Back Down The Rabbit Hole

Yes, I know. Yet another blog that isn't about writing, but at this point, it's more important to me to get my message out there, to put my feelings down on some kind of paper, and hope to the gods I'm not too late in helping someone else. I'm an absolute fool; I admit it, and I can own up to it, but do you know what happens to a soul when they're pushed too far, when they're already broken down? They shatter, and each time, it becomes harder to pick up the pieces. It seems my life is spent traversing the rabbit hole, but at least I've been able to find some comfort in it, the millionth time around.

 Last week, my brother called me to ask if I would babysit his kids. He doesn't trust his thieving mother in law, or his bitch of a sister in law (rightly so when they steal from him, and leave him without), and his wife does nothing but go behind his back. It's all sad, but back to the point. Monday came and I was sick. For two days I had to contend with nausea, diarrhea, no sleep, a rolling migraine, heart palpitations, and dehydration. I messaged my brother around 8am, and profusely apologized. I went to bed shaking, so scared and panic ridden, thinking everything was fine.

 I get woken up by mother yelling at me, because my father is yelling at her. I've had six hours of sleep, not too bad. I know I'll sleep later, so I get up to help. My father starts throwing things in the kitchen, like a fucking toddler. The drainboard soars into the living room, cats are tossed outside, and I (stupidly) walk in to offer assistance. After the mop bucket is readied, and he starts mopping up the water the cats had spilled, he turns to me, and it begins.

 He starts out by asking why I didn't go babysit that day? I tell him why, half hoping he'd be understanding, but I'm not a fool. I know my father when he's like this. You could have cancer, be on a morphine drip, and weak from repeated vomiting, and he'd look at you like you were the scum of the earth. He looked at my mom like that when she came home on oxygen after nearly dying from smoking. Even SHE didn't get a break.

It came to a head with him saying that it was incredibly fucking selfish and inconsiderate of me to bail on him. It didn't matter if I was sick. My brother had asked for my help, and I should have gone, regardless of if I've slept, or was puking my guts out.

 It ended with him thrusting the mop at me, and telling me to put it up, then help him get dinner ready. He tried to be nice to me later, but I didn't reciprocate. I ate my dinner, and popped a melatonin, then laid in bed, trying not to cry. Somehow, I won.

 How can a father speak to his kid like that? My brother was understanding. He knows how my stomach is, and what I go through to fight it. His wife, who'd had a funeral that same day and was ABLE to attend, despite what my father tried to make me believe, was understanding. My father has a habit of trying to baby you with words, then ripping the rug out from under you. I walked right into it, but this time, I didn't emerge unscathed. I haven't left that hole he kicked me into, and for the first time in my life, I no longer give a shit.  I tried hard to better myself, and my way of thinking. I still wore black, but the music I listened to changed, as did my writing style. I thought everything was fine, but I forgot the most important lesson on my journey to the top; never show the house your full deck. In one instance, life became what it had been when I was 22, and my father told me that I was making everyone around me miserable, and that I had six months to find a place to live.

 I find it funny that a man who subjected his nine year old daughter to bouts of overdosing on pain medication, repeated trips to a mental facility, seeing him in a drunken state, where one moment he's laughing and having fun, then he's screaming, yelling, and the cops are being called. At every turn, he's tried to break me, browbeating me into being what HE thinks I ought to be, and for a while, I let myself forget why, but all that came rushing back; I'm my mother's daughter.

 My mother, in recent times, has become more of narcissist. She's tried telling me that I'm not allowed to have my own home, or my own money, until I help get both her and my father into a better home. Any money I managed to get hold of, she tries to lay claim to. Only good that came from that was my father's sit down with me, telling me to NEVER give her another dime. She called my father a liar, but that's just her isn't it? She tells me that I don't do enough around here, even though there are nights I clean the whole house, make dinner, and take care of the animals, but then she comes back with "Well, I do it every single day. Havefor the last 31 years (my age, of course)". She also counters with everything she did that day, and the day before, then crowns it with "I work harder than you ever have or ever will". Real mother of the year material isn't it?

 All of this has culminated in me self loathing, and tumble back down the rabbit hole. Of course, none of you know what that means. You don't know my history, but let's just say; the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree that helped create it. When it comes to fuckery, I am also my father's daughter.

 In 2010, my boyfriend of eight months broke up with me in front of the woman he left me for, and her best friend. We'd been living together seven months, about six weeks after my father told me that I had to leave.That's when my journey towards self destruction began. I started with dragging needles across my skin as hard as I could, repeatedly, making myself bleed. I did it in less obvious places, but like any drug, I graduated. I worked at Walmart at the time, and I'd bring my box knife home. I'd grab replacement blades before leaving, and use those to slice myself. The sharper the better. When my parents discovered my method, I went a step further; men's disposable razors are an amazing fix. I'd pry the blades off and use those, conceal them in my pillow cases. During this ride, I was thrice admitted to Laureate Psychiatric, and once to Kaiser at Hillcrest Medical Center. I tried therapy, but it's hard to speak to someone who knows nothing of what you go through. Drugs made me less of a good person, and from there, all hell broke loose. That's a story for another time.

 Monday night, I relapsed after six years of being clean; I took that needle from my sewing box, and I drug it three times across my skin, savoring that pain that lit my nerves like wildfire. I'm not proud of it. I tell people all the time it solves nothing, but I also knew that it was either hurt myself and accept a sore leg, or physically damage my parents, and go to jail for life. Yes, I may have a strong case, but in the end, I would have been aware of my actions, and I don't relish having that on my conscience. I sat myself down and came to a decision; if I'm such a horrible person, then fine. I guess, that's all I'm ever going to be, and I should just own up to it. If they want to tell me that I'm bad, I will show them what bad really is. I cop an attitude, I throw truth in their faces, I haven't spoken to my dad since this all began, and I refuse to. I no longer confide in my siblings (not like I did much anyway. My brother, whom I'm babysitting for, has always run my dad like a lapdog and spilled everything, so he can never be trusted. My other brother abandoned me, and was also physically and mentally abusive. My sister, well, you can't even call her that, can you? She and I don't speak. They all left me, and never looked back), I don't speak to anyone who has association, which has led to me cleansing my social media account in favor of keeping my secrets, and though it may all seem petty, I no longer care. I'm past that point.

I thought I was numb before, but now I know what it means; to feel your heart squeezed to the point it can't expand, your emotions virtually dead, so you have to fake a smile and a laugh, but the light never meets your eyes, and you keep your agenda hidden from the world. They'll know of my plans by next fall. By then, I'll have the money to do what I'm needing. This fall I have college, and I've accepted Pell Grants and Direct Stafford Loans, plus work study, which will total a good sum after everything is taken out. After Spring semester, I'm hoping to have found these kittens we have good homes, then pack up myself and the momma cat, plus the grandmomma cat, and leave in the dead of night. I'll be changing my name, closing down my social media account, and leaving a letter for them to find. Kind of shitty, I know, but at every turn, they have hindered me from living a full life, and I won't let it happen anymore.

At 31, almost 32, it's time to get the show on the road. I'm not the girl I used to be, and I don't really care. I'm more of a bitch, an outright cunt to those that need it, and I will continue to weed out my life until I can see my way before me. My writing is really all I have left to me. I will do everything in my power to stay afloat, but I'm perpetually drowning, no rescue in sight. I can't stand the sight of myself, and the world itself makes me ill.

Hermitdom has come to claim, and it's blissful.

 My warning to those who are struggling is this; keep a goal, and ride it hard. Hide yourself behind the wall, and smile and wave like a fool. Follow your set agenda, and when you can, leave the others in the dust. Cutting solves nothing, only creates new challenges. Mold yourself into who you MUST be, until you can be who you TRULY are. One day, these memories will fade, but know you aren't alone. We must stick together and put hatred where it belongs; back on the shoulders of those casting it. Together, we will rise, and claim what's rightfully ours. Know that you are never alone, and I will continue to run my own game, while helping you achieve yours.

If nothing else, look my writing as your escape, or create your own worlds to fall into when you and it most.

No matter your age, color, or creed, you're a mighty warrior, and as always, with your shield mates behind you, will rise to the top and live to fight another day.

 Onward and upwards, my brothers and sisters.

 Our time is now.