Writing has been on my mind lately, but not much actual writing has occurred - except here. Which isn't at all a bad thing, as any writing is good. GOOD. Durr.
Jeez, my brain is just not working today. Well, scratch that; it was working this morning when I had to let my Eloquent Angry Bitch out to play with a stupid, stupid oil company who fucked us over recently. Maybe that was my daily allowance spent, who knows.
Sometimes I dig through my old drafts and notes to see if anything worth writing about is stashed away in there, hiding from the light. Some old stories and prose are in there, never to see the sunshine. Today I tried to find something in there that would goad me into action. Instead, I found records of my dreams and (more often than not) nightmares from last decade, all there, waiting for me to relive them. My therapists have all had this proposition in common: keep a written record of my dreams, always. Now, I dabbled in dream reading for about oh, gosh...twenty years now. My therapists interpretations have always matched mine in many more ways than not, so I don't feel like I'm a shitty dream reader, but I'm obviously not an expert. That said, one of these nightmares I'd so horrifyingly preserved had every symbol and sign that screamed GET THE FUCK OUT, YO that I am now embarrassed to admit I hadn't left that situation even a year later. What the hell, me? Yeesh. However, this served a purpose, one which I will finally tell you because even I'm boring myself with all of this preface shit.
I am so glad to be who I am today.
There are so many ways my existence could have gone, each more terrible than the last, but I made it to thirty fucking five years old with nothing actually horrific in my present life. Sure, it would be nice if I wasn't disabled, and yeah, maybe it would be easier if I wasn't clinically depressed, but you know what? I'm not dead, I'm not living on the streets, I'm not selling my body and I'm not in jail. These are all definite plus marks in my book, and probably in my Mommala's as well.
Once upon a time, I was asked by my therapist to write out a list of each trauma I'd experienced, whether it was abuse or self-inflicted, something I'd witnessed or something I'd blocked out. I did it. I wrote that list. I wrote every frightening thing I'd ever been privy to and then promptly curled up in the fetal position and cried for about three days. But you know what happened afterwards? Nothing.
Not a goddamn thing. No bad news, no attacks, no break-ins, nothing! But it wasn't until today, after reading that dream journal, that I realized my past has nothing - NOTHING - that will creep out of dark corners and bite me. No one will ever beat me or throw me into furniture, no one will rape me, and no one will ever be able to subjugate me, ever again.
I made it this far, and goddammit, I will make it further.
Jeez, my brain is just not working today. Well, scratch that; it was working this morning when I had to let my Eloquent Angry Bitch out to play with a stupid, stupid oil company who fucked us over recently. Maybe that was my daily allowance spent, who knows.
Sometimes I dig through my old drafts and notes to see if anything worth writing about is stashed away in there, hiding from the light. Some old stories and prose are in there, never to see the sunshine. Today I tried to find something in there that would goad me into action. Instead, I found records of my dreams and (more often than not) nightmares from last decade, all there, waiting for me to relive them. My therapists have all had this proposition in common: keep a written record of my dreams, always. Now, I dabbled in dream reading for about oh, gosh...twenty years now. My therapists interpretations have always matched mine in many more ways than not, so I don't feel like I'm a shitty dream reader, but I'm obviously not an expert. That said, one of these nightmares I'd so horrifyingly preserved had every symbol and sign that screamed GET THE FUCK OUT, YO that I am now embarrassed to admit I hadn't left that situation even a year later. What the hell, me? Yeesh. However, this served a purpose, one which I will finally tell you because even I'm boring myself with all of this preface shit.
I am so glad to be who I am today.
There are so many ways my existence could have gone, each more terrible than the last, but I made it to thirty fucking five years old with nothing actually horrific in my present life. Sure, it would be nice if I wasn't disabled, and yeah, maybe it would be easier if I wasn't clinically depressed, but you know what? I'm not dead, I'm not living on the streets, I'm not selling my body and I'm not in jail. These are all definite plus marks in my book, and probably in my Mommala's as well.
Once upon a time, I was asked by my therapist to write out a list of each trauma I'd experienced, whether it was abuse or self-inflicted, something I'd witnessed or something I'd blocked out. I did it. I wrote that list. I wrote every frightening thing I'd ever been privy to and then promptly curled up in the fetal position and cried for about three days. But you know what happened afterwards? Nothing.
Not a goddamn thing. No bad news, no attacks, no break-ins, nothing! But it wasn't until today, after reading that dream journal, that I realized my past has nothing - NOTHING - that will creep out of dark corners and bite me. No one will ever beat me or throw me into furniture, no one will rape me, and no one will ever be able to subjugate me, ever again.
I made it this far, and goddammit, I will make it further.
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