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Wto And Rifles

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Hi all,

I've been too scared to actually use this section of the site until today. My trauma, the one that caused PTSD is very hard for me to write about. Today, though, a police officer pulled up to my next door neighbor's house, unholstered an assault rifle and walked down the block right past my house. It was unusual for my suburb, disturbing. I didn't know what prompted it, or why the lone officer did that. I wondered where his backup was and if something dangerous was happening or about to happen. My daughter was home with me, unexpectedly today, after her summer camp was cancelled. It was a little scary to see the rifle and have her here and worry just a little about our safety. After most of an hour, he left.

And now, I'm thinking about the World Trade Organization riots in Seattle, in 1999. I was a new member of the security team at one of the stores on the 'parade' route. I'm feeling pretty panicked remembering it, a memory triggered by the assault rifle, something I haven't really seen in use since the riots.

I'm out of time, and need a break, so will have to write more about it later, but I'm really struggling with triggers, fear, and stress the last few days, so will be glad to get some of it out onto paper.
This is a song that reminds me of my father's strength. I told my therapist something very difficult about him last night.

It reminds me too, though, about always fighting back, fighting hard in the present to honor the times we couldn't in the past.

I love that song, also. It's not just the lyrics that are amazing, but the choreography too... Another one of my favorites by P!nk is "Just Give Me A Reason".
It reminds me too, though, about always fighting back
I have to believe that we can use our past to propel ourselves forward... Congratulations on starting your diary; I know that it takes a lot of courage. :)
I can't decide whether to invest time in this diary or not. I'm afraid a glitch would wipe it out. I'm afraid someone I know would find it. However, I love the idea of sharing my story because I'm not afraid, because speaking the truth is empowering to everyone who participates, because I have something worthwhile to say. So, here goes my second entry into the original trauma, short and bitter.

When I was about 16, I said my father abused me sexually when I was a little girl. My mom found out what I said and she did not believe me. She did not kick me out of the house, but she did not support me. She betrayed me. My heart is still breaking, I think, about that one.

Here is a song I love, about children not being believed that means very much to me right now.
I'm afraid a glitch would wipe it out.

For me, when a page of my diary is "full" and the next page starts I save it to my hard drive as an archive page (it saves it as one item instead of across several directories).


1. In IExplore - Top left "File", "Save as", down towards the bottom "Save as type", "Webpage, complete (*.htm, *.html)"
2. Your done - easy.
I wrote this entry as a letter to my therapist, though I haven't sent it yet:

I’ve been listening to “Submarine” again. I should not, because I feel sad and betrayed and lost hearing it. But it is beautiful and compelling. I want to explain what it means to you, though I fear to be overwhelmed by the enormity of those lyrics in my life.

“No one will believe me.”
The story of the song is a young boy not being believed. That was me, as a teenager, of course. I said the heinous thing, and was judged by my mother as either vindictive or delusional. She accused me, alternately, of creating false allegations as a means of justifying anger at him, or of being mentally ill. Well, she ended up correct on the second count. Thanks to that bitch, I couldn’t even finish high school.

The imagery of the submarine, the periscope, the truth submerged, it’s all so relevant to me… to feel repressed memories, to lose my emotions to dissociation, to have such dark dreams and thoughts… to be drowning sometimes in the past. And of course, the submarine is a very special symbol of my father’s love for me, love I wish… I wish I could burn away, but water will not flame. It was our song, one of them, our movie, our special bond… to have such a quirky language to speak, that he made it for me once, my own submarine, painted, cut away, into a costume. I have no idea where it is now.

“Ran back to the town bar… but everyone laughed aloud.”
The bars were one of the strongholds of my father. He took me there, as did his friend, a child in a very grownup world. I was woefully out of place, always trying, with him and for him, to be mature beyond my years, I must have seemed so foolish, but the kind adults saw me only as precocious and eager to please. I feel a fool to reach so far beyond myself. Because I was on a tightrope of credibility, pretending to be more than I was. And I’m crying so hard to think of it.

“The police made them jokes.”
The police, actually, were kind to me, I think they had integrity, but they couldn’t do much for me. My words… they were turned against me in the end. I gambled, speaking, and I won and lost.

“Oh my god no one paid attention!”
Well, that’s evident, right…. No one saw anything amiss in my childhood.

“I felt my hair turn grey.”
That’s what it was like, instant adulthood, when I was with my father. Age before my time. Wanting to be dead by the time I started high school and *knowing* my life was over. A sense that haunts me still some days, when I think of the past.

“In the end it boils down to credibility. I had none so I will die with the secrets of the sea.”
Yes, that’s so true. I had no credibility, even with my mother. I do NOT understand it… I was such a good student, so responsible, I was successful, and hard working, even young. But I had zero credibility. I’ve been obsessed with it since then. Not integrity, that was beyond me, but credibility, a special concern of mine. And I do feel like dying sometimes, sunk by weights I can hardly describe.
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