I questioned myself a lot after my blog last night. I went to bed with my old man snoring dog and just laid there for 2 hours thinking, thinking that someone might come here and kill me or beat me and about how much i wanted another peanut butter choc chip cookie… but i ate them all.
Finally Batman got home and just blurted it all out, I didn’t know if this blogging was good for my mental health because afterwards i feel so emotional and on the brink of tears after each one, so many thoughts and memories pop into my head. Like my brain is full of rice bubbles. Which is probably somewhat true.
Batman was lying across from me watching me, and we had a old man girl dog, a cat and a body pillow called Barry Allen between us, and i cried, it wasn’t ugly crying as such because he couldn’t see me that well, luckily. How hard must it be for him? How hard is it for someone to not have the answers for someone they love?
I felt like my heart was breaking. In my head, i wanted to scream, i wanted to say i just can’t do it anymore, but instead i said “it makes me feel like i want to die”. And at that point right then i meant it. Ive never felt that bad, i’ve never thought that. ive never felt so much despair and unknowing before, and i never thought it, let alone say it out loud. That scares me. What a crazy bitch.
Is blogging about this actually hindering my recovery? But if i stop i feel like i would be taking a lot of steps back into the darkness that is PTSD and depression and probably extra meds and then what. Wrap me in a blanket and call me a burrito?
I’ve had memories that i didn’t have before.
When we moved the 3rd time when i was 8 or 9ish we moved to this beautiful 100 year old house on a huge block in the middle of this beautiful tree filled area surrounded by bushland and one main road that went right through the town. I adored that house, with its high ceilings and old wood floors and old fire oven. It had open fire places and it was one of those old houses that’s veranda stretched all the way around the house, we would light the fires in each bedroom when it was cold because that’s the only heating it had and i loved the smell of the house from the wood burning. I remember when the log rolled out and burnt the wood floors. There was an old school bus on the property that the owner stayed in randomly for a while there… weird. There was a dam with yabbies and Birdy would go yabbying and i ate one and bit her finger when she tried to pop it in my mouth. We rode motorbikes and had pigs, which they ate and i then became a vegetarian. We had chickens and a real bastard rooster that hated women. I loved that place, i remember sitting on the deck chair on the front veranda watching the trees in the sun and just loving that moment. I loved the day times.
I remember night time, i remember i hated night time. Always. I was excited on the day that they decided to put me in the same room with my other brother because i thought that meant that i was safe. I could sleep again. They put these big old wardrobes down the middle of the room to separate our beds and i loved my little section, furthest away from the door, safe. I sat and drew the things i saw out my window all the time.
That room is the first memories of how i slept, as close as possible to the wall with my body curled up and my fists clenched.
Late that same night i heard those floorboards, those knees cracking and his breathing and my heart sank. It just sank, that is the only way i can describe it. I felt like i was cheated or tricked in a game. I was sharing a room, he can’t get me here.
He did. Those times, remember that i went somewhere else. I Don’t recall what happened. I don’t know if i want to know. It didn’t matter to him where i was. I was in the shower one day in that same house when he came in and i guess he told me i don’t wash myself properly and he did it himself. I guess i just stood there? What was i doing? i think i stayed frozen, like i did in the night.
I don’t know if i even saw him. I wonder if he even saw me?
Did you see me?
So is this helping me? I believe it is, i remembered all that after one blog post, as bad as it is that there’s some real sad awkward soul crushing stuff in there, good things came out. The way i’m feeling about the actual house and my other memories there is tramping the feelings i have over the things done to me. That is worth a billion chocolate bars to me.
When i think of it now i feel the warmth of the sun on the veranda that i loved so much, i see the fatty white horse that the boy across the road had called Jelly, and the time us kids went and played down the creek with our boogie boards on a stupid hot day.
There you are, inner child. Ive been looking for you.