"Yes, my heart belongs to Daddy"

"Yes, my heart belongs to Daddy"
Originally uploaded by Qathi

For the record, this photo does not portray any current events.

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I'm gonna dig into some hard stuff deep in my head in the hopes of cathartic exercise (exorcise).

A few weeks ago, while talking with my brother about the state of my head, learning disabilities and general social inadequacies, he assured me that I don't have learning disabilities, I have PTSD. I must have given him a great look because he went onto remind me that I was regularly abused. He suggested that it's a wonder I can hold down a relationship of any sort. Since, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. Waves of memories wash over me as I allow my thoughts to wander deeper and deeper into the black holes of my childhood.

The first half of my life I was routinely abused, molested, raped, beat, and generally neglected. I haven't dealt with any of it. I was told to ignore it and it would go away. I'm finding that is not true. Instead I'm haunted by hard memories that seem almost out of body. I'm not seeking sympathy, though if you feel compelled to share something with me, I'm not gonna turn it down.

The maltreatment was issued people very close to me. The understanding I have of men is more than likely a brutally honest picture of a very dark side of dishonorable men. For the most part it was issued to me for simply being a girl. A very strong willed girl. With sass. You'd expect no less from me, I'm sure. I was raised to believe that I deserved everything dealt to me. I was raised to be seen and not heard.

I wonder which came first, the sass or the abuse?

I used to think that everyone was abused – it was normal. I was in fact told that most girls have been molested; anything I had to say on the mater was stating the obvious and playing the victim which was unacceptable. I was told that nobody cares, and that I should keep it to myself. I’d go so far as to say that attitude still exists. Fuck that.

This picture touches a moment in time when I was 20. My boyfriend had sunk into heavy drug use, and had taken up pounding on me pretty regularly for minor offenses, but more often for a suspected or perceived offenses. One night he pulled a swift big time wrestling move on me, from standing on the bed he picked me up and dropping me (face up) down over his legs as he bounced on the bed. This maneuver hurt my back in a way that still affects me 20 years later. I managed to scramble away from him running through our tiny apartment, he blocked the door, I managed to corner myself in the bathroom. I locked the door and squeezed between the wall and the toilet and curled up as small as I could get. He broke down the door and planted some solid stomps onto my back while standing on the toilet seat before he gave up - gave in - to what I don't know. He broke down crying, apologizing and telling me how much he loved me. That's how it always ended with him.

Getting away from him took many efforts, interventions and a couple of moves cross a few states. He was quite persistent. I finally joined the Navy and changed my name. I lived in hiding for about 8 years before I resurfaced, determined to live my damn life - fuck him. Almost immediately he found me, and was just as vicious as he'd been with me previously. I very nearly went back to being invisible.

It's been many, many years since I left him. I decided it was the last time it would ever allow abuse of any kind happen to me.

Many a good man has been kicked to the curb for not knowing how to handle me. My own inability to talk about any of this before something gets triggered has caused more than a few problems. I've asked, "How can I tell you decades of my life in one sitting? You'll grow tired of a ridiculous tale that is verging on unbelievable." I was right, they didn't want to hear much of it. They only wanted to know about the parts that affected them. Fair enough - pay attention, all of it.

meh - I'll get into more of it as I make the pictures. I'm feeling myself get off track.