I’m moving, again. I feel loss pretty much all the time. An impending doom that’s terrified of what attack is coming next.
This feeling has become the standard from which I make decisions. It’s like I can’t bother imagining a life I want. From a broken vulnerable little girl that seeks shelter, the goal is to minimize risk. I beg for respite to a God that feels sadistic. Internally pleading at every human interaction that they don’t hurt me.
It’s a conditioned response I vaguely recall, it’s humiliating and shameful. It’s at the back of my mind all the time and more than anyone it’s me that doesn’t hear her.
Occasionally I vocalize the tiny person I’ve become, openly asking for mercy. Sometimes it’s a repeated, rhythmic beat that pulsates as a whisper. An OCD hum that unknowingly is required to do tasks.
I wake up every night from nightmares of being tortured. Usually there’s a putrid taste in my mouth, always I am struggling and fighting to make “it” stop.
Begging, pleading, bargaining. The faces of the torturers are super close, vivid and usually my family or one of the many close friends that destroyed any sense of trust. They are joyful, gleeful, happy to be harming me. Early on I always know the struggle is fruitless. Then after a long while of battle I realize I am dreaming. Shaken I go to the restroom, realize the TV has turned off, turn it back on and ask out loud “please don’t torture me anymore tonight”.
On good days I wake up and quickly walk in circles, whimpering and breathing out loud. On bad days it’s a scream and I hit myself in the face and head.
Eventually after hours I notice I’m spacing out and still, it’s then time to try to accomplish more than I ever thought possible.
This feeling has become the standard from which I make decisions. It’s like I can’t bother imagining a life I want. From a broken vulnerable little girl that seeks shelter, the goal is to minimize risk. I beg for respite to a God that feels sadistic. Internally pleading at every human interaction that they don’t hurt me.
It’s a conditioned response I vaguely recall, it’s humiliating and shameful. It’s at the back of my mind all the time and more than anyone it’s me that doesn’t hear her.
Occasionally I vocalize the tiny person I’ve become, openly asking for mercy. Sometimes it’s a repeated, rhythmic beat that pulsates as a whisper. An OCD hum that unknowingly is required to do tasks.
I wake up every night from nightmares of being tortured. Usually there’s a putrid taste in my mouth, always I am struggling and fighting to make “it” stop.
Begging, pleading, bargaining. The faces of the torturers are super close, vivid and usually my family or one of the many close friends that destroyed any sense of trust. They are joyful, gleeful, happy to be harming me. Early on I always know the struggle is fruitless. Then after a long while of battle I realize I am dreaming. Shaken I go to the restroom, realize the TV has turned off, turn it back on and ask out loud “please don’t torture me anymore tonight”.
On good days I wake up and quickly walk in circles, whimpering and breathing out loud. On bad days it’s a scream and I hit myself in the face and head.
Eventually after hours I notice I’m spacing out and still, it’s then time to try to accomplish more than I ever thought possible.
