I need to get this off my chest, I apologise if the following becomes a long-winded rant and it is not my intention.
But I simply can’t do it anymore – I cannot live up to other people’s expectations and other peoples idea of what is or is not morally correct or what is or is not true; Everything that I talk about regarding my current life and my past are all true in my eyes, but a lot of people will deny that it is the truth and I can understand why they would lie about that – they are trying to socially protect themselves because they treated me wrong and don’t want the ramifications of how others may perceive them for it. I appreciate their feelings on this, but I won’t hide the truth, I won’t keep deleting things just because the truth fucking hurts them, they never take into account how much their actions have hurt me so why the fuck am I so bloody accommodating to them?
I have rights too, I have a right to express myself anyway I blooming need to in order to heal. Living a life of quiet pacification is literally killing me as a person and me as an artist/writer.
Living the life that my previous abusers want me to, is killing the person that I am in every way shape and form that a person can be!
I took on this blog back in winter of 2012 purely as to act as a form of therapy for myself as recommended by my therapist, he suggested I talk freely about everything I want to regarding my life, he recommended that I also use it to bring back the creative person I was again. It worked until some people found out a few things about my mum they never knew before and they like defensive little minions went and told her and defended her and grouped up on me via telephone and emails to hound me to tell everybody who reads my blog that everything I said was a lie. They wanted me to lie about the truth I told – they demanded then that I go to London again and at a family gathering literally grovel for my mother’s forgiveness in front of them! I am quite serious about what I just said; they did demand this of me!
Every time I say something about them on my blog, I do run the risk of anyone in my family still sticking around to read what I am saying, relaying and potentially getting telephone calls and emails again, which is why I had to change the telephone number and we are considering moving because of this, because I can’t be silent anymore. I need to express everything I have gone through and I feel it is my calling to help others who have gone through the same coercive upbringing as I have, by talking about my past. A coercion that I was raised in is quite unusual but not unheard of and many people who have experienced this kind of abuse rarely talk about it, because of how violent a large amount of people can get if they hear of it. You see it is usually lead by one individual who has a large social circle who will act like posse to reign in the abused child if they start getting out of hand or rather, start becoming independent and so-called rebellious to their clique ideologies.
It rather like living with a mafia minded family with an extended social circle of friends all of whom think alike, like a big extended hive mind.
This kind of abuse is hard to deal with for a lot of therapists; I have never found one who has been able to help me. They all suggest that various people of whom have taken a part in controlling me should go and see them, but who the fuck will go up to their abusers and say “you know what? My therapist wants to see you as I seem relatively stable in comparison to you guys”. Lol – no one is going to do that and the therapist appreciates that for safety reasons it is probably best not to suggest it.
You know how badly the revelation to my mother has affected me?
I became for a long time now, primarily a poet who occasionally dips into abstract impressionistic paintings, because I have been scared to talk about anything anymore. I have even been told that some of my novels I used to write, that the family often used to read, that they see now that some of the things in my fiction work could actually be based on my supposed “poor abused childhood fantasy life”, to a certain extent a few of the themes in my stories are based on my own personal experiences, but I understand enough to know what is true and what isn’t. That is my fiction. The stuff I talk about regarding my life is TRUE and I state this quite clearly, the message has not been mixed!
Because I am struggling to appease my abusers so they don’t come back into my life in an aggressive way, I have almost ignored a lot of my creative expression via words and non-fiction posts. This has led to me becoming so severely depressed that it is affecting my health badly. I have a lot of problem with mobility of the whole of my left side of the body and I have extreme insomnia and hypersomnia – what I mean is, I can’t sleep for like 30 hours and then when I do I can’t wake up for 15 hours and sleeping comes randomly at any time and once I feel just a tiny bit tired, it is almost like I have collapsed into a coma. Nobody can wake me up, not even Henry having a tantrum on the bed next to me; it is like I have died! Quite often, the last thing I think about when I go to sleep is “I hope I die in my sleep – I don’t want to wake up, I don’t like the burden of my memories”.
My appetite is dead, I only eat when extremely hungry now and it is usually just one meal per day and around the side of a sandwich, coincidentally I am losing a huge amount of weight pretty quickly and my hair is around 60% white now.
To say the suppressors are literally killing me by using my own mind against me is an understatement. I find no joy in anything anymore. Everything about the sweet, bubbly, fun, obedient, passive, quiet, little Tina everybody once knew is dead.
In trying to force me to be their idea of perfect instead they have made me their idea of a waste of space.
For my health and sanity sake I have to heal the only way I know how. So I am taking a risk, if they get back into my life again somehow, so be it, I am ready for the repercussions because the alternative is death anyway. I am going to die someday anyway, why is sooner no better than later? Would I rather die in secret of how I died and be a mystery to all who knew me forever, or do I want to die in a way where other people can understand me and understand my situation and perhaps, just maybe, stop this from happening to other people?
I know which one I have picked.
The thing is – before they interfered and demanded me to delete and shut up, I was only sharing what I thought was the minor stuff, the stuff that isn’t too big to shout about. The stuff that is easy for my readers to digest – but now they’ve done this, maybe it is time for the real big stuff, the stuff that makes my therapists cry? That stuff I kept to myself, that stuff I never revealed and I don’t think people like my big brother, understand there is an even darker side to our mother, than even he realises!
I don’t like talking about that stuff, because I hate remembering the really, dark, dark stuff, but how I express it here, sometimes it comes out sub consciously through my abstract impressionistic art and the images I paint are also not easy to digest for a lot of people.
But I think it is time to just be me in every way shape and form and not hide from myself anymore. I can’t. Shutting me away in every way possible is suffocating my spirit and body to death, I need to free myself and that makes taking big scary risks!
Because I am pretty damned sure, since November, my body and spirit is preparing to die. I am convinced of it and I need to stop this process – not for me, but for my boy. I care only for him, not these coercive “I have a problem with your life and truth” assholes! No one can have a bigger problem with my life and truth than ME! Get over yourselves you control FREAKS!