I let the monster go. I felt like an assh0le for letting my inner reality spill out onto her. I work hard not to share these things with people. People don't understand that I don't shoot a hole in my head because I have seen the effects of what happens to a human skull once a bullet has entered and exited it and the results of the human that survives this experience. My ex took a gun and blew a hole into his head. He still had a hole in the back of his head that they had to sew up but he let me feel the scar damage. He took massive drugs, was a bad junkie and died of AIDs later on. His life was a miserable hell that he tried to escape daily. People would tell him it was a miracle he survived. He had fake teeth, headaches, talked with a slur and looked kind of fucked up. It got worse the larger his bender got. He'd lose his teeth at people's houses. His glasses would get damaged. He'd have sex with anyone. His self identity was so damaged that he would talk of God then tell me I shouldn't be his girlfriend. He'd try to fuck with my head and he succeeded; I was young. I finally told him I didn't want to see him anymore. He was too much and I needed someone who wouldn't f^ck around on me and take drugs and lie to me.
I've had a boyfriend who was a transsexual. I should have known it and I suspected something when I met him. I think I am a hero and want to rescue men who are so out of control that their lives are hanging off the edge of reality. I want to help someone who needs the help I needed back then. The black lamb, the sacrificial flesh, the rejected, the down trodden all call to me. I have turned my back on that now. I am the lamb that needs to be saved. And it's hard to have hope, sympathy, love and tenderness for the person you hate the most.
This has been the hardest part for me. I don't know how to love me. I believe all the b^ll sh!t that was thrown at me over the years. That is what years and years of different people putting you down does: you believe all the sh!t that people tell you. If it was just one person it would be simple to understand that that person is a bullying scum bag. But years of multiple people joining in and throwing stones... I hold a hard core of hate and memory of all the people who did me wrong. My memory is far and wide and deep like the oceans. It looks glassy or disturbed on top but underneath cold currents of hate freeze my mind. Hot vents of passion burn my thoughts. I know who you are and I know if I put a knife to your neck I would slit your throat like a piece of meat.
To say that is sacrilege in psychology. You are a serial killer if you even breathe that you have feelings like these. The problem is that these feelings are not abnormal. The problem is that bullying is tolerated and even an expectation in society. It is a right of passage. You "become stronger" when you weather abuse like this from undisciplined and cruel children. People tell themselves that children that do these things are innocent and grow out of it. They don't. Where do bad bosses and abusive spouses come from. How are people who abuse the system made? This is something that is not dealt with when it should be. People don't know how to handle it and the people who instigate it mask it. It is part of the violent cycle of abuse, power, control and manipulation. And the sufferer comes out sick and warped, their self esteem damaged forever. There is no healing when the pain has continued on and on. And then again once the person comes back and the abusers start in again.

Standing up to Damaging Advice and Overcoming Trauma Directives By Darlene Ouimet

Here is a good blog entry that inspired me to write this. I'd also like to thank A for her patience in listening to the toxic core of my being today. I hope the pain she is suffering becomes something she can dispense with.

Not With The Program...

I'm a little creeped out. Seems that my posts are being viewed. I suppose expecting them to not be viewed is counterproductive to posting a blog. This blog was basically just so that I could keep track of my activities to see if the WRAP program was worthwhile to do on my own. I got my answer. It's alright if I plan on basically living my life around doing the WRAP program all the time. Writing a daily page and a blog page took up a lot of time. I guess it kept me out of trouble and to a schedule but realistically I don't stay with schedules.
It's the holidays now. With Thanksgiving over and me on lithium again (CR informed me it's been maybe  a year since I've not taken any lithium and close to two years that we haven't had a face to face meeting.) My does time past when my head is busy trying to survive stress.
I think the posts I've been doing are boring. Who cares, really? I know I'm not interested in going over them. I planned on looking at them and trying to collate any worthwhile data that would help me deal with my mental health. I had hoped to add anything that would help me deal with the past and the abuse and molestation that happened to me. I have always thought a time line of abuse and major events in my life would help me put together just how screwed up I am and was at the time of the happenings. I just can't concentrate. I think I need someone focused and organized who can keep me on topic and help me deal with therapy at the same time. A group (like the WRAP group,) is too loose and unfocused. I have a terrible time trusting any therapists after all the shit that happened with the kids and I and school. So where does that leave me? Rambling on...
My identity is not static. I see myself as hero, genius, outcast, black sheep, freak, misunderstood guru and many other things. Other people see me as a good mother, a lost soul maybe other things, I don't know. I tend not to believe anything positive people say about me. I feel it is a way to get me to like them or as a reward for being nice to them or as a reward for being friends. Every thing is done for a reason. Everything is suspicious. When I can believe someone it is rare basically because it doesn't last long. I question everything. Nothing is real in reality. The older I get the worse it gets. I become adept at seeing things as a means to an end. Everything has a reason.
I lied to a friend last night. Not because I had to. I could have told them the truth: I didn't contact them immediately about something they sent me because the things my mind told me were upsetting. I know better than to tell people the truth though when it comes to my mind dictating what should and shouldn't be done. And when my mind becomes confused because of the past and the present or because of this person and another person, I freeze. Better to lie than say, "I wanted to call you but I am caught in a mental whirl of believing that you think I am a pathetic victim and you need to give me things to make yourself feel better." See, I've had that done to me in the past by friends and relatives and even therapists. I don't care to be seen as a victim or a charity case. And that is normal.
But how far do I go? I forget who I've told about my past. I forget how much each person knows. I don't care if they know about the abuse. Or the molestation. Or the bullying. Or the belief that I was retarded. Or the alcoholism in the family. Or the mental illness. Everything I say is a story about someone else. Someone who evolved into me. I am not them. I am a shell. I am nothing. That doesn't bother me. I know who I am. I know that the general public doesn't like people like me. They lay the blame for everything bad about society at the door step of people who are not "successful", who are struggling to get by. Because if you are struggling that means that you are sinful or unacceptable or lazy or... It doesn't matter really what they label people like me as. They don't want to hear it. And I don't care to waste my time on people that have no time for me.
I get easily confused. I don't know why. It could be the constant stress. It could be the anxiety. It could be that my mind works to avoid itself everyday just to stay lucid. It takes a lot of energy to look normal when every moment you wake up you want to scream and you don't remember why. I am very very good at looking normal. I don't look people in the eyes unless I am having a one on one conversation with them and I feel safe enough to talk with them. I limit my outside contact to certain people at certain times. I spend time with my friends generally on a solo basis. At parties I either drink a lot so if I get blitzed people expect me to be incoherent or say unacceptable things or I hap from person to person unless I locate someone that I feel isn't getting anxious with me presence. Once I feel a certain anxiety level with someone I either go into safe mode (shut up and smile and nod,) or leave. If I locate someone like me who also is on that edge of social acceptability (meaning they may say heinous things and laugh and make sick jokes that others would be uncomfortable with,) I may actually spend the rest of the party with them or much of the time returning to them as I mingle with the crowd.
See, I wrote much without saying a great deal.
Okay. A little story, you decide if it's true...
I was sitting down at the breakfast table hunched over a bowl of corn flakes. This is unusual since I don't like breakfast and don't like to eat at the table when my Father is there. I wasn't looking at him because I know the rules: "Don't look a (crazy, desperate, homeless, screwed up) person in the eyes if you don't want them to talk to you." You never look at my Father with an open face. You always avoid his eyes or he will start in on his broken tape recorder stories. I know this makes me look like an unfeeling mean person. You don't live with him so you can shut the fuck up.
Anyway, I was scooping the flakes into my mouth, that cereal gets soggy fast so in order to eat it while it's crunchy you have to shovel it in fast. I had had a long night of it: bronchitis, sinusitis, ear ache, migraines and all made me so tired and yet I couldn't sleep. So I'm sitting across the table from him and he knows I am not going to look at him. He's demented but not stupid or totally out of it yet. Sad but that's how it is now.
He flicks at something on the place mat next to his own place mat, a picture of a map done in a very old style. I see everything, I just don't look directly at anything or that too is an invitation for him to talk to me. Occasionally I will make small talk with him or help him with something that won't lead to a series of useless actions that makes me want to scream. I may tell you about the remote control sometime. That is a screaming story. But he's flicking something. I assume he'll do something disgusting like pick up whatever is there and eat it. You never know what he'll do now. He scratches at the plastic laminated cover of the French photo of a beach. The sand is beige, the water an aqua to cerulean blue. I can see that the thing he is flicking at is a dead house fly. I become nervous. If he picks it up and eats it I'm afraid I'll feel sick. I hurry faster to eat my cereal. He pushes the fly as it has been loosened from the place mat now. I look up because I can see he is not looking at me. It is safe to look up. I'm still a little not sure that it is a fly but figure I really don't want to know.
With one last push he says to the air: "There's a crayfish on the beach."