Tracking Dirt

Sometimes family isn’t about blood. And sometimes it is.

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She was eleven when she first knew he was not trustworthy. Her mother had married him and was expecting the second brother.

Sitting on the couch, she read a Baby-Sitters Club book. The house was quiet. She still felt jittery in this unfamiliar place. She wished they would spend 100% of the time at the house on the corner lot, instead of a mere 40-50% (at best).

Bang!

She flinched at the door slamming and glanced up. Her stepfather loomed near the front door, staring down at the floor. He quickly looked up at her and snarled, “Did you track dirt into my house? You know to wipe your feet!”

She looked down at her bare feet, clean of any dirt or debris. She tried to remember if she’d been outside recently. Logic said no. She was a good ways into her book and she was pretty sure she’d read it in only one sitting so far. The tracks on the carpet were outlined in shoe treads. Her shoes were neatly placed on the mat next to the front door. She looked back up with a pleasant expression, preparing to relay all these steps that had given her the logical conclusion that she had not tracked dirt into his house.

Her stepfather was now closer, stomping his ways towards her. His expression ferocious. She dropped her book.

“I didn’t.” She whispered, “I take them off when I come in. I don’t wear them on the carpet.” Her voice seemed to be swallowed by the shadows of the room. He stopped just above her and leaned down. She made herself very still and her eyes did not meet his. She would be a good girl. Good girls do not cry or plead. Good girls merely listen.

“You will treat this house with respect. You will not dirty it. Do you understand me??” He hissed. She quickly nodded. Good girls respond to questions without complaint.

The stepfather did not agree with these rules apparently. His hand was suddenly clamped around her wrists. Her breath froze deep in her chest. She was a statue. She was ice. She was far away. Someone listened though.

“Did you get dirt on your hands too??” His hand tightened as he examined her palms. She made no sound. She was above pain. Good girls do not feel pain. “Wash your hands this instant.” The command registered with who listened and the moment the wrists were released, the girl was upstairs and in the bathroom.

Click

She does not remember who locked the bathroom door. She does remember that she is supposed to wash her hands. It is done quickly, barely noting the fact that her hands are already clear of dirt. An angry part of her catalogues that fact away though.

Asshole it murmurs. It can say that word silently, deep in the recesses of the girl’s brain. Things are safe there.

She finishes and carefully opens the door and peeks out. Coast is clear. She darts quickly to her room and closes the door.

Click

Again, there is no memory of locking the door. But it is locked. That is certain.

It is especially certain when the knob is tried mere minutes later and the door does not give way.

“What the hell?!” yells the stepfather from outside. The girl curls up into a small ball on her bed. Perhaps she can stop resembling a person. That might help. “Did you lock my fucking door? This is not your house!” The door is rattled. Girl is a tiny stone. She is a pebble. She is not a person.

The door is rattled again.

Then suddenly it splinters open.

Her breath freezes deep inside again. She unravels herself and lets the bits float up and away. It is a tactic she is good at. She can be seeds on the wind.

He is above her on the bed.

She is dandelion fuzz, granting wishes to all the little children of summer.

Her wrists are clamped again. He thrusts a small rectangular object in her face. Only part of the title registers in her fractured brain. B-A-B-Y-S-I-

“Don’t leave your shit downstairs.”

She is the fizz in a root beer float. The bubbles in a bath. She bobs on the surface with the rubber dolphin and Mermaid Barbie.

“Do you understand me?”

She is the spray of a sprinkler in summer. The droplets making tiny rainbows in the air.

“Hey. Do you understand me?!” The grip on her wrists tightens again. The pain crackles her brain and gives rise to someone. The eyes undeaden and she is no longer a pebble. She stares up at the stepfather.

“Yes.” Her voice is barely a murmur, but it is enough. The wrists are released and he leaves as suddenly as he came in.

The fractured doorframe and her splintered brain the only looming reminder.

And she had been doing so well.

Emergency Rations

(TW for some negative coping/self-harm discussion; though it will be matter of fact/clinical, not graphic)

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Some people think the apocalypse is coming.

Whether this apocalypse is ushered in by zombies, warfare, the devil, or bad environmental management, there seems to be some consistencies in the behavior of those believers.

They plan. They organize. They stockpile.

There is a box or bin of supplies they have set aside for this possible apocalypse. Do they expect to use these supplies tomorrow? No. In a week? Most likely not.

They are just in case.

I have a similar stockpile. My apocalypse doesn’t feature zombies or nuclear warfare.

And unfortunately it happens often enough that my life could be considered a season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

But I still maintain that my stockpile of supplies are just in case.

When I order a new box of silver shining blades, I’m not thinking about the next time I’ll drag them across my flesh. I’m only thinking about how they are able to release the buzzing, nasty thoughts that sometimes run through my head. How they are able to prevent me from considering worse options.

When I set aside a certain amount of my daily pills for “an emergency”, most likely against what a doctor would recommend, it isn’t because I am suicidal. It is only to weather the storm of the apocalypse until it passes.

I have made a living out of surviving apocalypses. I consider myself a veteran by now.

And after emerging from the destruction of each one, I carefully set about resupplying my stockpile. My emergency rations.

Not all of it is harmful. Sure, there’s a pack of cigarettes (Charlotte’s favorite brand), but there’s also bath oil and a rich lotion that soothes the scratches on my skin. There’s a favorite book. A particular movie.

I weather the storm in many ways.

But every item has the same purpose. To distract, to relieve, to encourage until the danger passes and the sunlight can begin to filter through the shadows again.

Remember that. It isn’t about harming. Not truly. The idea isn’t to make myself a canvas of the macabre to be gawked at or pitied.

It’s all about surviving.

Spiraling

The path isn’t a straight line; it’s a spiral. You continually come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths.

-Barry H. Gillespie

I was doing well. I was. I have a house. I own it 100% outright. I’m doing this adult thing. I even traveled this year.

But life isn’t a straight path. It’s a spiral and half the time, you come right back around to where you were.

And where I am now is not good.

My life is a spiral.

Lies to my mother

It would be beautiful to say that my mother and I have always been close…

But that isn’t the case.

I know that childlike part of me didn’t understand why she couldn’t save me from the trips to the alley. Didn’t understand that she truly had no idea and had so much on her plate striking out as a single mom. That if she had known, obviously it wouldn’t have continued.

But I didn’t tell her.

I wanted my mother to be Super Woman. To read my mind and see all the horror, know all the pain. All the moments I couldn’t speak of. I wanted to see her fury strike out against Him and her love carry me far away from the dirty gravel behind the garage.

I wanted her to see the spell on my mouth. The invisible glue that sealed my lips the moment I thought of saying anything. I wanted her to take one look and gasp in horror. In comprehension.

But my mask was strong. It was impermeable. My box was strong. It held all it needed to. Nothing overflowed. Nothing got past.

It went like this for longer than I care to describe in true numeric fashion. In the child’s mind, it was a lifetime. A lifetime of secrets, of masks, of boxes. A lifetime of playing hide and seek.

Then we moved.

This is a rare picture of me smiling. It was taken in front of the new house. Far from the alley and the garage of horror. Far away.

Super Woman had, in her own unknowing way, come through. I was free.

But the shackles left their scars. Their marks.

And smiles like this were still rare. And blame lasts a lot longer than you’d think.

It wasn’t until well into high school that I tentatively tried to reach out. To turn a rickety relationship into a bond. And it wasn’t easy.

And I will never forget the look on her face when I finally broke the seal on the box and peeled off the mask for a moment. When I found that long buried courage and told her.

And even then, I looked around to make sure demons wouldn’t crawl through the walls and report my words.

(lies lies lies- He said- no one will ever believe)

But all I was confronted with was the expression of my mother as a part of her withered in horror. In remorse. In blame.

And in that moment, I knew without a doubt- that I never truly blamed her at all.

The Boyfriend and Mental Health

Things are tangled today.

My thoughts, my feelings, my very self.

This past weekend Army and I spent a couple days together at my new house being couple-y and domestic. Something we’ve been giving some more thought to since I have a house now.

And at one point, mental-health came up (in a round about way, not in regards to me). Especially personality disorders.
In the past, Army has been understanding of depression and PTSD, but I think that is because he’s struggled with it. It is empathy as opposed to sympathy. He’s never really been able to truly grasp sympathy, even though I think he wants to. At least with me.

I’m trying to keep this post from degrading into a bitchy rant about his inability to be sensitive. We’ll see how I do.

Anyway, personality disorders came up.

And he immediately gets riled up and goes on a soapbox about how Sybil is a big, fat liar and so all personality disorders are crap and schizophrenia is the only “semi-legit crazy issue”.

I was floored. I am floored. I am completely at a loss. I tried to push back and explain that, just like the [multiple] people who’ve falsely claim to have Ebola it doesn’t void the legitimacy of the whole disease.

But I am not sure if I truly got through. I wasn’t brave enough to use myself as an example. I was terrified at him calling me a liar and faker. I’m a coward. And he refuses to compare physical health to mental health.

And now I question myself. Am I liar? A faker? Is all the issues I’ve struggled with regarding my identity since that abuse so long ago just a ripple in a pond? Caused by those pebbles I tossed in myself?

I am at a loss.

I feel lost.

Thunderstorms abound (triggered)

I hate storms. I hate lightning. I hate thunder.

I like rain.

I would like to just have the gentle showers of rain all the time. Please no storms.

Storms make me think of Him.

This is the first storm in a long time to trigger me and send me spiraling spiraling down.

Mute had to drive home. I couldn’t even manage driving in this. I fled.

I haven’t fled in a long time.

Mute has surfaced more and more as the stress of purchasing a home and the shift at work tries to overwhelm and drown me.

Today I try to just breathe.

Breathe.

Swallow some Ativan and push back the shadows. They will not leave but perhaps I can keep them in the corners of the room. At the foot of my bed. Not breathing down my neck and trying to crawl into my mouth.

And of course the blood pressure is not good. My head swims with either the drowning of being triggered or the numbers (197/132) spinning out of control.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Just focus on the air. The air is enough for now. The rest of the world doesn’t need to exist yet.

I just wish the storm would stop.

I don’t want to smell him. To feel his shadow. His breath on my face. His nails in my skin.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Just try not to have dreams. No dreams. Please. That’s all I ask. Please.

Torn Canvas

Most of you are familiar with this story.  The beginning, so to speak. It is what caused the initial coping of fracturing, of splitting. It wasn’t until much later that the coping technique was used to it’s maximum…

Trigger warning (pretty obvious from the title)
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It was always about the words. The sentences. The phrases. That charismatic speech.  The way they curled about and slithered into the deep recesses of Pen’s mind.

The saying may be that a picture is worth a thousand words; but Pen was always fascinated by a good story.

This story started out simple enough…

Once upon a time there was another child of divorce- Katherine. Another girl who struggled to form normal relationships with people. A girl who was not repulsed by the idea of Pen being more than just Pen.

Pen did momentarily hesitate due to the gender. She had never considered a relationship with another female. Not for any particular reason, it simply hadn’t occurred to her.

Katherine spun the story’s web of beauty tighter. A complicated pattern to entice and confuse.

A woman would never hurt another woman. She knows how men can be too brass, too rough. They can trigger Pen.  They only want to brand Pen.

She tells these lies, even as she hides her own branding iron behind her back.  Pen never even tries to look.

The first time is so very tentative, unsure. Pen is concerned she’s doing everything wrong. Katherine seems enthralled by the innocence. Pen doesn’t notice, too focused on trying to please.

Katherine is quick to demand more of Pen’s time. It seems so easy at first. Pen has so few friends anyway. But soon the few friends she does have are noticing. And commenting. Pen brushes them off. They just don’t understand true happiness.

It doesn’t take long for Katherine to turn rougher. Pen is startled at first, but Katherine uses those charismatic phrases to sweeten the deal. And of course, it is nothing but ecstasy for Charlotte.

The story changes quickly. Soon Pen is the caged songbird. The collared fox. She was okay with being tamed, but this seems like much more.

The marks are hard to hide. She has to purchase special makeup that is technically for concealing tattoos. Katherine says the marks are better than tattoos. The burns last for months. She says she is working on “proper branding”. Soon Pen will truly belong only to Katherine.

There is jewelry as well. Necklaces and rings so that a person they encounter out in public may be quickly made aware that Pen is not available.

The waiter grins as he hands Pen a refill on her Coke. Pen gives him a hesitant smile. It takes mere seconds before she feels the harsh pain of Katherine squeezing her hand and digging her nails into the soft flesh. She hisses a warning. Even a polite smile means fraternizing to Katherine, especially when it involves males. Pen doesn’t register the abnormality of this. She merely aligns her face to “completely disinterested” when around men. Midori helps.

Pen delves into books regarding domestic abuse and sees little correlation. And yet, she feels this sense of camaraderie with the victims that she cannot explain. It puzzles her.

The sex is so extreme now that Pen’s migraines have become frequent and debilitating  It does not occur to her that perhaps her body has realized how repulsed Katherine is by an upset stomach and has devised a way to try and snag some time to heal from the bites, burns, scratches, and welts. The doctors are at loss on how to treat the migraines, since they do not respond to standard medication. Katherine becomes frustrated that treatment is not happening easily.

It is surprising how it comes to a roaring halt. Or perhaps it is not. The relationship started out with a sweet lie.  It seems only fitting it should end with a harsh true.

Another woman? It makes no sense to Pen. Pen has thrown her whole self into their relationship. Katherine claims to have done the same. But obviously this is not true. She so easily finds another and leaves Pen a torn and incomplete canvas. Left to rot in a forgotten room.

Despite the words that started this story, it is the picture left behind that does the damage.

__________________________________________________________________

It takes years and multiple partners to relearn how relationships are supposed to work.
The most recent partner has taught the best lessons:

-Independence is allowed. And is healthy.
-It’s okay to cry or yell if something has truly upset Pen. She doesn’t have to pretend everything is fine.
-Teeth are not acceptable below the belt.  For either party.
-It’s all right to smile at another person in a friendly manner.  That actually does not equal flirting.
-Pen does not have to have sex on her period.  If fact, Pen can actually decide at any point whether she actually wishes to have sex or not.
-She can eat what she likes without judgment.
-The scars she has are part of her past, not part of her.
-Slow and soft cuddling is sometimes the best way to spend time together
–She is beautiful

Possession

Trigger warning for sex/BDSM/abuse talk
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Somehow in all our teasing, flirting lighthearted talking last night, Army convinced me to text him a picture of me in stockings with garters.

I’ve never done such a thing before.

I’m sure that seems surprising, with Charlotte’s sexual nature.  I’m not 100% sure that she’s never slipped out a risque pic to some stranger that meant nothing but pure sex, but I can say pretty confidently that I’ve never sent such pictures to anyone who meant anything to us.

I was nervous about it, and to his credit, he wasn’t being pushy.  It was that gentle sort of prodding that got me to finally gather up some of that elusive courage and manage something relatively sexy.

It was pretty much just my legs crossed in stockings with the garters peeking at the top.  No face, nothing X-rated.  Just in case it were to find it’s way into the public eye.

And I still worried.  Something tugged at the corner of my mind.

My fingers moved on their own.

“Just yours, right?”

He texted back almost immediately.

“Only mine. No sharing.”

My brain seemed to explode.

Voices started screaming at me.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. No sharing. No one else. No touching. Mine.

A cascade of memories of Katherine’s games of possession and branding wash over me.

I touch my left hip nervously.  The scar is very faint now.  That means I’m no longer branded, right?  I don’t belong to her.  I’m not breaking it.  Not violating the pact.

She violated it first.

But she was never marked.  She could do as she pleased.

Only me.

I am the property.  I am the girl.  I am the claimed.

I am nothing.

Flooding

This weekend was hard.

It pushed me further than I’ve had to go in a long time.

I knew it was going to be rough. Some part of me had the foresight to pack only a couple pills (for medical, not mental emergencies) and make sure the blades were left at home.

It’s hard for me to talk about the trip in great detail. I think I’m still in a sensitive, semi-triggered state. I’ve been letting friends and family talk to me without talking much back. Unusual.
I did some necessary shopping today because my dramatic weight loss over the past couple weeks has left me with next to no essentials that fit.

I feel like I’m just ghosting through life right now.

I was flooded on the vacation…

_________

They just want to go on the waterslides that are enclosed tunnels. I try to make excuses. They won’t hear it. The lifeguard only briefly checks to see we’re seated properly and holding the safety straps before shoving us into the hole.
I am shaking and shivering when they half pull me out of the pool at the bottom. My eyes blink, expression dead, as they ask if I’m cold. I plead a migraine (not a complete lie) and return to the suite to take an emergency pill and nap.

_________

The next day it is easier to sneak away. One of the girls, we’ll call her Kritter (a nickname of her’s), finds me curled up in a giant chair away from the gaggles of children, reading a book. She sits next to me.
She decides the best topic of conversation is a mix of exes, sex, and childhood abuse. I stare as she talks about it so easily.
“So what’s Katherine up to these days?” Kritter asks.
I fracture into pieces of longing, of hate, of rage, of determined disinterest. It is the most separate we’ve been since managing to become the alliance that is Pen.
How does She always manage to split us into nastiness?

_________

It is much later that Kritter brings up Army.  I talk about him distantly at first.  Then a realization slips into my mind in the middle of my thought.  I stop mid-sentence and she tilts her head, asking if I’m okay.
“I think…I just realized I care about him way more than I thought I did. I think…I may…” I stop before letting the flood overcome me.  Kritter smiles.
“It’s nice to realize when you’ve fallen for someone.”
No. No. No. It may be for you. It sends me into a horrified fear-induced state of panic as we struggle to force back the flood of affection and put the wall of apathy back in place.  We are hollow.  We care for no one.

_________

There were some other incidents that I can’t really get into right now.

Things are evening out a bit, but I’m still struggling.

I know I’m slipping into that self-sabotage (Charlotte pushing to help) as Army messages me about seeing “The Hobbit” this weekend and I balk.  My reply is wary and distant.
And either it’s worked or Army’s just ignoring it because he hasn’t replied yet at all.

That’s fine.  A weekend alone sounds better anyway.

(liar liar liar liar liar liar liar)

I despise being broken and crazy.

Mini-vacation = stress

Months ago, one of my friends managed to secure a great deal on a hotel suite at a local waterpark resort.
It’s for the middle of December and back then I thought it would be a fun pre-Xmas break.  Especially since I knew I wouldn’t be making it to Chicago at all this year.

Well, the dates are this Sunday-Tuesday (Decemeber 16th-18th).  There are four or five of us going (it’s a big suite).  Due to other people’s work limitations, we’re only staying Sunday night and during the day on Monday.  We’ll drive back Monday evening.

I already took Monday and Tuesday off work.  So I get to have a lovely day off on Tuesday doing whatever the hell I want.

So far, this is the only thing that makes me smile about the vacation.  The part involving other people scares me.

First of all, I hate eating around other people.  Hate hate hate hate hate.  Especially for multiple meals.  It gives them an opportunity to notice how much I don’t eat, and then I get lectures (or jokes…) about eating disorders and blah blah blah.  Yeah.  I’ve heard it all before.  But do you see this flab???  It’s not like shoveling down junk food is going to melt it away.

Which leads me to the next point.

There’s the whole waterpark aspect.  I don’t want to wear a bathing suit.  There’s the fact that I’m the size of a whale, yes.  But also, the scars and marks on my thigh would be there for all the world.  There’s a reason I picked above my knee all those years ago.   Because unless I wear something super slutty (and then I wear stockings) I don’t show a thing.  But a bathing suit makes it impossible to hide those marks.

I don’t want anyone to see them.

To see how broken and messed up I am.

I really don’t want to go on this vacation.  I want to just stay home.

But I already paid and they’re counting on me and I hate to be that person who “flakes out”.  So I’ll wear that mask tightly and do the best I can at pretending to eat and have fun like a normal girl.

Aren’t vacations supposed to be de-stressing?