This post will describe in detail how I lived the abuse. What I did; my reactions. It will not go into the graphical violence of the abuse, or very little.
First, since I dissociated after each abuse, when I came back to my body from the coma/unconscious world (after the puking, drowning, etc); well I didn’t remember anything. I went on, and I did, again, go have some “fun” with my uncle, or grand father. I enjoyed having fun, who didn’t?
But then it would turn bad, my grandfather’s urges would surface. He’d make me drink, I refused, but he had methods to force me to drink. Sometimes the abuse was raw, no alcohol, usually with my uncle; but with my grandfather there was alcohol. I’d start feeling numb, often they made me drink too much, I would throw up. This happened between ages 2 to 13. At some point, my mind would reconnect with the past abuse, because that’s where we were going this time again; and at that moment I usually fought back. Then sometimes I did the exact opposite; to be honest I tried everything. Playing dead, fighting back, running away. They found it funny, and fighting back made things much worst. Running away never worked and to this day I cannot run more than 5 minutes without my mind going bezerk on me. I can’t. I try, but I can’t. All my life I’ve had this problem. “They are going to catch you”. Fear takes over, i go into panic mode. Confusion flushes in, the (in my world) famous feeling of being drunk. I can’t stand it. It is too intertwined with abuse.
And so at that point I know what will happen, the momeries flush back in and I try to find a way out; but then I know there is no way out. I was conditionned from too young probably. I tried so many things, I know also that my memory will be wiped out again and it really really makes me sad. I want out, I want someone to come in and save me, I want this new guy to realize that this is fucking insane and someone needs to do something about it. But no, I end up being tied up, or a boot pushing my head down into the dirt, or the cement on the floor of the stall in the barn. They were stronger than me. And so my mind starts spinning, about what I did wrong this time, what did I do? Why? why again? not again!!!
I try to absorb their pain, to liberate them, I send them love, to disable them. But I am too small. They are too drunk. I am too drunk. I don’t want to be drowned again. I fear it, so much. Loosing my life, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to loose my life. Why? The water invading my nostrils, the puke, the blood sometimes, and the shit. My own shit that I was forced to eat off their dicks. All that crazy mess invading my nostrils and I slowly leave my body. But I don’t want to. If I leave my body my memory will be erased again and I again will fall into the trap. And I don’t want that. Who will recognize? Who will love me? How can someone love me, if I’ve yet again done something wrong?
Sometimes I tried hard to please them, so I wouldn’t get drowned. But that didn’t work. Sometimes I played dead. But that didn’t work either; my grandfather has necrophilia engrained in his soul, he loved fucking inanimate bodies. It was like a cherry on the sundae for him.
Then what to do? There was no way out. And I resisted hard, with my hands on the blue barrel, my grandmother could hear me scramble. She didn’t want to hear. That’s why she told me years ago not to shout, or scream, or say a word.
And the resistance. It was so strong in me. I threw it everywhere. Someone wanted to love me? I resisted. Someone wanted this, or that, or asked me something, I always resisted. I ALWAYS DID RESIST. I resisted happiness, beauty, love. I resisted success. I resisted all the bad stuff too. Soo much resistance.
When the multiple personalities started waking up three weeks ago, they resisted themselves. It was horrible, I couldn’t function. Thankfully Sandra helped. It was such a hard therapy session. I just resisted the whole way, her treatment, her, everthing. I had become resistance itself. At the end of the session I felt like nothing had happened; but it; thankfully. The different “me” stopped resisting each other. Thankfully.
If my memory was being wiped again, who would know it ever happened? What will become of me? So little; I became so little, dissociation after dissociation. so little is left of me. What am I? Who am I?
And so it continued. And so I forgot. And so I woke up the next morning, wondering what was happening; who I was, why this emptyness. With no clue in my conscious mind of that was going on. Only the resistance, the feeling of no self worth, the feeling of guilt; I was clearly doing something wrong. I must be! And the doubt, the fear, the fear of all men. All of them.
And my family repeating nonstop how much they love me. As if by saying it it made any difference. Except driving me towards schizophrenia; no it doesn’t help. at all. but yeah, thanks for covering up your bullshit.
and so it happened, as far as I know, 63 times I dissociated. Repetition almost creates reality. Almost creates truth. but it doesn’t. Cause I am breaking it.