Author: Flickeringdedications

I’ve returned to a normality of sorts. I took the time, saw the people, waited in waiting rooms and healed. I let go of some people and lost others. I had to decide what I wanted for the future and how that would happen. I had to face everything I was scared to see in myself and learnt to sit calmly with the beautiful beast I am. In every chapter or period though it’s inevitable to lose people, over the years, I have lost countless. I have also gained the most precious relationships that I appreciate and value greatly. But I do catch myself reminiscing on the lost relationships and past memories. What are they doing now? Did they achieve those dreams they always dreamt of? Do they still think back on that one time and laugh, like I do? Or have they forgotten or avoid those memories entirely. How much of a full stop did I have in their stories? Although I do hope they enjoy a smile or a hidden laugh at some of the memories we shared. Regardless how any relationships fade or end abruptly, I would still like to remember the happiness in moments spent from a time ago. I hope I’m not alone in that sentiment.

Reading my previous blogs to this one. It’s strange, I feel so much compassion for that woman. For the pain I’ve read over the last few years trying to process a lifetime of trauma. It’s weird where I am now, reflecting. I’m in no way healed, but I now have a luxury I never had before; time. Four months ago, I stopped working, tomorrow will be the anniversary of I think a pivoting moment in my life. Something that has floored me, but also something I’m not ready to write about. Not yet. These blogs take time to write, to feel the rush of emotion that swamps my vision till I spill it onto a page. This disconjointed view of myself and the world I live in. It’s completely terrifying. But also completely invigorating. It’s astounding this feeling sometimes, of writing a script to life you have no idea of the plot. Watching each failure and success with fascination. It’s strange living like this. Because it’s familiar to me, whilst also being so fantastically strange. I haven’t read about this, seen it on TV or in movies. I haven’t heard about it in a song, or heard a friend described it to me. I have read it in research though. This ability to stand observant to my behaviours, emotions and wellbeing, to witness my triumphs and my struggles. It’s like when you spell a word over and over, then it looks so bizarre that when you see the right spelling, it doesn’t make sense. It looks wrong, but it’s right. It is completely discombobulating.

I’ve stopped working for four months now, my livelihood and passion. I haven’t been able to be that woman or my profession. I’ve had to stop, look at my mental health and get help. It has been so difficult; asking for help, admitting how unwell I actually am and most of all; being honest with myself. I am not okay. I haven’t been for years, in fact, I’m not sure if I ever been truly okay. I was seeing a sexual assault counsellor fortnightly, art therapy weekly, physical trauma therapy weekly and doctor visits. Not to mention so many phone calls to a psychiatrist to get into a mental health day program. I am desperately trying to get help and feel better. It’s working, but I know four months is too early to tell. I continue to have lows, the difference is now I have the time to process them. They weren’t joking when they said mental health is for the for middle and upper class. Because I keep wondering what if I didn’t have these supports? This workplace insurance, the money to pay for therapy, the people around me who have time to spare for me? What would happen then? Who would I become? I am so incredibly thankful for this opportunity, time, healing, love, understanding and support. I desperately needed this. But what of those who are not in this position?

How can we help them? Because we have to. To go through this alone, to not get help or support. To not be given time or compassion. It’s disastrous for them and those around them. So how can we as a community alleviate the pressure for those without the opportunity or circumstance to heal as is prescribed by those wearing similar shoes to me?

I refuse to believe that because I CAN work forward, I have to leave others behind.

I’m calling bullshit on that one, straight up and way.

Fuck that mentality.

It’s so hard to make sense of things sometimes. But then these realisations hit that just seem to make so much sense. As if the frustrating algebra problem that’s been evading you suddenly clicks and it all makes sense. I keep feeling so much shame for my actions after I broke up with my ex, what I believed to be desperation for love. But upon close analysis desperation means you will take anything, and the reality is, I didn’t. I was in a sense desperate for love, but I still refused advances based on a variety of reasons. The only times I agreed was when I myself thought the person had potential to provide the love I wanted. I want to be loved, but I also have choice in the matter.

When we were together he was so desperate for everyones love and attention, he left me to the side. We’d be on dates and he’d constantly be on his phone talking to people, when we were together there were always others there. He wanted love from everyone as much as he could. But receiving love means you are giving it yourself. The difference between he and I that caused issues, was that I wanted most of his love. I gave him most of mine, he was my world and king. I wanted the same experience in return. When I realised that I wasn’t getting what I needed, I left. He didn’t like that, because for someone that wants all of the attention, doesn’t like losing the spotlight that I had shone upon them. So that’s when he directed his spotlight at me, dazzling me, complexing me and utterly flooring me. I succumbed to the treachery of my heart and convinced myself that this time I would received that attention, only I didn’t get it. This game of cat and mouse continued till I became as dependant as an addict to their dealer. When I’d leave I’d fall into symptoms of withdrawal, becoming a shell of who I was and desperate to find another source of love and attention. Convincing myself of anything for a moment of oxytocin. I’d convince myself of all types of things, then he’d come back into the picture. It was a trap of emotions between the both of us.

Neither one of us is innocent. We are both just fucked.

You know I’ve messed up more times than most but I’m also super grateful for so many things. Without all of this mess would I really be able to see things compassionately? Without these failures, feelings of desperation and despair, understanding loneliness in a variety of formats; would I really be as understanding of others as I am. I have moments of anger or frustration, but I don’t condemn a person by their mistakes. Instead I try to understand why they are behaving as they are. I’m still very young to all of this and no-where near as patient as I want to one day be. But I’m trying and I know I want to be more empathetic to the journey and decisions of others.

It’s truly the strangest thing. Finally accepting this feeling that dwells within me. The fractured future that I’m bound to. I remember when I read the first lot of statistics that told me how my life would presumably go. It was terrifying to analyse the behaviours of those with lives like mine and see the same behaviours mirrored in my own. To know that this sense of rotting interior houses itself in my DNA. Trauma has fucked up my mind and body. This whole time I had the belief that I could fit it, because I was different. But anomalies are just that, random. What was to say that I would be the lottery ticket holder? What was to say that I wouldn’t allow the trauma of past lives to tear down the life I’ve created. Because a secret I never wanted to face, I could see the fucking cracks dragging along my life and persona. I could see how the outside world saw me. Reading each of my own actions as if it was another case study in someone else’s research study. Seeing how my line of destruction sow seeds along my life. Watching them slowly implode one after the other. It’s fucking painful. Worst than any other blow I’ve withstood. This whole time as the world beat me into submission, I didn’t realise the feral untamed beast within that come clawing its way out to be heard, seen. Kept going till I didn’t see what I was doing to myself in the process. Lowering myself into the scummy gutter. I’m standing at a crossroad no idea how to barrel through the wall I’ve put in place. The path of destruction so much more appealing, easy at first sight. I can’t see the path with the wall, but I know it has to be better than the one I’m looking at. It has to be.

You know what’s crazy? This whole time I thought I was this villain of my own life. This destructive antigonist who was set on spreading negativity. Till today I’ve come to the sad realisation, that I’m not. I’m just like any of the others I’ve studied, I just recognise what I’m doing as I’m doing it because of my research. I criticise myself in a very critical and mean manner and explaining the nonsense behaviour in great detail post event. I am exhibiting the behaviours of someone who has undergone the trauma that I have, but have the educational background to reflect on these events in a critical CPTSD and psychological point of view, in the mean time thinking I must be a bad person because I SHOULD know better. There are two different identities inside of me crying to be heard, the hurt broken child, that lashes out and engages in destructive behaviours then the logical educated adult, that can make sense of this bizarre behaviours and know the remedy to remedy the complex trauma behaviour I’ve engaged in. I’m literally an ongoing cycle of misunderstanding and Mia action to understanding and therapeutical. Enhancing my behaviours and in turn leading to more self destructive actions because of the level of understanding I have which engages my low self-esteem and self deprecating behaviours. Ultimately leading to in every case; self destruction. Because my esteem isn’t built, I don’t trust the logical side of my brain, explaining the undesired behaviour, to my ‘innocent’ naive childhood schemas and memory that self deflect unwanted emotions with a set of undesirable behaviours. Therefore continuing the behaviour of undesirable behaviours and self destruction. I’m not a bad person, I’ve developed bad coping mechanisms to withdraw myself from strong emotional feelings

. I’m better than who my mind tells me I am.

This is the post I’ve been dreading to write, I knew this day would come though.

It’s time to write about an experience from the pits of hell.

I was 9 maybe 10. I can’t say the age for sure. I never wanted to remember the specifics.

We went for tea with my grandparents, I loved their home. Playing in their garden, finding the toys my Pop had made, being in awe of both of them. Their skills from a different time. It was a safe space, once upon a time. We were going to see my brother, he had just moved in with them. I didn’t want to see him, only wanting to see my grandparents. We sat down for tea, they were discussing their lives and world affairs. Then my brother asked me to look at his new room. He was a lot older than I was, already an adult. I followed, because what else could I do? I didn’t yet have the ability to identify the pain of his actions. Still in the darkness of innocence and running off instinct. I didn’t want to go, but I did. He showed me his room, our parents and grandparents in the other part of the house, enjoying their conversation and tea. I thought I was safe with them in the same house at least. How wrong I was.

He promised me things as he normally did, trying to coax me into willing submission. I didn’t want to. But eventually succumbed. I’ve tried my best to hide this within the depths of my mind, attempting to shove it down. But that’s just unhealthy. Time to face my demon and attempt an exorcision with my written word. He took my pants off, then my underwear. He removed his own pants. I remember he tried to straight away, to unleash himself within me. I remember the pain and friction, the burn. It didn’t work, so he placed his spit in his hand. I still remember the smell vividly of his saliva. He used it to on me, to lubricate me up. I hated every moment. He then pushed himself in, stretching me with agony. I kept quiet and moved my mind elsewhere, not wanting to be present in this moment or memory. He did what the devil himself would shun away from. True evil seeped from him. Then there came a moment of potential salvation. My nan knocked on the door, we moved quickly, my brother got up and retrieved his pants, I moved to the cupboard and dressed myself. Then comes that part that haunts me and ate away at me for years, the guilt consuming me. My nan opened the door and asked what we doing, my brother stuttered and looked to me. I had dressed myself behind the cupboard doors and to my deep shame, told my nan “we were playing hide and go seek”. My deepest and most despicable shame. I had a chance to be saved and instead covered for this monster. He seemed proud with himself. I took myself to the bathroom, hating the smell that lingered on me, and remembering the pain. I sat there trying to clean myself, a child wiping away the most vile and disgusting thing known to mankind. I went home with my parents, showered and retreated to my books. Doing anything to ignore what had just happened, still lacking the maturity to understand the depths of hell I would be facing in future years.

I have blamed and hated myself for so long. Hated the monster that resides in him and that then infected my own mind, soul and heart.

How could I have done that? How did I not scream for help? How the fuck was I able to cover for him?

I hated myself. For years. I tried multiple times to take my own life. Not willing to submit to the onslaught of my thoughts torturing me in my waking and sleeping hours.

I’ve had therapy session after therapy session. I still have a long way to go. But he was 18-19 and I was just a child. How could I have comprehended what was happening? For years he was the one in charge of looking after me while my mum was sick. This wasn’t the first time, but was the last time. The time that has haunted me every single day of existence since.

I don’t hate myself anymore. I feel sorry for the little girl that I was. I feel sorry for the woman I am. I’ve got a long way to go on my journey of healing.

But I’m no longer hopeless, or full of self loathing.

I am hopeful for the little girl within me, and love the woman I am. I have grown to be better, working to help other young people to overcome their own struggles. It’s my time though to re-centre and focus on truly recovering. From changing my identity from the victim, to survivor to finally whatever the next step holds for me.

This is my deep dark secret, the pain that held me captor, little did I realise, it was never my secret to keep. It was my pain to grow from , to become the person who is full of love and the need to help others. To help them, like I should have helped myself all those years ago. To finally now help and forgive myself.

It’s difficult. I can feel how much I loved him whilst I also understand he didn’t respect or care deeply for me. How? How can someone hurt their partner over and over and not care? Not have remorse or regret for the unnecessary pain inflicted? I loved him, endlessly, repeatedly and unconditionally. There was a time I was convinced I would marry him and he’d be the father to my children. The children I wanted desperately but hid from everyone. I thought he was my happy ending. Instead he tortured me. I endured it though, proving myself stronger than I could have ever realise. I hate him for how he abandoned, lied and hurt me over and over again. Punishing me for what he deemed inappropriate or wrong. Shaming me as much as he could. I lost myself when I loved him. I lost my whole identity wishing upon every hour to be consumed by the darkness and peace. Begging myself day after to day to end it. I was at war. War with the parts of me that wanted to survive and the parts that were so damaged. I wanted reprieve, I just wanted to sleep, I wanted to succumb to the darkness. To give up once and for all. 

I’m simply not able to do this anymore. I don’t see a point in tomorrow.

I don’t see the point anymore.

This is just too much to handle.

You simply can’t blame me.

Not for the devastation that occurred.

I made it clear, I begged, I pleaded; for some civil communication and respite from the onslaught of hatred directed to me. I tried to help. I fucking tried. He hated me constantly. He lied saying he would accept me, but there was never respite from the judgements, the sly comments designed to break my identity.

I know him. He doesn’t know me. He hates me in secret, denying responsibility of the suffering he directed to me as punishments for the hurt he believed I delivered in intentions against his soul.

I loved him. I am broken, which I have always admitted. I told him at the start to leave, because I couldn’t trust myself.

As it turns out, I wasn’t able to trust either of us.

He claims love, does he even know where to find my words that I’ve typed? No. The same words I’ve read and shared with him. No. How can an individual claim love, when it is clear as day, they do not.

They don’t, if they have, they have lied. He lied.

Who is the real fool?