Fuck this pointless wankery of an existence. For that’s what it is – existence. I do not live. I have a pulse, and (regrettably) I respire rather than expire, but that is not a life in anything other than a biological sense, it is not a life in any meaningful humanistic sense. I feel devoid of a soul – perhaps I have never had one, or perhaps it has been gradually pumped from my sorry being.
I exist rather than not exist. I do not live. I have never truly lived.
I am feeling sorry for myself (as if you hadn’t noticed). I lose myself in self-indulgent thought-trains questioning what is so intrinsically wicked about me that I deserve nothing more than the aforementioned existence, and all its nefarious attacks upon my self, rather than something that vaguely approximates a life. Why have I been so deserving of all the wrongs levied against me? Why do I continue to be thus deserving? What did I do? For what heinous, grievous act am I being punished?
But I know the answer. I am an inherently, innately despicable, debased human being. Catholics subscribe to the doctrine of ‘original sin’, and I suppose I am alluding here to something relatively close to that. I was born an atrocious, repugnant person. That was kind of inevitable, I suppose, given 50% of my parentage, and indeed the gene pool of that branch of the family tree in general. And, sticking with the undercurrent of a quasi-theological theme, perhaps I am the reincarnation of Hitler or something. That statement is actually only partly hyperbole, if it even is at all. Nothing would surprise me about the depths of my grotesque defects anymore.
Fuck therapy too. C has ruined my so-called life, even though it is not his fault. If it was in tatters before all this – and it was – then it is positively in threads now, or infinitesimally thin strings of atoms, or whatever other relevant but silly metaphor floats your boat. Attachment and transference are possibly the most difficult things I have ever faced – that sounds ridiculous in the context of abuse, bereavement, betrayal and abandonment, but it feels true nonetheless. How can the analytical school of therapy believe these to be productive side effects? How can that be? Psychotherapists let this happen – nay, oftentimes they actively encourage it – and when you are thoroughly sucked into the quick sand that it is, they think this is a good thing?! [For what it's worth, in rational terms I actually do fully understand and agree with the usefulness of transference. But as a client it is an unbearably huge burden to carry about with you, especially when the transferential issues that need so fervently to be addressed through exploration of and supported through the relationship never will be].
Of course, attachment is only a small part of the fuckery that therapy has helped make my current situation. I should never have faced some of my most demonic history – at least not in the certain knowledge that it could never be fully processed.
I can’t live with these images, these thoughts, these alternative versions of current reality circulating endlessly in my head. It all lay dormant for years, and whilst as I freely admit that form of mental hibernation caused significant problems and was never going to be a long-term solution, living with ‘just’ the symptoms I previously manifested (as opposed to all of those along with these hateful videotape-esque ruminative intrusions) was easier than this.
But it’s not even just the issues of abuse. It has never been just that, despite the assertions of some bitch who assessed me for therapy when I was teenager. Well, maybe the abuse unconsciously underpinned everything else, maybe it made me more vulnerable to having shite thrown in my face, I don’t know. But the thing is, hideous and all as the abuse was, for someone to rape you (especially in such a long-term, systematic fashion) they actually have to give a fuck about you, regardless of whether that is in negative terms or otherwise (and Paedo did ((does)) seem to be fond of me in his own sickeningly twisted way). I do not for one second suggest that people do not care about me as things stand. Many do. However, that wasn’t always the case – it still isn’t in all cases that I would like it to be – and the unwavering empty loneliness felt in these circumstances simply doesn’t go away with time.
I am a lucky woman. I am blessed with people that care about me. I have a roof over my head, my precious car, all the amenities I could reasonably need and, perhaps most importantly (beyond A and Mum), a brain.
It isn’t enough. I’m sorry, but it just isn’t. Can anything ever be enough? Can I see light at the end of this tunnel? I can, but it’s a train heading right for me. Perhaps that is the best thing?
Bryan Adams’ Summer of ’69 (laugh if you will but I’m a rock chick to my core) came on in the car on my way home yesterday. There’s a line in it that says, …those were the best days of my life. It made me wonder what were my ‘best days’, and I concluded that they were probably when I was in primary school. It’s all relative, however, and ‘best’ simply does not equate to ‘good’. In this case, it means very slightly less desirous of ceasing to exist than normal.
From conversation with others, I understand that this is apparently not a normal childhood. Children are – I am told – supposed to play, laugh, feel happiness, enjoy the company of their peers. They’re not supposed to hallucinate, experience all-consuming morbid and suicidal ideation, converse only with adults and read Grey’s fucking Anatomy whilst listening to Bach at the age of five. It seems I was a freak then, as I am (sometimes proudly) now. Yet this is my normality, and it always has been.
It goes back to my point at the beginning. My normality is existence, I have never really lived – save for little pockets here and there, I suppose, such as when I met A. I believed that this was the same for everyone for such a long time, and have always subscribed to the tenets of existentialism and nihilism. Yet in and of themselves such philosophical concepts should aid enjoyment of life. If, ultimately, there is no point to human life and there is no higher being to whom we need to prove ourselves (as is my belief), why not just embrace hedonism and enjoy what time we have? And yet I can not. Nothing matters, so I shouldn’t care about anything, and yet here I am, a fuddled mess of psychological spaghetti, ripped in many places, who lives in a bubble of technical functioning and very little else.
This is a rambling and pointless post. The inimitable and quite wonderful Bruce Dickinson can tell the story better than I can: