“You think you’re terribly hard done by when you’re in a place of considerable privilege.”
[TRIGGER WARNING: just… A lot of shit. Abuse and misery. Just… Avoid if vulnerable. ]
I don’t remember how old I was when I nearly died.
I feel like I should. I wear the scar from it still. I was younger than 8, I can calculate that by where I was living at the time but nothing more.
It wasn’t notable enough to stand out.
I grew up in constant emotional and physical abuse. That I nearly died due to parental neglect doesn’t register. I complained of stomach ache for weeks and was ignored, accused of seeking attention.
When my appendix exploded, the reason my mother gave as to why she finally called an ambulance?
“When he stopped complaining I figured something must have been wrong.”
I hadn’t just stopped complaining. I had almost stopped breathing. I barely survived.
That should be notable. It isn’t. Though the scar Is. I shudder and feel sick if anything touches it. I have a recurring dream where I am sucked into it and I disappear.
I have dreams about a lot of things. Broken arms, broken skull, beatings in the street, being choked until I pass out.
I don’t really respond to real pain. Deep cuts, being beaten with pipes, burns, I can simply turn off the response. Go numb. Lots of practice.
Stub my toe however and those barricades crumble and I want to break things into pieces, then curl up in the debris and cry.
“Considerable privilege.”
When I was thirty my mother said she was sorry that she used to hate and resent me as a child because I reminded her of my father.
Remember that A? Remember how you had to explain how abusive that was before I could admit it?
You seemed to forget as soon as it became useful to support N telling me how I reminded her of her abusive ex, long before it caused me to close off.
Did it simply not occur to you how crippling that would be to hear again? Or was it just easier to turn and run away like every time you made me cry?)
Closeted bisexual until… 30? I guess.
Closeted trans… I dunno. Ongoing? How does the scorecard work? Does it count if most the people you tell think you’re lying?
No, that’s not fair. M knows I’m not. A too, just as she knows I’m not lying about the physical violence in the street, or the abusive childhood.
She just refuses to accept that it would deeply affect me. Refuses to accept that she targets it to hurt me when she herself feels vulnerable. Sometimes that was my fault. Sometimes it was because I was hurting and she resented feeling obligation to someone else.
Resented loving someone. But you still resent love don’t you.
A bipolar, closeted, mentally ill, autistic, bisexual, poly amorous trans woman with ptsd and bpd, with a physically and emotionally abusive childhood, surrounded by criminals and racists, the highlight of which was searching through garbage tips for discarded toys (and pornography, which was rewarded with pocket money by the adult male family friends) and charity food hampers in the Holidays if we promised to be good Christians.
Because as you keep reminding me: I’m a “white male”.
You were half right I suppose. Thank fuck for all that, what a charmed life that has privileged me with.
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
jacobvanloon
