unbreakable things

I broke a plate today. It’s one of those Corelle ones that’s supposed to be unbreakable unless you have tile floors, which of course we do. It shattered through the kitchen and living room, and pieces bounced so far they made it into clean dishes on the kitchen counter. Despite my feeble attempt at sweeping I’ll likely find more shards for the next few months, especially as we begin packing to move.

Right, we’re moving in a few or so months

The plate broke because some part of my body landed on it as I attempted to reach for a bowl on a shelf. In attempting to stop the plate from sticking to my bare skin, I tried to hold it in place. Unfortunately my arm is so weak and shaky I ended up watching in what I’m sure was slow motion as my hand skidded the plate to the floor. At least the sound made the cats clear the living room. It also woke the dogs.

That was at 1pm yesterday. It’s now 3am and I’m laying in bed in my 34 year old body that broke on me. I’ve attempted to wrangle pillows, a heating pad (for that arm,neck, shoulder area) and a heating blanket (for the equally sore legs and feet) into some position that will keep me comfortable for more than five minutes. I’m failing at this task.

(Restart heating pad, adjust pillows, adjust dogs, attempt to drink tea to soothe my always sore throat)

Six years ago this body was pretty good. It wasn’t as small as society and a few of my ex’s would have liked. I liked it, when I look at it now I still do. Inside it’s broken, like one of those vhs tapes that got eaten by the vcr because you watched it too many times. Now when you try it’s all messed up and all the tracking in the world won’t fix it. Maybe I used it too much, took it for granted. But who doesn’t do that, especially in their 20’s. There’s no way to know you will literally wake up one morning in severe pain that never stops. You’re not supposed to break when you’re 29. We’re not supposed to break at all.

(Adjust for pillows again)

Maybe the broken parts of me are scattered at different doctors offices, imaging centers, blood labs, emergency rooms, physical therapists…

I feel foggy now, and I must five in to pain meds. There’s always too much pain and not enough pain medication.

A strange moment

I thought I’d add just a short strange but not as depressing post, since the last few were nearly suicidal.

Email to Dianne: Can I get a model of the human brain? Or even better, a brain preserved in a jar? Or a brain preserved in some resin, like they do with scorpions for tourist junk?

Odd thoughts said to Dianne:

What if the Sandman isn’t just some strange fairy type thing? What if it’s a grotesque monster in another dimension. Then at night it masturbates in the exact spot as us  and its sperm or vagina spray is so strong it passes through dimensions onto us, but it comes through so thin its like a light mist, even maybe a gas. That makes us fall asleep.

It’s a little sad they didn’t have the internet forever. Imagine if there was internet when Abraham Lincoln was alive. If he was gay he could’ve met someone awesome. Or maybe someone who had a fetish for super tall people that was a better match for him than his wife.

Things that happened:

My sister ate heroin two weeks ago. She didn’t die. But I had to stay in the ER with her for 9 hours. And help her poop. Maybe I’ll tell that whole story eventually, but not now.

I’m looking to changing what this site looks like, so that there will be a dual focus on my writing and the blog. I want to blog for fun. I write because I have to, I need the stories out of my brain. Right now I feel forced to blog so I dread even writing. Too much pressure on myself.

Once every couple of weeks we have to put our bearded dragon in a bath of warm water to make her poop. Its disgusting. Really disgusting.

I’m watching all of How I Met Your Mother. I want a teacup pig (even though they don’t really exist).

Keeping it Together

If you were to hear me talk about various things throughout my life, some of it is just not normal. I’m not going into many details, but this all comes off as very vague now that I’m reading it, so I’ll give a short description of the bad stuff I’m talking about. My parents are drug addicts, they have been my whole life. We were molested by a “family friend” for 6 years (who is in jail). My parents divorced, but that wasn’t so bad. My mom leaving my dad for her crack addict drug dealing nazi boyfriend was. She left me with my dad because I wouldn’t go. She took my sisters for years, as leverage in the divorce case for money, and to release herself from paying child support. In high school I was in a manipulative repeated date rape relationship, then proceeded to typical relationships with abuse, alcoholics, drug users, and all of the stupid things I could possibly let myself be convinced we’re worth the “love” of another person. And I was raped, a few more times (by women, so there’s a little help knocking that stereotype out of your head). Now, on to the important details.

People can understand bad relationships, and you can end up with various communities of people who had a significant other like yours. This is not where the problems lie.

Shitty things happened when I was growing up. There were times when things were OK, or good, but I knew, from being around other kids, that our life was not normal, not in a healthy sense anyways. I could go into how to define normal and all those basic needs a kid should have. I often say that I didn’t know any different, so how could I know bad things were happening, and for many things this is true. But bad things did happen, those things that either make a person stronger or completely tear them apart, and when they grow up, they’re these glued back together adults that are just repeating their parents mistakes.

I like to think, of my two sisters and I, that I’m the strong one. I keep it together. I graduated high school, never had a drug problem, didn’t get married a billion times, don’t have a bunch of kids running around. If I wasn’t sick, I could easily go back to at least two jobs that I’ve had. As far as I’m concerned, that’s pretty damn successful considering everything we went through.

But, and this is a huge but, I can only do this if I ignore all of the feelings and emotions about that part of my life. We don’t talk about it. I get upset, sometimes my sisters do terrible things, talking about it causes hurricane like shit storms that wipe us out for days. So I lock it all up, like a little room of horrible emotions I cannot deal with.

I can sit here and tell you story after story, and laugh and joke like its OK. It might seem I went through years of therapy to be able to do that. I can tell you what happened, but I can’t tell you how it felt. If I open that door, I am so afraid I won’t be able to close it. That I will fall apart so quickly that I don’t even know if I could survive it. I don’t know whats in there. Only lately I can feel that door trying to burst open. I can feel pain, and anger. Its so overwhelming that I have to force myself to calm down, push it all back in. If they’re just stories of things that happened, just memories in my head, then I don’t have to feel them.

If I let those memories take life, let the emotions out too, feel like my chest is breaking open and my throat is closing, what will all of it do? Where will it go? I don’t want to share these things. They’re horrible, they’re too horrible for even me to know, and I was there. How can I properly tell anyone else and expect their opinions about me and my life not to change? I get sickened at the thought of anyone knowing my life and feeling pity for me, and I’ve lost friends for it.

Two things have been causing everything to suddenly try to break out. The first are several rape awareness groups that I follow online. Suddenly those emotions found a way out, and pushing them back in is harder and harder. I want to help and support these groups, but when they ask for others to share their stories to help everyone know they’re not alone, I find myself shutting down. Its one thing to tell people I was raped, its quite another to say details about those times. I begin yelling “No, no” at the computer and shoving it away from me, like the words will spill out without my control.

The second is just life. For example, watching Shameless brings back memories of my life. I joke that I like the show because at least someones life was worse than mine, pretending a team of writers isn’t making all of it up. Once in a while it hits too close to home. Other days I think about writing, about a story I want to tell, but how do I tell these stories about my life without those feelings that seem so desperate to escape darkening my pages. How do I write to my friends that were around then, knowing I at some point should ask, did this happen to you too, because you stayed at my house? Did being friends with me hurt your life?

I haven’t slept, and I feel sick, more than usual. My brain is cracking open and spilling out so much, too much to feel, to much to live, and so I must retreat back to my bed. I must find things to distract my mind until that door is locked again, and I have the key finally secure.

I refuse to take my xanax for this. I will not dull my pain because I have pathetically lost control.