Sleep and Anger

Sleep and Anger.

This will be one of those posts that isn’t really about anything. Nothing more than getting the crap out of my head after an awful night. 

I’m angry. Im not angry at anyone but it’s making me angry at everyone. Anyone that dares speak to me today is likely to get the head bitten off. I’m sure that I’ll be full of apologies later, but there’s all this anger inside and nowhere for it to go, so it’s going here, via my insane ramblings because it’s all I have.

And I’m tired. I just want one night where I sleep. One might where I’m not afraid. Not even 10 minutes last night and I was startled awake by the stupid crap that goes around in my head. Then it was a night of terror. I have no one to get mad at for it. No one to shout and yell and ask why the hell I have this. Why did this have to be my life and what I got?

I wish he’d go away. I wish the bad man would leave me alone. I’m tired and I’m done with him. I don’t want him here anymore, but there’s no way out. No way to stop it once it goes dark.

Sometimes I think it would have been better if they’d have just took it that step to far. Put me out of my misery at the time. It would be better than this.

All I see is faces. His face. I feel his hands. I see others. Tables. Children. Trees and darkness. A million memories I can’t quite reach. They feel like a movie in my head that I can’t get rid of.

I’m bound to everything.
Bound in silence.
Bound here.
Bound in memories.
Bound to tables.
Bound in darkness.
Bound while they watched.
Bound while my mother laughed at what was happening to me.
Bound to everything.

I wish my mother were here. I wish there was a way I could take all this out of me and give it back to her. I wish I could show her what she’s done.

I can’t even show my father because I see him and he shows me how it’s my fault and it makes me feel bad about it.

There’s no where for it to go and I’m not going to self harm today.

I’m not.

I won’t cut it away. So I’m writing here and trying to make it disappear, but all I feel is anger.

Turmoil.

Some days, I wish I could confront my father.

Not with the past; even as much as I want to beat him with the question of why until he is down on the floor, and because I want him to be sorry for what he’s done.

What I wish is that I could take hold of him and not say look what you did to me as a child, but rather, look what you’ve done to me in my life now. Today; when everyday is a constant battle. I wish I could give him a day of it.

Most days, I think I have gone somewhere in my mind. Apart from writing, my voice is still missing. I still cannot bear to look in a mirror any more than I have to. I hate the face that stares back at me. It is not mine. I wish I could cut it away.

My father was very nice to me this weekend. He had to have his cat put down. She was actually mine and he came to my house to drop her things off. He was concerned I was okay with her passing.

She had not been my cat for years, but this side of my father is the hard one to deal with. He’s nice and caring and I’m walking over a pit on a broken plank waiting for it to give way.

I have to remind myself of the reason he had my cat. I had to leave everything behind to enable myself to recover from drug abuse, and the reason I was doing that was the because of the life he had given me.

He has thrown me into turmoil once more.

My Voice Is Silent

My Voice Is Silent.

​ My voice is silent. It has been that way for days, yet today, feels worse. I cannot shift the feeling of being in the wrong for talking.; for letting my secrets out. It is six days, I think, with no real sleep. Maybe it is more. I don’t really know.

​I am floating from one day to the next without having the time to stop and enjoy it. I am just watching . Somehow, I got knocked back inside my head and I am not sure how to come out again. I make myself write this so I can see what I feel and understand myself.

​I was out of bed, in the middle of the night, in a frightening moment when my mind protected me. I was yelling to be left alone before I had even woken up. Suddenly, I was in the memory of a five year old, and the man I do not know was stood by my bed in the dark once more, like he always is and always was.

​I was not dreaming of him. I was not even thinking about him. I had laid there in the dark for almost an hour, getting annoyed with the inability, once again, to fall asleep. I closed my eyes; I must have drifted off a little. When I opened my eyes in half sleep, his face was in front of mine. His hands were on my bed. I didn’t think, I just reacted. It wasn’t until I was at the other side of the room crouched against the wardrobe with my arms in front of me, telling him no that I realised it was thirty years later and he was not there.

My Nemesis, the Badman.

My Nemesis, the Badman.

        It is not just bruises that child abuse leaves behind,  bruises are the things that heal the fastest.

He is there, when I turn off the light, when I close my eyes. When I lay down after a normal day. He is upstairs when my foot touches the bottom step and I stare, daring myself to go up. He is behind me. He is waiting. He is the shadow I cannot run from.

Every night he haunts my sleep. Yet he is no longer real. He is not physical, not just those years as a child he stole, but all the ones that followed.

In the darkness I lay down. I close my eyes and sigh and let the day go like everyone else. Seconds later my eyes open, I stare into the dark. I try and make the shadows nothing. I know he is not real any more, but I am waiting. I do not move. Do not blink. My breath is caught. I am 35, not 5 he cannot beat me anymore, but he does.

I am afraid to sleep. What if tonight he becomes real once more?

I see his face. Like a flash before my eyes. He is grinning. Smiling, yet I still don’t know his name.

Just the shadow of a bad man from long ago.

Read Dear Teddy.