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littleoc
VIP Member
More serious news:
A washing machine turning on and off it’s flow of water is giving me flashbacks.
But instead of getting frightened, I’m getting angry. The thought in my head was, “You don’t scare me, Daddy,” which is basically what I told him when he attacked my little brother, and right before I got him legally removed from my life.
I feel I might have been spoiled, by me. I remember what it felt like to realize that he didn’t have power over me. He was screaming at my brother and he through something heavy at him. Destroyed his food, spilled his milk. My dad yelled at him to clean it up.
In my mind, I got angry. Little eleven or twelve year old me realized, suddenly, that I could sit there and do nothing and not get hurt, or I could make it hard for him. I made it hard for him.
He attacked me back, but it was over for him. He proved he had felt weak for a moment. My little brother thanked me.
I held up a phone with Willy on the line, the big black man from Child Services, and dared him with my eyes to say another word.
I was too smart and too sure I was gonna die anyway for him to control.
The only problem is I don’t like feeling angry. It is a good emotion, I know that logically, but inside I am still afraid of becoming my father.
I do believe my father is manic depressive though. The lies he tells are insane. He told a guy who was interviewing him for a job in a hardware store that he had walked on the moon and did science with NASA. He felt so superior that he was sure he wasn’t human. And he told his kids they must be less than human. By the next week he’d suddenly be so depressed that he’d be dangerous to be around. (Stolen Xanax mixed with alcohol is an ugly combination that can result in the deaths of everyone, sort of like a homemade bomb mixture. The cleanup is intense.)
It was my job to confort him.
I think that’s why my nightmares this week are disturbing me enough to break through the Prazosin. They’re about Brandi. But it’s memories of Brandi behaving like my father. Only instead of showing love, understanding, and compassion, I’m showing anger. I’m telling her to f*ck right off.
Feels both good and not.
I found myself planning a robbery. I have friends who offered several months ago to do it for me, in return for friendship, and I didn’t quite turn it down. I suppose the idea is nice. But very unrealistic. It wouldn’t help me feel better at all. Which is why I didn’t go for it. And now I know I’ve decided I won’t, because (1) I don’t feel like being worried about police (I really like the police here, I would be devistated if they were disappointed in me (Side Note: it’s nice being in a country/city where the police are your friends who still expect you to be lawful and fair at the same time)), and (2) it would seriously be a great waste of everything. And it would cause Brandi distress. She’s incredibly poor. There’s nothing to take except what I, Fungus, gave her. And I don’t mean that in a power way. I bought her a washer, a dryer, food, little comforts. I would hate myself and everything I believe in if I messed with that. It would be cruel. I am not cruel. (I spent thousands for this person. She didn’t want to get a full time job. Her girlfriend was financially abusing her. I realize now it wasn’t my responsibility but I don’t regret a thing. I know what it’s like to be hungry.)
I’m getting better about stealing. Speaking of that. (Sorry for sharing it, I know you’ll say you don’t think less of me but I know how it sounds. I really am trying.) My last frontier seems to be the self-check outs at grocery stores. I don’t cheat for morally good products, like grass fed chickens and pigs and cows, which proves that I am, somewhere, still deciding things. The problem is I figured out how to dupe those machines years ago and I did tell a manager at the time, and my mom, trying to get them to fix it, but they said nothing could be done about it. So I started “buying” toys and I guess I was young enough that they just let me, and now it’s so engrained that I have to physically go back and fix things.
Then I think, “Why should I?” in some stores. I know some businesses are doing serious, serious evil, and I don’t want my money voting for their continued existence. It’s also no danger to me because it looks like a glitch, and managers so far haven’t thought of women as smart enough for that (the two men who ran my city were very sexist and especially racist — they did worse things to people like my mom just because they could).
So I dunno. I feel like to an extent it is okay, but not usually.
It also sounds like I’m justifying myself. But so are they. I’m tired of people saying slaves don’t exist. They’re out if view, sure. Shouldn’t make it easier to handle.
Also, tomorrow is my last day of work. Then I move into my mom’s. She’s gonna hate me :(
A washing machine turning on and off it’s flow of water is giving me flashbacks.
But instead of getting frightened, I’m getting angry. The thought in my head was, “You don’t scare me, Daddy,” which is basically what I told him when he attacked my little brother, and right before I got him legally removed from my life.
I feel I might have been spoiled, by me. I remember what it felt like to realize that he didn’t have power over me. He was screaming at my brother and he through something heavy at him. Destroyed his food, spilled his milk. My dad yelled at him to clean it up.
In my mind, I got angry. Little eleven or twelve year old me realized, suddenly, that I could sit there and do nothing and not get hurt, or I could make it hard for him. I made it hard for him.
He attacked me back, but it was over for him. He proved he had felt weak for a moment. My little brother thanked me.
I held up a phone with Willy on the line, the big black man from Child Services, and dared him with my eyes to say another word.
I was too smart and too sure I was gonna die anyway for him to control.
The only problem is I don’t like feeling angry. It is a good emotion, I know that logically, but inside I am still afraid of becoming my father.
I do believe my father is manic depressive though. The lies he tells are insane. He told a guy who was interviewing him for a job in a hardware store that he had walked on the moon and did science with NASA. He felt so superior that he was sure he wasn’t human. And he told his kids they must be less than human. By the next week he’d suddenly be so depressed that he’d be dangerous to be around. (Stolen Xanax mixed with alcohol is an ugly combination that can result in the deaths of everyone, sort of like a homemade bomb mixture. The cleanup is intense.)
It was my job to confort him.
I think that’s why my nightmares this week are disturbing me enough to break through the Prazosin. They’re about Brandi. But it’s memories of Brandi behaving like my father. Only instead of showing love, understanding, and compassion, I’m showing anger. I’m telling her to f*ck right off.
Feels both good and not.
I found myself planning a robbery. I have friends who offered several months ago to do it for me, in return for friendship, and I didn’t quite turn it down. I suppose the idea is nice. But very unrealistic. It wouldn’t help me feel better at all. Which is why I didn’t go for it. And now I know I’ve decided I won’t, because (1) I don’t feel like being worried about police (I really like the police here, I would be devistated if they were disappointed in me (Side Note: it’s nice being in a country/city where the police are your friends who still expect you to be lawful and fair at the same time)), and (2) it would seriously be a great waste of everything. And it would cause Brandi distress. She’s incredibly poor. There’s nothing to take except what I, Fungus, gave her. And I don’t mean that in a power way. I bought her a washer, a dryer, food, little comforts. I would hate myself and everything I believe in if I messed with that. It would be cruel. I am not cruel. (I spent thousands for this person. She didn’t want to get a full time job. Her girlfriend was financially abusing her. I realize now it wasn’t my responsibility but I don’t regret a thing. I know what it’s like to be hungry.)
I’m getting better about stealing. Speaking of that. (Sorry for sharing it, I know you’ll say you don’t think less of me but I know how it sounds. I really am trying.) My last frontier seems to be the self-check outs at grocery stores. I don’t cheat for morally good products, like grass fed chickens and pigs and cows, which proves that I am, somewhere, still deciding things. The problem is I figured out how to dupe those machines years ago and I did tell a manager at the time, and my mom, trying to get them to fix it, but they said nothing could be done about it. So I started “buying” toys and I guess I was young enough that they just let me, and now it’s so engrained that I have to physically go back and fix things.
Then I think, “Why should I?” in some stores. I know some businesses are doing serious, serious evil, and I don’t want my money voting for their continued existence. It’s also no danger to me because it looks like a glitch, and managers so far haven’t thought of women as smart enough for that (the two men who ran my city were very sexist and especially racist — they did worse things to people like my mom just because they could).
So I dunno. I feel like to an extent it is okay, but not usually.
It also sounds like I’m justifying myself. But so are they. I’m tired of people saying slaves don’t exist. They’re out if view, sure. Shouldn’t make it easier to handle.
Also, tomorrow is my last day of work. Then I move into my mom’s. She’s gonna hate me :(
