god will forgive me, but i, i whip myself with scorn.
Thursday, February 16th, 2006 11:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erikaMy therapist tries to be kind to me. She gives me lists of things to write about and then says if you want, that is—like getting better is something I can afford to not want.
I daydream about cold guns up against my temple. I don't tell him because a) it's a fucking cliché, and b) he'd have to get all concerned, and I don't want his concern. I have no idea what I want, but his concern is not what I need him for.
I could be held all day long and it wouldn't be enough. I wish I were small enough so I could be rocked to sleep, and have a kiss pressed on my forehead. Wish I didn't start crying late nights, like clockwork.
I am making mix CDs of music we could listen to when we make love. Mostly the songs I chose are sad, and they all speak of love with pain. Even the memory I have of pure love is mixed with bitterness: pure love is a warm blanket put around me when I cried. I remember plain heartache better. Despair, malaise, it's what beats in my veins, not blood.
This slow merger of desire with friendship feels bizarre and I wonder aloud if it's unromantic. I mean, it's okay to slowly get to know someone as more than a friend, right. Much more stable than some fucked-up whirlwind. Just as romantic. I can't tell whether I'm talking myself into this because I'm scared or because I have justifiable reservations. I know I'm going against my better judgement. If I had any to begin with.
I wait for irritation. Inevitable. Ring a peal over my head, tell me I've disappointed you and you can't stand the sight of me. Eventually, it will happen. I am patient.
I used to have a ring on my finger, a ring my mother gave me, gold with blue topaz sparkle. I tell everyone that topaz is my birthstone, and it is, but blue topaz was under the sign for December. I don't care, I told myself, I like blue better. It's not a lie.
The ring isn't on my finger anymore. I keep it in a jewelry box that my cousin gave me because I stole some of her rings. The moral of that story is that she's a better person than I am.
I don't think it's very hard to be a better person than I am. I don't think I should find it so hard.
My therapist tries to convey something she seems to think is so simple. It seems simple. She tells me that I should be angry, and I stare at her. I don't know what you mean by that, I say. The idea feels so damn foreign to me. What do you mean by anger? What? Angry? About what?
She tells me that anger is a healthy emotion. Anger. Who knew. Apparently, when I've been—
—emotionally abused by an asshole who liked to engage in ——well, anything I can say here would be repetitious, but here we go: constant disparagement, argument, withholding of sex and jealousy so virulent he begrudged every minute I spent out of the apartment, and liked to convince me of my flaws so eloquently he could've sold Stars of David to the Nazis—
—physically beaten by my own flesh and blood, my older brother (you worshipped him when you were a little girl) holding me against the wall; once he tripped me onto concrete, knocked the breath out of me and started laughing, deep voice moderated tone but so up in your face you can't breathe, screaming and running out into December without a jacket just to be left alone—no apology, ever—
—when I checked into a hotel, vodka and klonopin at the ready, drunker than drunk and the ativan melting in my mouth like snow made of chalk—somehow I remember anal violation; I know I was thisclose to unconscious and can't remember whether I said yes or not, leaning towards not, didn't want that and was in fact trying to kill myself; I go back to my apartment with my angry boyfriend and tell him nothing, I say nothing, do nothing because what would I be defending, really——
I'm supposed to be, at least, a little angry.
I am nowhere near angry. I don't even know how to begin.
I am just scared.
(I'm scared no one will say anything to this, and I am telling my story to an empty room, or a room full of people who aren't listening. I'm not sure which is worse.)
I daydream about cold guns up against my temple. I don't tell him because a) it's a fucking cliché, and b) he'd have to get all concerned, and I don't want his concern. I have no idea what I want, but his concern is not what I need him for.
I could be held all day long and it wouldn't be enough. I wish I were small enough so I could be rocked to sleep, and have a kiss pressed on my forehead. Wish I didn't start crying late nights, like clockwork.
I am making mix CDs of music we could listen to when we make love. Mostly the songs I chose are sad, and they all speak of love with pain. Even the memory I have of pure love is mixed with bitterness: pure love is a warm blanket put around me when I cried. I remember plain heartache better. Despair, malaise, it's what beats in my veins, not blood.
This slow merger of desire with friendship feels bizarre and I wonder aloud if it's unromantic. I mean, it's okay to slowly get to know someone as more than a friend, right. Much more stable than some fucked-up whirlwind. Just as romantic. I can't tell whether I'm talking myself into this because I'm scared or because I have justifiable reservations. I know I'm going against my better judgement. If I had any to begin with.
I wait for irritation. Inevitable. Ring a peal over my head, tell me I've disappointed you and you can't stand the sight of me. Eventually, it will happen. I am patient.
I used to have a ring on my finger, a ring my mother gave me, gold with blue topaz sparkle. I tell everyone that topaz is my birthstone, and it is, but blue topaz was under the sign for December. I don't care, I told myself, I like blue better. It's not a lie.
The ring isn't on my finger anymore. I keep it in a jewelry box that my cousin gave me because I stole some of her rings. The moral of that story is that she's a better person than I am.
I don't think it's very hard to be a better person than I am. I don't think I should find it so hard.
My therapist tries to convey something she seems to think is so simple. It seems simple. She tells me that I should be angry, and I stare at her. I don't know what you mean by that, I say. The idea feels so damn foreign to me. What do you mean by anger? What? Angry? About what?
She tells me that anger is a healthy emotion. Anger. Who knew. Apparently, when I've been—
—emotionally abused by an asshole who liked to engage in ——well, anything I can say here would be repetitious, but here we go: constant disparagement, argument, withholding of sex and jealousy so virulent he begrudged every minute I spent out of the apartment, and liked to convince me of my flaws so eloquently he could've sold Stars of David to the Nazis—
—physically beaten by my own flesh and blood, my older brother (you worshipped him when you were a little girl) holding me against the wall; once he tripped me onto concrete, knocked the breath out of me and started laughing, deep voice moderated tone but so up in your face you can't breathe, screaming and running out into December without a jacket just to be left alone—no apology, ever—
—when I checked into a hotel, vodka and klonopin at the ready, drunker than drunk and the ativan melting in my mouth like snow made of chalk—somehow I remember anal violation; I know I was thisclose to unconscious and can't remember whether I said yes or not, leaning towards not, didn't want that and was in fact trying to kill myself; I go back to my apartment with my angry boyfriend and tell him nothing, I say nothing, do nothing because what would I be defending, really——
I'm supposed to be, at least, a little angry.
I am nowhere near angry. I don't even know how to begin.
I am just scared.
(I'm scared no one will say anything to this, and I am telling my story to an empty room, or a room full of people who aren't listening. I'm not sure which is worse.)
