some incessent ramblings

the writings of an abuse survivor

[deadfairybitch]

sorry its been a while aha

2/6/22

there is nothing wrong with my parents; it is all my fault. it has got to be my fault. of course it has.

it couldn't be them. the reliable, the rational, the reasonable. it couldn't be them. of course it couldnt.

it could only be me, the permanently branded liar, the reckless, irresponsible, impulsive fucking liar. it could only be me, the one who sought refuge from the guilt and shame in the bottom of a bottle. the one who sought refuge from the ruin in the blade, in the blood. 

it could only be me. the starving, rotting, sick, sick, sick. the fucked, the ruined, the dirty. 

there is nothing wrong with the way they raised me and everything wrong with the way I raised me. it couldn't be their fault, I only cut myself after every conversation. it couldn't be their fault, I just plan on hanging myself after every conversation.

theres nothing wrong with that. of course there isn't, I'm so desensitized that I can't figure out what the problem is.

it's me. of course it's me. they were right all along.

they were right about everything. 

[dankmemeuniversity]

[deadfairybitch]

20/2/22

I want to speak. I want to shout and scream and cry, but most of all I want to speak. I want to shatter this suffocating silence – I dream of being free again. Back in a body that I own, one that I can sit with as long as I want, a body that’s not repulsive or used or fucking broken. I want to speak, and as I feel the words rising in my throat, my stomach turning sick, I think to myself ‘what would really happen if you spoke? Would you be as strong as them?’. The words sit so hot and heavy on my tongue - they taste like fear and freedom: hell and hope. Those words have power, and I am so afraid of it. One word and, once again, it would tear down the barricades, it would rip my life apart piece by piece and this precarious sense of stability would crumble from its delicate, delicate tower. And then I remember. I remember people spitting and swearing in my face, I remember all the ‘sluts’ and ‘whores’ and ‘what were you wearing’s’. I remember all the twisted ‘allegations’ and I remember all the fucking violence. Everything I ever knew was pulled from beneath my feet, every defence mechanism torn away - I was cracked open, vulnerable, with nothing protecting me from the brunt of the fall.I feel the shame crawling red up the back of my neck as the humiliation guts me, stuffs me, folds me inside out – they all know, they all know he fucked you, they all know, they all know you stupid, stupid bitch, they all fucking know. They all. Fucking. Know.Then I decided: not today. I swallow my words, feel the acidity slide bitterly back down my throat, I feel the weight of them sink back into the pits of my sickening stomach and I simmer in my pain. Alone.Too weak to confess, too weak to own up. Don’t forget that you’re a fucking liar.Then I decided: not again. Not yet. One day. One day ill speak but that day is not today. It is not tomorrow. I am silenced but it is only temporary, I am silenced but it is only for one short, short eternity. Please gods may my silence not be forever. I spoke once, I spoke even though I knew what could happen, I spoke even though I knew the risks. I spoke because I desperately needed someone to hear me, I spoke, and I spoke and it was all one eternal, unforgivable mistake and now I deserve nothing short of death. Just one of many shitty things my shitty self has done. And now I am back in silence again. Hushed up, pushed back, quieted. Shrunk, afraid and small. It is dehumanising, to watch your hope die, to watch your dreams fade into black as you live in a nightmare. It is degrading, it wears you down until there seems to be nothing left. It has you casting aside your humanity, simply to find a way to survive. It has you living in so much shame that the humiliation numbs to nothing, it has you doing anything and everything to relieve the pain, in one last desperate attempt to make it out alive. And yet, there is one thing I will not do. I will not die in silence, I will not die here, not now, not tomorrow. I swore to myself that I would survive, I will live through every day of fucking hell so that one day I will speak again. And next time there will be no more silence. I will speak and people will listen. I will make it out of here alive, and when I do, Ill have one hell of a story to tell.

[deadfairybitch]

3/11/21

Anxiety lol

My heart is tied up in a black sack

tossed in a river.

The sack is filled with rocks and rubble and wreckage.

My heart:

it sinks and sinks and sinks and sinks.

I am drowning now.

I sink with my heart:

i can't breathe, i can't breathe, i can't breathe

My god i can't breathe

My lungs are screaming screaming screaming

I need air

I need air

I don't have air

I need air, please

I need air

It feels like someone has my neck in their hands

They are squeezing and squeezing

their grip is tightening and i do nothing

Im panicking im fucking panicking

i cant fucking breathe

Please i need air

someone give me air

I just want to breathe

shit i want to breathe

Please god let me breathe

Someone has their hands around my neck

Someone has their hands around my neck

Someone has their-

They’re depriving me of air

My god, I'm already drowning. Is that not enough?

They’re choking me while i'm drowning

And everyone else sits on dry land

Watching

Fucking hell one or the other

To sink or to suffocate?

Why not both

At the same time

[deadfairybitch]

'i want to go home'

its just a thought i have

but im always thinking to myself

'i want to go home'

and its left me wondering

where exactly is home?

where can i call home?

when my home has never been anything more

than a place of fear and pain and violence.

where can i call home?

i just want to go home.

[deadfairybitch]

[deadfairybitch]

i survived

i survived.

i now and finally understand the meaning to the word survivor.

i have lived through so much shit

and i still suppose ill live through more

but i have survived everything thats happened so far

i am a survivor

despite that i cant count the number of times i nearly died

or the number of times i shouldve, couldve, wouldve died

each and every time i made a decision

that decision was to live

i decided to live

now i am a survivor because i made that choice

i fought everything to survive

i chose to fight for my life

now i choose to live it.

[deadfairybitch]

i wanna look masculine but dress feminine but instead i look feminine and dress however the fuck my fits conclude.

this makes me ang r y

[deadfairybitch]

You fight for your life, you fight for you soul.

You fight for your right to live and breathe and love.

You fight.

You rage into war and you roar into battle

Simply so you do not succumb to the darkness.

That darkness you once bathed in, that once consumed you.

You're so comfortable in that darkness.

That place where nothing matters.

It's quiet and soft and reassuring.

Its soothing

You feel nothing.

There is no pain except all pain.

Where there is no end but it is the end

Nothing matters in the dark

You can't see or think or feel

Nothing matters in the dark

So why do you fight?

For your life and for your soul?

Why not give up and embrace the darkness

It's so much easier after all.

Just let it all go

Every stress and responsibility.

Just give up, let go

Embrace the darkness that you always run from

Welcome it back with open arms

Then you can fall again

Fall forever in that abyss because

Nothing matters in the dark

Where there is no end but it is the end

Embrace it, welcome it.

Its so much easier to just let go

[deadfairybitch]

ive been having a writers block so this aint great sorry

Its so strange to me because people dont seem to understand all the long term effects of neglect. I find nostalgia within joint pain - flashbacks to the many years of physical suffering and damage of which i never had access to professional help for. I find that trust my body will heal itself more so than any other person i have spoken to, because i ask you, what other choice does it have? What else can my body do but heal itself because if it doesnt it will hurt and hurt and hurt until i dont notice it’s hurting anymore.

I dont recognise if im too hot or too cold or if im hungry or thirsty. It takes me so long to recognise when my body needs something because i am so fucking used to hiding it, dismissing it, ignoring it.

My needs have been neglected for so long now that i now neglect my own needs. Not out of choice but simply because i have lived with it for so long and i have survived without the basic necessities that i no longer register when i need them.

My needs are now a low priority in my brain and so, i ask you, how exactly am i supposed to survive in a world that is trying to kill me when i dont know what i want or need in any one moment?

The long term effects of all kinds of neglect can take a lifetime to heal and yet people seem to believe that once you have everything you need youre fixed, magically youre fine.

[deadfairybitch]

A Little Girl

There once was a little girl, So happy and bright. Her mama loved her much, And her eyes shone bright.

Then as she grew up, The world turned colder. It wasn't what it seemed, But no one had told her.

As it grew darker, She forgot how to smile. She wished it would stop, So she slept for a while.

Then one day, She'd reached her limit. She would sleep forever, Or fly as a spirit.

She started to write, "Mama don't be sad. This world is dark, And so very, very bad."

She picked up the pills, And thought deep in her soul. "I'm ready now" she said, Swallowing them whole.

A tear fell slowly, As she took her last breath. Then she shut her eyes tight, And finally greeted death.

Now her mama can't unsee, What she found. Her daughter, once so bright, Lying on the ground.

There once was a little girl, So happy and bright. But little girls grow up, And some take flight.

She soared with the angels, Together hand in hand. But never forgetting, That cruel dark land.

While her mama gets lost, In a valley of sorrow. The rest of the world, Continues tomorrow.

None did miss, that little girl who made. That fateful decision, To die alone and afraid.

When all was lost, And no one could save her, She fell in the dark, But death was her saviour.

There once was a little girl, So happy and bright. Now her mama visits her grave, Every other night.

[deadfairybitch]

ok i need advice aight

Everyone has a life, right? Everyone has lived a little, some people have lived a lot. Every person who has ever walked the earth has or had a life, and that life was theirs to live. This means, by default, that everyone has a story, not necessarily their life story, just maybe a little story about going to the corner shop, or an even littler story about how they just breathe in and out for the duration of their life. Everyone is different and that even if we all had the same past, we would tell our story differently.

My story is not an easy one, nor is it a particularly normal one: my story isn't one which many people have lived, nor is it one that anyone would choose to live. My story might not necessarily have a happy ending, but I know it has an ending different to the current moment, and sometimes that knowledge is the only thing keeping me alive. My story is riddled with pain and fear but it's also laced with the few joys I could gain; at many points in my short years on this earth, I have merely been surviving and not really living at all.

I would tell it from the beginning, as most stories do, but like many child abuse survivors, i have very few recollections of my childhood. I’ll tell my story as a small selection of other stories ive been told and the few i can remember, piecing together my past like im the fucking detective of my mind.

---------

would this work for the entry of a book?

[deadfairybitch]

Sometimes I want to kill myself, not necessarily because i want to die but because when someone dies everyone forgets their mistakes. Everyone wallows in regret, remorse and reflection. When someone dies they become idealised, they become higher powers, godlike. Sometimes I wish I was dead because as long as I'm alive I will always be seen as useless, lazy, traumatised, broken, disabled but when I die people will say all the things they always say. The room lit up when I was in it. I was strong and powerful, I was wonderful and talented.

When I die people will forget the broken wreck I am and they will only see this perfect version of me, the one who never made any mistakes or cried himself to sleep. They will present me as stable and functional and brave, so brave for battling this mental illness but internally they will all be so ashamed. They will be ashamed of the way they treated me, ashamed of all the shame they brought upon me, ashamed of all the ‘what were you wearings’ and ashamed of all the ‘is this really trues’.

I hope this guilt eats them from the inside out because even if im the one to kill myself, internally they will know that they are the ones who murdered me. The ones who abused me and blamed me and watched as I spiralled and spiralled and lost myself in this shithole I call life.

Sometimes I want to die so that someone somewhere feels some regret for the way they treated me, so that someone might possibly feel some remorse. I will never receive any apology for any of the abuse I've faced, I will never get any legal justice but I hope from the darkest, deepest pits of my blackened soul that when I die they will be so overwhelmed with guilt that it shatters their bones, shreds their heart, and tears them apart from the inside out.

[deadfairybitch]

If you listen, you can hear it.

You can hear the pipes creaking the story of the ancient; you can hear the echoing shshshshshsh of the machinery whispering its sweet lullaby. Faded. You can hear the melancholy choir of birds singing their sorrows away.

You can hear the door as it dances open to a melody none but itself has lived to hear. The sounds all merge and dim. The sounds all twist and turn and mix into a harmonic cacophony, a bitter-sweet happy-sad, organised chaos. Chaotic order. All blues and classical and pop and jazz and rock and country, all together weaving a pattern more complex than its individual self. Beauty.

The second you enter you’re attacked by the vast echoes of space - the empty stalls, the subdued water, the slow squeaking squealing as the cleaners squeak squeal across the floor. The second you enter you’re overwhelmed by how underwhelming it is. It's not silence, it's quieter than silence but it is so, so loud.

The crowd: it trickles in like water in a fresh spring, slowly to begin with but flowing, flowing, flowing faster and faster and faster until it's nothing less than a torrent of people screaming and shouting and cheering. With the crowd the pressure builds, the torrent of fear makes stars dance before your eyes and grim determination echo around the hollows of your mind.

Your team: the nervous chatter and excited possibilities unified in harmony, your hope and power - once individual - now a weaving polyphonic melody. Each of your flaws and talents equalled and improved by the souls you are sharing the burden of your country with.

Eight separate lives formed one.

Your heart rate, thump thump thumping its own drum beat as your name and heat is announced - you wait. You scream and celebrate and scream and celebrate for the rest of your soul - you sit. You breathe in and out and in and out, find calm, control the fear.

Your heat is announced, the time keepers singing your fear away - just for a heartbeat. Your muscles are proud as you take one last stretch. A quick smile from the time keepers and then the crown goes silent. Anticipating. Standing beside your block you snap your cap against your ears. Everything is muffled, blurred. All that is clear is that you now represent something much bigger than yourself.

Three clear beeps and you rise and stand on your block - for your country. A single beep commands you to get in your position - for your country. ‘Take your marks’ - for your country.

An age passes - for your country.

‘GO.’

You dive and all is silent, you hear nothing but one recurring thought.

Win.

[deadfairybitch]

im screaming and nobody is noticing,

im wailing and bawling and shouting and bellowing and screaming and screaming and screaming

and everybody sees but nobody cares.

Everybody sees

and they look at me with their pity in their shallow eyes,

‘i'm sorry but it doesn't affect me’,

‘i'm sorry but its not my problem,

I care, I really do but i dont give two shits.’

i've been falling,

i jumped into an endless endless abyss

after seeing the sights. without reading the signs

‘i'll catch you, i promise’,

wondering, wondering, wondering,

Should I jump?

And then -

thinking i had nothing more to lose,

thinking people would speak the truth,

thinking that somebody somewhere has got to care -

I jumped.

I jumped and now

i'm falling

down an endless, endless rabbit hole

with no wonderland at the receiving end,

i jumped with the belief that someone would catch me

I'm falling and nobody is noticing,

im slipping

and sliding

and tumbling

and plunging

and

falling

and

falling

and

falling

and everybody sees im falling.

everybody sees im falling,

but nobody cares.

[deadfairybitch]

Forgive and forget, you tell me. To move on you must learn to be gracious because, of course, you can never live a happy life if you hold a grudge. You can now only be wholly good or wholly bad. Did you become a strong character, an incredible hero; or did you become an evil villain who hurts others to mask their own pain? If you did something horrendous in order to survive you are now evil, you now deserved it. Unless you are the romanticised, idealised abuse victim that the media portrays then you are the wicked witch, you are the villain, you are evil, cruel.

Unless your abuse is nothing short of what the media shows then nobody cares. The drunk father who beats you unconscious and bottles you over the head with his half empty beer bottles and the tortured mother who screams in your face and blames you for the way her life turned out; are, apparently, the only form of child abuse.

What if I tried to explain to you the intense fear that comes when your father spits and screams in your face, the terror that grips you as you desperately stand in front of your baby sister, barely 5 years old, so that when your father hits you, he hits you and not her. What if I could tell you the thoughts that go through a 7 year old child’s mind as they are trapped in a little room that is so cold and damp and dark, simply because they didn’t eat all of their meal, now they sit there unsure when they are going to be freed from that claustrophobic prison.

What if I told you that I was 7 years old when I first tried to run away and my parents only reaction was ‘would you like a lift?’, what if I told you I used to sleep on the floor because I truly believed I was so worthless that I didn’t deserve a bed. What then?

If I say I used to sit in my wardrobe and pretend it was a safe place, that I was safe from my parents there, that when I opened the doors they would show me somewhere other than this goddamn house, like some form of reverse Narnia. If I say I remember the day my mother first swore at me, when I was about 4 years old and I physically recoiled. If I say I remember the first time she dragged her ring up my arm as a punishment and how it destroyed me from the inside out.

What then? Do you still tell me to forgive? Forgive the people who made and still do make my life a living hell. Forget the years of abuse, which I have never been sure I’ll survive? Forget and forget and forget because god forbid anything taint society’s ever so perfect image of what it is to survive abuse.

I have seen some horrendous things, I have done some horrendous things and I am fighting everyday to not become a horrendous person. Am I now a bad person because I have done some truly awful things? ive been forced into more impossible decisions than I have the capacity to feel guilt for and yet its still a grey area. The morality of it is entirely based upon your personal experience and its getting heavy. I drag this guilt around and it feels like ive been tied up in a sack of rocks and thrown in a river: if I could only drop the burden I could be free again.

[deadfairybitch]

6/9/15

I just want to be free. More than anything else, I want to leave this nightmare and learn to live happily. I no longer want to try and convince myself to be brave, I no longer want to fight myself to do the smallest tasks. I no longer want to be torn between the need to be brave, the need to survive, and the constant craving to be a little girl and let someone look after me, despite the knowledge that there is nowhere around to look after the baby in me.

I no longer want to sit here trembling because my father is going to come home soon. I no longer want to be terrified that I'm going to start crying because I am caged in hell.

I just want this to end, I need this to end. This terror, this fucking horror - it all needs to end. I am tired of convincing myself to be brave, to keep fighting. I'm not strong or brave or courageous. I'm just frankie. Just a little baby 14 year old frankie, nothing more and nothing less. I'm too young, i'm too much of a baby to be coping with this