Haha, you’re mentally ill.

Today I asked a deaf man to listen to this great song and then I laughed when he couldn’t hear it, I also asked all my friends on my facebook to laugh too. Then I put something too high up and asked a crippled man to reach it down, it was so damn funny when he couldn’t (please note I didn’t really). Sounds horrendous doesn’t it? Yet this is how I feel when I see such stupid things as the picture I have posted at the side. I hope it creates a good laugh, and then I hope those who laugh realise how cruel that is. This illness is an illness, it is serious and debilitating and certainly not a joke. It makes me sad when I see such ignorance. 1379856_10200784363384001_904517282_n

Perhaps you want to tell me to lighten up, it’s just a joke. Have a laugh. Take it easy?

I saw on an Asperger’s awareness site a post saying put OCD on your profile for a laugh. I was disgusted, not just at that, but for something that raises awareness for an illness, can belittle another one in such a way.

Today I reach day eight of not eating. This is due to my OCD, maybe it’s funny. Maybe I should be laughing.  For me it’s a nightmare. For me I am living with a crazy person inside my head who is so afraid to eat.

I bought a coffee this morning, pretty simple thing, but for me, I try not to watch the person serving, because I know if I do, I find a reason not to drink it and to pour, probably a perfectly good coffee away. I nearly did that today when I saw the young girl pig up my cup from the top. What if her hands were dirty? That’s what my mind started at, and then onwards it went to the many disastrous things that could happen if I drank that coffee.

Sometimes I am rebellious, it is like my OCD is a separate person to me, I havre to do things to annoy it. Like put my cup to my mouth and take a sip and then laugh at my OCD as it clutched its evil little head, because now it was too late, any form of harm or germ in that cup was in my mouth, so I might as well drink it all.

I saw this also today in a group, Obsessive Compulsive Cosmetics. What an awful name. Perhaps they will instruct as that poster said, Nike, to make running shoes for the paraplegic.

It’s just a stupid light bulb.

It’s just a stupid light bulb.

Strange topic for a blog post I know, but that’s what’s troubling me at the moment. A stupid light bulb. The one in the hallway blew out two nights ago and once again I have forgotten to replace it. The night arrives and darkness falls and suddenly the door to my lounge becomes like the door to a prison cell.

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Probably a strange concept to those that aren’t afraid, not that I am afraid of the dark, that doesn’t bother me at all, it’s the vision the dark gives me. The mental flashbacks that get triggered by a light not working. It makes me so frustrated with myself, it doesn’t matter how often I tell myself he isn’t real, he can’t come any more. He does not exist, the child inside does not want to listen.

I lie on the sofa at night trying to sleep and all I can feel is the anticipation of his hands in my hair yanking my head back, his nails digging into my arms, or his teeth in my skin and everything else that follows. All because I forgot to change a stupid light bulb.

I can’t even go out there, not even to go to my kitchen to grab a drink or to my bathroom. It’s like being a child once again. Even sleeping alone at night is a task, all I want to do is sit up and check that he isn’t here, but no amount of checking reassures me, because what if this time when I close my eyes, he comes. I feel like I’m an adult with a child’s logic sometimes when it is like this.

Once the night comes down, I know, no one will hear me scream and no one will come to help.

Shadows

The hot sting of a scratch, the grip of a hand. The smile, the laughter from a torturous face.  I lay in bed asleep, these things invaded my dreams until my mind woke up and told me to open my eyes. He’s here. He has you, you fell asleep again and he got you. I jumped up in bed, yelled at him to let me go. Fought with him, anything I could to get him off me. I shouted for help, as always even though I knew none would come, and then I realised he wasn’t there. shadow-man

I searched my arm like crazy. I could feel the impression on my skin where he had held me. I could feel where my arm burnt as he clawed down my skin. I could feel his breath. I could hear his laughter in my ears. My room was just as I had left it when I closed my eyes. The door was shut tight. The lights were on; he was not and had not been there.

Yet today he felt so real.

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.