Earlier in the week I had been having a bunch of emotional unstabability. I wasn't sure what was triggering me, but being in my room would make me dissociate. I'd feel as if somebody was standing there next to my bed, and I would start shaking and hiding. It would pass; I would ground myself, and snap back to reality.
However, 16 August was different in that I dissociated more than I ever have before. I didn't realize I was dissociating until it was too late. My behavior may seem irrational, but it's how my brain has been rewired.
I was starting to feel really emotional, so I got off the computer, and went to get ready for bed. I got in the room, and shut the door, then looking around my room, I got the greatest rush of loathing for the room. I looked around, and said 'this is where this happened, and this happened over there'. I started shaking, and buried my head in the pillows. Next thing I knew, I was crying - sobbing, gasping for air. I started looking around my room, and felt as if it was the past again. In a sense, I became the little defenseless girl all over again. I thought I heard footsteps coming down the hallway; it was my heartbeat, but I interpreted it as footsteps. I started trying to hide, but nowhere did I feel safe. I felt naked and vulnerable, like everybody could see my shame. It got worse; I was terrified. I could barely breathe. I was convinced that any moment, the door would open...
Getting up, I started fumbling around my room, looking for something, anything to help me escape from this nightmare. All I found was a piece of plastic... a very sharp piece of plastic.
It snapped me back to reality. Physical pain always eases the emotional pain for me. I was calm, cool, and collected. Yet, my escape to reality came at the cost of almost twenty cuts to my wrist.
Now, don't get me wrong. Cutting does not equal a want to die, nor an attempt at suicide. It is not a call for attention, nor is it an attempt to be "emo". If I wanted to accomplish any of those things, I'd do it more frequently. As it is, the last time I cut was 6-8 months ago. Something about 16 August made me snap. I should have known it was coming; I should have realized I was dissociating. Yet, neither of these things happened. I made a mistake, one which I've had to hide from my friends, my volleyball team, and my parents. A few people have suspected. I despise lying, but yet I said that I had fallen into a rose bush earlier that day. It's not as if I can say, "I cut because I dissociated and snapped back to the time when I was a little girl being abused". It's not something I can say.
The thing about looking at the marks on my wrist is that while I was blindly attacking my wrist, none of my veins have a mark over them. Some of the cuts should have gone right over - possibly through - the vein, but yet, none of them are marked. That tells me two things - one, that I truly had no intention of dying, nor was I even thinking about it - and two, that God has no intention of letting my pain hurt me more than it has to... He has no intention of letting me cause any more trauma to myself than petty cuts, which will fade (almost) completely with time.
I felt guilt afterwards. I should have realized I was dissociating. I should have realized that I needed to employ my grounding techniques. Yet, I didn't. God knew what He was doing - He turned something bad into something good - into something that made me realize just how much He cares for me.
The two nights since then have been tough for me. My room still triggers me. Thus, I have had a very hard time of sleeping, and when asleep, I've had nightmares. Yet, while in my room, I've discovered more things about my past that make me rethink and think more upon certain aspects of my past. This brings me to my second subject.
I'm trying to put the missing pieces of my life back together again. It is hard; I am perusing my old diaries time and time again for some shred of information upon which to trail. I've realized some things - my second known abuser did not sexually abuse me as much as emotionally abuse me. I remember more about this person than about my first one. From the time we first met, I was made to believe that I was worthless. I believed that I was scum, trash, unworthy of living, that I had a debt to pay to the abuser, and that I was the lucky one, because my abuser cared about me enough to be 'friends' with me! What I also realized, and what has been playing over and over in my mind is the scene I remember, where somebody WALKS IN on this stuff happening; they WALK IN on one of the worst situations out of them all, and they DON'T DO A THING. This person fucking KNEW, and DID NOTHING. That is when I realized that I was small and insignifigant enough that nobody really cared about me. Now, I know that's not true. But I don't BELIEVE it. No matter what people say, I will still believe that nobody really cares about me. I don't want to believe it, but it's lurking there in my mind, taking over my thoughts. I'm actually approaching hate in my reaction to the second known abuser now... I've never hated before; I wasn't brought up to hate - I think I'm incapable of hate. I forgave my abusers.... or I thought I did. This feeling of hate is scaring me - it is making my mind replay the walk-in scene AGAIN and AGAIN... making me HATE even more and more.
The second thing I'm trying to figure out is the life and identity of a "Lane Weasley". I'm not even sure if I, in my childhood, wrote down the name correctly. It could be "Wesley" or "Weasly". I'm pretty sure the "Lane" is correct though. I remember this scene from childhood now too - I actually found something in my journal to back up the memory. Here is the journal excerpt (some parts will be summarized):
"A man and his friend came to our house to see about buying a guitar. [He looks really familiar. His friends office number is not available, and he kept looking at me. Maybe he was from church or somewhere else. I don't think they even came to buy the guitar]. I'm gonna pray. I'm scared."
From the description, he had curly, long (as in shoulder-length) hair and wore glasses. I still remember him after all this time... it would be a really weird childhood memory to remember, wouldn't it? I wonder about his nameless friend too. I've searched google and the National Registered Sex Offenders page, and have come up with nothing. Hah. Not that he was likely to be on there... I just wonder so much about why I remember what I remember, and if it has anything to do with my past.
I've kind of lost my train of thought, so on to my next subject.
Dreams. Last night I had another rape dream... but this one was kind of weird in ways. I wasn't terrified when I woke up, so really it was only about a rating of 3 on a scale of 1 to 10.
I was a Muggle (I think? Maybe I was a witch...) that the Order was trying to save from the Death Eaters. Somehow they caught Remus Lupin too (he's my favorite adult character, by the way...). Anyhow, without going into details, some curse was put upon Lupin that made him experience everything I experienced... then a Death Eater raped me. I remember the pain. It hurt SO BAD. I could hear Lupin screaming too. The rest of the dream becomes hazy, until a bit later, when Lupin finds me, and just holds me, tells me everything is going to be all right. He recognizes the pain I'm in; he went through the same thing too, in a manner of speaking. And he is just so comforting... in a way, it responded to my desire for somebody to understand me and what I've been through. Somebody to just hold me and tell me that everything's going to be all right; that even though I'm lost in the darkness, morning is coming, and I will heal - I will move on. I guess in that respect, it wasn't really a nightmare - it was more of a bad dream with a good ending. Last subject.
Today, one of the things I did was go to a party for my youth group. Later on, one of the girls [she's twelve] wanted me to go outside. We were the only two left inside at this point. I said that no, it is too hot. She told me that yes, I was going to come outside... if I wouldn't come, she would force me to. Knowing me, I won't be forced into anything. So I told her no, I was not coming outside. Then she jumped on me and started trying to drag me outside. I broke free. She grabbed me again, and again I broke free, and told her not to do that. I walked over and sat on the couch. She tried to pull me off, and when that failed, she went on top of me and tried to get me to come. By this point, my mind is pretty much screaming, because I will not have somebody laying on top of me like that. Yet, I remain calm, and tell her that if she does not get up, I will be forced to take drastic measures. She still won't get up, so I grab the huge bottle of ice cold water by me, and pour it on her. That made her as mad as a wet hen... and after her chasing me around for a while with water (I think this ended up being some sort of game for her...), almost dislocating my elbow (pretty sure this was an accident), and having me yell at her, she got pretty upset and ran off. I felt kind of bad then, because I allowed my feelings about the past to hurt somebody. Knowing that she's proclaimed to be a cutter, and I have seen the marks on her arm, I told one of the youth directors that we had had a bit of an argument, and I didn't believe I should talk to her at the moment, as it might escalate the problem. I asked if T (youth director) could work it out with her. T told me later that S (girl) wanted to be like me, and wanted to play with me. I'm going to try to be kinder, but firmer with her next time... she told me last week that she's an abuse survivor, and the last thing I want to do to her is make her feel bad on top of the pain she's already obviously feeling (hence the cutting?). I feel kind of bad about the whole incident; I can't figure out if I was right or wrong, or what. I'll talk about it with her tomorrow at church... she'll have had a chance to cool down and think it out by then, as will I. It might be a bit difficult though, because I can't play the "I know how you feel" card... I'm not willing to tell her that I myself am an abuse survivor; she has what one would call "loose lips"... within an hour, the whole church would know. Siiiiiiiigh. I don't know if this made any sense at all; my thoughts are still jumbled about on this matter.
Well, this is long enough. I'll end it now.