Whispers Heard as Screams

I'm going on record declaring this complete bull shit.

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I don't know what to say really.  I don't know what to feel either.

Maybe I am really okay, and it didn't hurt as badly as it seems.  Or, maybe I'm covering up the greatest pain we've ever known throughout the gift of numbness.

I'm sure I am being dramatic.  It's true; I'm not crying.  No, I'm not overly anxious.  Surely there is nothing wrong.

I mean, what damage has been done? 

Maybe the lack of feelings are because the damage is more intellectual, more cerebral.  Emotionally it's no big deal, but in my head and my thoughts I know I have been betrayed by others, and I have also betrayed myself, and by extension . . . .  Shhh.  The wind whispers:  dirty, unclean, contaminated.

You may address me as "Whore."

I may never whisper again. 

I know why you whisper, and I am sorry.  I know who you are, little one.  You are someone who doesn't want to be here anymore.  I don't blame you.  But why don't you want to be here? 

People will see my dirtiness.  Some put on an act that they enjoy it.  Maybe that is why she is confused.  What she knows and what she feels are at war with one another, and I am collateral damage.  Someone is always sacrificed. 

I sense you staring into space.  Where are you going in your mind?

Escape while I can.  Things are calm for now, but soon it will either be complete anxiety or a crushing depression that will descend upon you, and I can't survive another blow tonight.

Did you take over with Daniel?

I took over afterwards when no one else would, just like back then.

What is a survivor?

They're foolish games, but let's call it a tie. I fought the matches, razors, and Klonopin; I won. I fought the alcohol. It won. Tie game.

I'm dissociative as hell tonight and can not be responsible for what arbitrary, random commentaries come out of her mouth. She should come with a "Do not disturb" label and a warning sign that reads “Do not feed the animals”. I wish she were illegal. She makes me feel bad.

I am on my own. There is no one to pull me out of this. I truly feel I am forced to do this on my own, and I can't fucking do it. We've regressed. We have a hug deficiency. We are children needing to be gently scooped off the ground and nourished and comforted.

My body has been on absolute fire with anxiety and despair. I hate myself. It's hard to love myself when I live in the corner of the dark ceiling of a child who witnesses . . . . I'm reminded of it everyday. Those times feel like they get closer, but they never materialize. But I know, I know, I know the storm is coming. It's a build up. And I wonder if things were really allowed to come to true awareness and float to the surface I might find relief like a release, because all the pressure has been let go. It's building, it's building, it's building. Like a pressure cooker. And if I could just face it I might feel peace for once . . . and forgiveness. But for now, I'm in the child's dark room, hovering above her bed, watching the damage she denies, watching her be hurt irreparably , scattered, tossed, strewn like jagged parts discarded along the way. Leaving me the adult tossing about on violent, angry waters who only want death.

And here is the point: when can a victim say she survived? When does one become a survivor and leave behind the image of a victim? Is it on her death bed when she can say she survived? Does she have to reach a certain age to claim victory? Can she randomly declare one day she is a survivor? How many tests and trials does she have to go through to be declared a survivor?

Maybe that's my problem. Maybe I still identify myself as a victim.

The very definition of a survivor is a person who survives alive after an event in which others have died. How many people really die from abuse? Sure, it makes us wish we were dead, and it may kill parts of us, but not many physically die. So how does one become a survivor?

I survive myself every day – despite my best intentions to destroy myself. Right now it satisfies me to hurt myself because I know it is what the girl in the dark room who lives in the ceiling hovering above the bed deserves.

I need a hug. I need a hug. I need a hug.

I hurt. I hurt. I hurt.

Help me. Help me. Help me.

I'm fading, fadin, fad . . .