While I’m sleeping. Dreaming of future tense where hope is folly. Earthquakes, poverty, floods and famine fuel apathetic distractions. Who wants to hear the heart wrenching details of someone’s despair? I understand there’s a pill for that. Too bad it leaves a bad taste in my mouth and makes my skin crawl like the end of an ecstasy high. My body aches and feels like I have too many empty places. An abandoned mine who’s treasures have been plucked clean. Leaving only darkness, rotting supports and broken things.
I have suffered from depression since I was young. It comes and goes and I can usually deal with it. I’ve been wondering why this wave is so harsh and it came to me this morning. Josh Duggar’s molestation clusterfuck triggered memories I did NOT want to revisit.
When I was 8 a family friend’s 18 year old son was supposed to watch me and my younger brother while the adults played cards. Hide and seek was the game and my older siblings were with the other, nicer brother. I was molested with my little brother an arms length away, in the dark of the car’s trunk. I remember the conflicting thoughts racing though my head. This was wrong, but the creep kept whispering that if I made any noise, we’d be caught. I hated being “IT”. I was just a fucking kid!! My mom never taught me that my body was mine and no one could touch me without my permission. I never liked being groped or tickled. Not by my pediatrician, not by Chinese friends who thought my muscular body was an amazement that needed to be felt. I ran and hid on my birthday when siblings and friends of siblings came to give me a birthday spanking which was more like being beaten into a gang. I have no idea what fucked up person came up with this one, but I want to murder them. Should I mention that I’m an introvert who grew up in a family of extroverts and an alcoholic narcissist?
I grew up Catholic so suffering is considered a virtue. Fuck that! I didn’t tell anyone what happened. I knew I’d be blamed and punished. I ran into the house and hid under the table the adults were playing cards at. They were all drinking. I got a half assed, slurred question about my behavior. I gave them an answer that didn’t indicate what had happened and everyone went back to their fun. No one gave a second thought to the little girl who was curled up and rocking herself under the table.
I attempted suicide when I was 12. That’s when I discovered my body won’t let me abuse it. After barfing my guts up and passing out for many hours; I discovered that no one missed me. I’m the middle child. I guess that makes me invisible. I was dealing with memories of the molestation and a sadistic nun at school who seemed hell bent on breaking me.
I knew I needed help so I went to my mom and with tears running down my face. I told her what I had done and that I needed help. I still didn’t tell her about the reasons behind the suicide attempt. It wouldn’t have mattered. She became very upset. How could I do such a thing!? We’re Catholic. What would people think? It would scandalize the family. She shut me down when I needed help. More concerned with how people would perceive her and her family than her daughter’s well being. That’s when I realized I was on my own.
I was in my 20’s when I finally told someone in my family. It was the same, fucking, dismissive response I got when I told my parents. “Oh… that’s too bad, sorry. That’s what happens to pretty little girls, sometimes.” Imagine being told this in a bored, monotone.
Apparently it happens so much that no one bats an eye. I have far too many female friends who have endured chronic abuse by male relatives. Even when it’s known by other adults. Got to keep the men folk happy.
It’s sickening and inexcusable to allow these monsters to roam free. The creep that molested me had brain damage. My 5 year old brother and I were left in the care of a brain damaged pedophile so our parents could drink and play cards. I didn’t think I was bitter, but my parent’s failed to protect me. They dismissed every thought and feeling I had that they were uncomfortable with.
Spiteful was one of the lovely nicknames I had growing up. You better believe I’m spiteful. It’s kept me going when I had nothing left. It’s been my cold comfort when no one would give me aid.
I’m still wrestling with the dark. Depression is a terrible thing. No one sees it. I’m tired of the dismissive anger that I encounter when I’m at my lowest point and I can’t camouflage it anymore. It’s as if these ass nuggets think I’m being sad just so I can ruin their day. I’ve had people I lived with; burst into the room I was hiding in so not to disturb anyone with my wracking sobs and yell at me. “Get a hold of yourself! What the hell is wrong with you?! Just stop it!”
If it were that easy don’t you think I’d have done it already? Where is your compassion and humanity? You soulless fuck!