Tw programming

Lately, nothing’s been right. Our whole world tripped and fell on its nose. Since the collapse, the air is thin, we can’t breathe right and our world can’t seem to find its balance. Everything is being dragged in every direction, swirling as if in a big bang. Gravity, who used to be our friend, is having a cruel laughing fit. And we are left all alone, floating in an uncomfortable and unusual space, pushed around and unable to stick it. A tiny pebble falling down and down a never ending slop – but no moss seems to cushion the ground – instead it’s getting smaller with every time it hits the ground. It’s about to become sand. 

I wish I had some great advice, a good story, the end game. Anything to make this worth it. But I don’t. I just feel incredibly lost and empty and with my being lost, a lot of my words seem to escape me too. It is as if any sentence that starts in my mind ends in silence. Writing sessions end in dissociation. I want to pick up my phone to scroll on instagram in an addictive manner, it’s calling me to dissociate, forget, stop speaking, stop writing – even when I have something to say. I’m fighting the urge to write this – addiction pulling me towards an empty mind and fake normality. The vacuum that is my mind pulls in every thought, as if it could vacuum even me. (Spoiler, this is a program)

Today in the shower, I pulled the curtain to prevent the water from overflowing everywhere and in doing so, I erased my body from the mirror. It showed instead the image on the shower curtain and I felt better. I felt small. I washed myself in peace.

Today in the kitchen, I kept looking above me to check if the ceiling was going to hit my head, or the cupboard doors, or the door handle. I looked up incessantly like I was still in a cage and the cage was too small to fit my whole body. I couldn’t expand myself without fear. 

Today at the meeting with friends, I wanted to stop talking so they could stop listening. But the urge in me to speak was stronger and so I spoke until I hit my breaking point. I spoke even when I didn’t want to. I laughed but my throat was sore. I became very sad. I left and my jaw was trembling to recover. Still I had a good time.

A few days ago, my therapist unexpectedly couldn’t make it to therapy. He erased us from his agenda, as his world lost balance – something happened, he had to be there for it. And in the little nook we had created, showing up in therapy for an hour, we felt a monster grow. The monster of Need, desperate for our attention. What need you ask? The Need. With a big N. It doesn’t have a qualifying word. It’s not the « need for attention » or the « need to rest ». It’s just Need. The Need every human has from birth to death and even after death. And probably before birth. The Need. It ached so much we couldn’t feel anything else. It had us paralyzed in its grip. It didn’t really want us dead. In fact, I think it wanted to be seen. 

And so the Need was there and we, so small, were there and we had a staring contest. And without the life jacket our therapist usually has for us, the Need was like an open wound squirting, high jacking, melting, bleeding, pulsing – and we were a world upside down, incapable, jaw shut, writhing in pain, every inch of us, every side of our little nook. In inescapable pain. 

The therapist came back and we showed him our Need and he sat with our Need for a moment. But we spoke and made it go away. We spoke the Need away. Not really to make it smaller or more understandable. No, the Need hid. He’ll be back later. 

And our world still doesn’t make sense. And we’re walking around like nothing makes sense. And our trembling jaw really has no idea how to help us. Words don’t feel right. Nothing feels right. And the vacuum program is having a field day. 

Make it make sense

We were no one and someone at the same time.

Make it make sense

We were abused to become abusers. 

Make it make sense

We didn’t belong to ourselves.

Make it make sense

They created rules for every aspect of our life. 

Make it make sense

They used our home as a way to control us.

Make it make sense

We created a life away from them.

Make it make sense

We thought we were free and we weren’t. 

Make it make sense

They created a false sense of safety so we wouldn’t stay safe. 

Make it make sense

We were influenced by them without knowing they existed.

Make it make sense

We were all alone.

Make it make sense 

No one knew.

Make it make sense

No one knew.

Make it make sense

No one knew.

Prayers

I used to tell my story – I did. I used to tell my story to people. And now I can’t. I used to like telling my story. It made me feel better. I felt like I survived it. It felt reasonable to say « I survived ». It felt like a good thing that I survived. It felt like I could be proud of having survived. 

I used to tell people about the abuse I suffered. I would talk. I would tell. I didn’t need to hide. Now I am scared to talk. I am scared to tell. I feel I need to hide. 

I want to hide from my abusers. I want to hide from judgmental stares. I want to hide from people who think this is all some big conspiracy. I want to hide from those who could exploit my story. I am tired of being exploited. I don’t even want to explain. 

I am starting to walk around with awareness of my story. It’s a feeling I had before, when I had to create a new story. Walking around finally integrating this is « you » and « you » is walking around right now. Ordering coffee right now. Doing the dishes right now. This is you. You is this now. From now on, this will be « you ». I want to hate the new « me » but I don’t. I am just not acquainted with « her ». 

I hate every time I write something and I feel like I am reading a book for therapists, a psychology post. I feel so boring in my pain. I feel so pathetic in my head. « Creating a new story », « learning to cope », « integrating new memories ». I have read it all. I know about it all. And nothing comes close to what it feels like inside my head. 

Nothing comes close to how grumpy I am going through this process. It’s gruesome. It’s voyeurism. It’s every bit of my life I wanted to pretend never happened. It’s humiliation served on a platter with a bow. I hate I have to pay someone to help me feel always more humiliation. 

I also feel so pathetic because I know my RAMCOA story didn’t start when I was a child. And the children I met and the ones I know as adults, whose RAMCOA survival story started when they were young, they deserve a medal. I don’t deserve a medal. (Some parts disagree with the comparison and feel the need to say so here).

I hate that my therapist is rooting for me. I wish in many ways that he were like my abusers. Why does he have to be kind and respectful? Honest and caring? Why do I need this much attention and care? Why is it so hard to get help? I don’t want your empathy, I want nothing.