Ah, Memories

Maine Cooooon!

I have an idea! Whenever I have a memory of my family, I should just replace it it with this memory of now: this fuffy (yes, FUFFY) Maine Coon on my lap, nose tucked in my elbow, purring so loud the neighbors could hear. That way,  I'd eventually forget all of the humilation and betrayal. Eventually I'd forget them, because that's all they were. I'd remember more of this big-footed bundle, and moments I spent caring for her. Okay, and, like with all cats... I'd spend some times feeling like a sucker.

Like I said, my brain has pot holes, it tends grab onto one and pull a rabbit out of it.

Today, I remember being 14 when I was in the midst of my uber-promiscuity (i.e. overcompensation).  I was in the back of my parents' crappy old vehicle, complaining about my brother. I hadn't said anything sexual at all, but my Dad's retort was, "Well somebody's brother seems to think she's a slut." I replied, "Well, somebody should know, he made me that way." The subject changed immediately, like I hadn't said a word.

Keep in mind, by the time I was 14, the only memory I had was the one in the closet. I always knew there was more; somehow I knew, but without the memories I couldn't back it up. Even when I had memories, I need a Doctor and photo evidence to back it up. I got it.

But again, my hints had always gone ignored - like every blunt statement, every picture, every double entendre, went straight from my mouth into black holes. It happened again when I said, "You failed & don't deserve to be parents. Never contact me again." So now, their cards go directly into the black hole that is my garbage can.

~DC

Bottoming From the Bottom

In BDSM, it's said that the Submissive "tops from the bottom", or, they get what they want but allowing the Dominant take over and take care of them.

This didn't work for me. In fact, I just realized the moment when my mind correlated my husband with "Big Brother". It's not his fault. Neither of us knew at the time the extent of my abuse, but the reactions were always present. I just never knew why I acted the way I did in relation to certain things.

When we met I was, admittedly coming out of a confusing relationship. It had been seven years of me being the dominant one, at least in that area. I didn't understand being any other way; it's my natural state, which I've had to subsume. But not a week before, I learned he'd molested my Neice and left in a minute and a huff.

I'd never been freaked out during adult, consensual sex before. Bored as fuck, but not freaked out. When he tried to put shackles on me I panicked and tried to stall as long as I could. When he strangled me during sex, I closed my eyes, tried to pretend it wasn't happening, and tried so very hard to sleep. I imagine that's what I did when my brother strangled me, as often as he did. I spent a lot of time depressed then. As I recall, my primary alter,  Khrysti, returned for a short time around then, too. Funny. I just remembered that as I was writing...

Anyway, like I said in the last post, I need control. I think it goes doubly, triply for something so intimate.

My insides were so scarred up that I could never enjoy anything inside on top of straight sex not triggering my brain. It seems, at the moment, that these experiences may have tripped me in the worst way by tying him to the past. I wonder if knowing will help? I wonder if that's, subconsciously, why I rally against him so much, because I have no other reason...

He's my best friend and my rock.

~DC

Death to Donna Reed!

I really don't know how to begin. There are so many ways I've examined my reasons for this behavior, it's crazy, but one thing I know for certain: it's ingrained into my core to think that not just I, but all women, have moved beyond housewivery. 

Nobody watched for the story, er, completely.

As a child in the '80s I grew up with a very femicentric time where women took on strong roles in the media. There were shows like Cagney and Lacy w/ Tyne Daly and Sharon Gless, and the short-lived Partners In Crime w/ Loni Anderson and Linda Carter (okay, I watched for more than strong roles, though they provided them). There was Cover-Up, where models are actually uber-spies, and the operation is run by a woman.

Music came out with strong female leads like Pat Benatar, Annie Lennox of Eurythmics, and Ann Wilson of Heart. (I only learned later, when singing for a Heart tribute band, that 70s Heart was MUCH better.)

It wasn't just in the media. The zeitgeist had come home. As much as my mom didn't work, or clean, she was a "woman of the '80s". She cut her hair and went to work out in her leotards to the worst music of the time and tried to be a modern woman. 

She told me that the way dad was, if she cleaned, he'd mess it up, and she'd just have to clean again. ...and that is the way it always is. If you don't, though, when you do... you'll regret that you didn't. My GODS, you will. 

Ah, the life of drudgery.

The thing is, she always told me that women deserve better. She was upset that she had children and missed opportunities to go to school and be somebody. She hated that I was born and she was stuck in this life with my father. At the same time, she pushed me to be rich and famous. It was an obsession with her. She needed to make sure at least one of her kids took care of her in her old age. I know now neither of us will (reaping what one sows and all that).

Still, the concept that women should be more than a housekeeper had latched onto my gray matter and won't detach for anything. In fact, my Dad used to say, lovingly, "You'll make a great housewife someday", inciting a rage in me that was hard to repress. I did, because he was my Dad. 

I never wanted to marry a man; the thought gave me that same rage. I always saw myself settling down with the right young lady, and for a fleeting moment, I saw it happening. I did it, though. The first time around, he expected to cook and clean and that lasted a whole 10 months. This time everything is perfect except that. It's our hugest issue. Every time he brings up cleaning I feel like a baby girl being chided by Dad, and I'm furious all over again.  

I don't know exactly why I feel housewivery is such a degree of servitude, but I feel oppressed by it, and he gets mad at that description. He takes care of me and all of my needs, but I feel subservient - needy and weak. I don't want to. I want to provide for myself, like a real woman, so I'm not reliant. I suppose that's part of it - perhaps a big part: control. My whole life has been in the control of others. I want it in my hands. I want to feel safe because I hold reigns, and dammit, I want to be comfortably messy in my living space. (Not Lovecraftian-messy like my family, mind you. I don't want The Colour Out Of Space taking over my bathroom as it has theirs... though that might explain some.) I want to be an adult and have money that I earned and a business that makes what I say and runs on my hours. If I had this, heck, I could pay someone to clean. ...and from all I've seen, I can easily have this if I get my ducks in a row soon.
Stoopid Catch-22s.

"You might just make it after all."

Of course, this is all funny considering my favorite show of all time is "The Dick Van Dyke Show" & I often compare myself to Laura Petrie. Of course, I'd rather be Mary Richards.

~DC

The Invisible Girl

I said I'd do it, and I did.

A couple of weeks ago I saw my Cognitive Therapist for the first time. We talked through my session and the next, cancelled, one, and I pretty much just laid down backstory. 

Invisible

She was so very, perfectly analytical. Like me, she wonders why things work the way they do, and that's what I need - to figure our root causes and fix my old reactions to present stimulus. 

One word she used to describe how I must have felt, and perhaps how I must feel, was "invisible". It didn't strike me at first, but then I realized that it was the word.

Growing up with what was going on, I had no say over it. I had to do what I was told to, if not, I was forced to. My family ignored or destroyed every sign I gave them. When I screamed or attempted suicide or destroyed every piece of furniture in my room... I was being a rabblerouser and troublemaker. Nothing I said mattered. They still don't know me.

Spouses have been the same way. The first was my best friend, until he married me - the moment after he expected me to cook, clean, and go to bed while he fell asleep in front of the  TV like a good little wifey. The second, well, I told you about him - the big man, little woman, "you will listen to me" pedophile. And the third who, as an Aspy, doesn't get many lovey social cues, and gets so hyper-focused on his activities on the computer what I say often gets lost. I love this one, but, as much as I need my private space, it can be a lonely time.

You can't expect much from fans, either. It's yet another reason why I stepped out of the limelight. All the time they bypass who you are for what they think you are or what they want to see. Back in the mid '00s, it just made me feel worse. Now, after -this long- I pretty much shrug with the realization that every model puts themselves forward to be an object - a two dimensional picture and nothing more. We shouldn't expect fans to care about who we are. It's cynical, but honest. On the rare occasion that it happens, and it happens, is a nice exception. In the meantime, the art is about Me, not them, and that's how it'd have to be or I couldn't deal with it.

I suppose maybe it's my feelings of invisibility that's honed my strong sense of individuality. I can guarantee there's nobody else who looks like me. I've stood out since I could stand up to my parents. I have no genre, I don't get why anyone would, but pull from many; somehow I make it work, and somehow I find I'm disarming. *shrug* I have this strong artistic streak that can't be contained in paper, but maybe... (and I'll never change despite this thought, mind you) maybe it's also a need to be seen for once.

I still have this painful, painful need to be heard. I can tell my husband, I can tell my therapists, I  can tell my friend, I can tell this blog, I can even tell gamers who insist they know what's best, only to accuse me of "wearing PTSD like a badge of pride". It never satisfies. The pain that won't go away is the fact that my FAMILY, though they've heard, haven't paid attention, and won't act. It's like I never spoke at all. It's like I never put all of those years of time and effort and screams and tears into trying to make them hear. 

I need to let go of that somehow. Or something. They're not going to change. I just... don't see how I'll accept it.

As an aside, when I woke this morning, I was bombarded with visions of the family dog licking sperm from my brother's penis. That was the whole scene, over and over. He kept saying "Lick it" and "Aw, yeah", and his hand was grabbing my hair. Over and over, the short scene. 

Though there was no music in this scene, my mind instantly grabbed onto "Last Word". I found it odd, since it was used to counteract the Rod Stewart song he'd play to the strobe light during his sessions with us. ...but it worked. I'm glad it worked. I'm very glad it worked.

~DC

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Being Invisible

I’m tired of being ignored,

I’m tired of my voice not being heard.

I’m tired of always feeling tattered,

I’m tired of being told my opinions don’t matter. 

I’m tired of you cutting me off.

Like you don’t care about what I have to say,

Or you think you’ve predicted it either way.

I’m tired of being treated like I’m expendable,

As if I am so easily replaceable. 

At the end of the day,

What would you do without me?

Would you even notice,

Something that you never did see?

How do you recognize when something invisible,

Just disappears.

Can you?

Is it even possible?

It doesn’t sound plausible to me.

I’m tired of you criticizing the things I like,

And mocking the way I spend my time.  

I’m tired of you cutting me off,

And brushing me to the side.

I’m tired of being told my opinions don’t matter,

I’m tired of always feeling tattered.

I’m tired of my voice not being heard,

And frankly I’m tired of being ignored.

-Me [theseviolentdelightsxoxo]