Again I am lost. I am not “crazy” as in legally insane. I have never been inside a mental ward. I have not been to therapy in almost a year. I have not cut in six months. And I am lost – again. I don’t really know why I am writing. I have never truly told my story before. I have survived, but the words keep pressing me, grinding me . . . they are a silent scream I wish I could release. I wish I could go crazy, I wish I could tell it all, I wish I did not feel like the world’s greatest failure . . . but wishing doesn’t make it so.
I have only been to the gynecologist once. Even then, my body was wood. I could endure anything by floating away, closing it off into a little door without a key. Remember, yes I remember, but it was far away and I felt nothing.
I always likened the aftermath to giant footsteps across my life. I saw them long before I felt the foot coming to grind me into submission. I don’t remember my childhood very well. I remember places. I can describe the layout of a store I visited twice before I was six, but I can’t remember what I did from dawn to dusk until I reached the age of twelve. I don’t remember feeling anything until the sixth grade. I don’t remember the date, only the school year.
It was as if I lived three lives. One at school, one at home, and a secret one inside my head. At home there were happy times, and sad ones. I grew up in poverty, the youngest of four children. I always felt guilty for existing and costing money. At school they hated me. I had no friends, only hours of torment. When I would come home sobbing, my family would respond with “you have to learn to deal with people.” I hated them, I loved them. I was alone. Later I would realize that I just might have had “Victim” tattooed on my forehead. What a target!
Sexual abuse. A dirty phrase for an even dirtier experience, and even then I was so fortunate when compared to some. There was a janitor in my elementary school that would make things for his favorites. A girl named Heather was his favorite. I was jealous of her . . . he assured me I would get a prize next. . he was arrested first. Then there was Uncle Pete, the police chief (who dressed up as Smokey the Bear!), and other close brushes. I always thought it was normal to be surrounded by perverts. The best was yet to come.
His name was “Ziggy.” He had survived the camps during Nazi occupation. He lived next door for a period of time that could have been months, days, or years. He insisted we call him “Uncle Ziggy.” There was some talk of him running from the law for harming girls in
The second one was a man on Greyhound. Like most, he was helpful, then too friendly. Luck was again with me; a Marine behind me beat the man up and helped me. I was so lost and confused. Nothing was real. Again, I was alone. Then there was D.C. I believed he loved me. I believed I had to even when I didn’t want to. Even when I said no, and he did anyway.
I am only twenty-five, but I feel so old. I first wanted to kill myself when I was seven. I first tried when I was sixteen. I tried to fill the empty places inside with books, TV, hobbies, but oddly enough never booze or drugs. I could never let my control slip, not once or I would go totally insane. The only thing that kept me going was the outside world. I had to succeed to please my parents, my family, anyone.
But I was also trying to hurt myself. I first cut myself consciously in third grade. It was neat. I felt nothing, as if I carved wood, and yet it was MINE. Off and on for the rest of my short miserable life it came and went. Now I know there are lots of ways to self-destruct. My latest is shopping. I almost want to go back to the knife, but I am afraid that one day I will go too far and fall off the deep end.
Sometimes I wish I could go insane, start screaming and never stop, let it all out. I can’t. I am bottled up so tight it hurts . . . but I can’t let go. I wonder what other doors are in here waiting . . .
J
Taken from The Cutting Edge archives