***Possible triggers, as if you hadn’t guessed***
I’m so tired and miserable. I want to sleep – forever. Accept that any way you will. I don’t like this consciousness. I don’t like this life. In some of my brighter moments, I delude myself into thinking it might get better through a combination of therapy and medication. In my darker moments, I find that suggestion laughable – well, I would, if I were able to laugh. Either way, it always come back to this. The darkness always comes, even if it’s occasionally interspersed with mere clouds (or, very rarely, actual sunshine).
If the simple act of brushing your teeth can, in an instant, send a person knock a person back in time by over 20 years, what hope is there for that person? I was just brushing my teeth. All that happened was that I swallowed the foam creating by the toothpaste – unfortunately it caught somewhere in my throat, I couldn’t clear it instantly, and I ended up choking humiliatingly for several minutes.
As this went on for a few seconds, I was in my bathroom. Without warning, though, I was no longer in my bathroom. In one fraction of a nanosecond I was a child again – a child in the midst of a terrifying, perplexing and seemingly life-threatening horror. I was in that lane at the side of their garage, aged maybe five or six, being fucked in the mouth by him. Choking. Gasping for breath. I’m trying to move…that thing…out of my mouth, but he pushes it further in, and pushes me even harder against that sort of spikey wall. I can’t get away. Please help me. Spluttering. Spit and stuff is dribbling down my chin. It goes deeper again. I’m still choking, even worse now. Sweating, gasping, whimpering, dying…please let it stop. Please, God, I’m sorry. Whatever I did I’m sorry. Please let it stop, please. Just let me die if that’s what it takes for it to stop, if you want me to die than that’s OK. Cough, splutter, cough cough. Gurgle choke…I can’t breathe. I’m choking. I think I’m dying. Please let me be. Please let it stop…
I don’t know how long it lasted. Too long, whatever the case. Half a second is too long to go through that. Whatever the case, I was rendered a mute, shaking wreck in its aftermath anyway. The sheer degradation of the imagery is some of the worst of it all, though the sensations of being choked half to death are hardly exhilarating and drenched in fun either.
I sat down in bed for a while and just…I don’t know. Existed? I then lay in bed and started cuddling my teddy bear like the pathetic little child that I apparently am. I eventually ‘came round’ enough to read a little and, surprisingly sensibly, take a hefty dose of Zopiclone.
And so to today. I was crudely awoken by an alarm I’d forgotten I’d set on my iPhone. For a few moments, I pondered where I was – the room initially seemed unfamiliar. I sleep in a single bed in Mum’s house. My Little Pony on the wallpaper. Or else…well, sometimes I sleep there. But not here, I don’t know this place. Where is it?! Where have they taken me?! Oh, wait Pan (Aurora?) – that was then, this is now. You’re actually nearly 30 now and you’re in your partner’s house, in his bedroom and in his bed. Oh. Oh good. I will be safe here, then? Well…yes. I think so, yes. But I wasn’t safe last night, was I? *whimpering* Um…well. No. No. I suppose you weren’t. [Long pause]. But don’t worry, you’re OK now. Really? Do you mean it? Yes, I mean it. I mean it absolutely. OK then – if you say so. Thanks.
But wait. Fuck! I recalled with horror as I lay there that I had agreed to go to my mother’s house today. Nothing unduly awful about that, you might say. However, the conversation I had had last night with her on the heinous device that is the telephone had revealed to me that the McFauls would be at her house when I arrived.
For the record, Paedo was not going to be one of those in attendance. It was due to be my aunt Maisie, cousin Sarah, cousin-once-removed Suzanne, and cousins-twice-removed Marcus (almost three) and Sean (almost one). Fine? Hmm. Not really. You can’t avoid at least hearing of Paedo, and with a hideous flashback so forefront in my mind, and Aurora’s co-conscious uncertainty underpinning much of my thinking, I knew that merely seeing those who had intimate acquaintance with him would be deeply triggering.
I picked up my iPhone, intending to call my mother and tell her I wasn’t coming. The idea of facing Paedo’s family seemed like a cross too huge to bear. Instead I quite typically failed: I just stared at the thing, before whinging about my unfortunate circumstances on Twitter.
Anyhow, it’s not my mother’s fault – nor the fault of the McFauls who were visiting – that I was, and am, a mess. So I got up, got dressed and left.
I tried to avoid a lot of conversation with those assembled, but it was of course impossible. They enjoy talking. Why? Why?! What is there to say that is even remotely worthwhile in this sickening universe of shite? Besides, ‘They’ and Aurora were keeping a running commentary up in my head, as they have been doing for about 24 hours now, and not blurting the whole sorry story out to the fuckers was a frustratingly difficult undertaking.
Yet I managed to keep my gob shut on that point, hard as it was. In fact, at one point when I got a second to myself, I was acutely
Sorry, I just had another major choking fit right now. The memories invaded my head, though it didn’t become an out-an-out flashback. It lacked the ‘realness’, the sense of it being ‘now’, the physical sensations – but the images still drilled themselves deeply into my psyche in the few minutes that the choking fit went on for. My mother dashed from her position on the other sofa to help me; she was (and is) on the phone. When I recovered and she returned to her call, she said to the individual with whom she is conversing, “Pan often takes these terrifying choking fits, usually for no obvious reason.”
Really? Do I? My mother has been known to be guilty of embellishment on occasion, but let’s give her the benefit of the doubt on this occasion. If this really happens a lot, and happens randomly at that, then that is very odd. Potentially telling.
‘Telling’ of something I’m sure I don’t like.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I was acutely aware of how well I was acting my fit-in-with-the-world part in front of the McFauls. I’ve written about my ability to mask my illnesses, trauma and symptoms a lot on this blog; I am very, very good at it. But it is fallacious, utterly fallacious. It is such a ridiculously huge construct. It isn’t real. Am I even real when I do it? Am I even real at any point? What is ‘real’ anyway?
One of the things that bothered me most today was seeing Marcus and, especially, Sean. Sean is so small and innocent and sweet (that I think him ‘sweet’ nauseates me, but it is not his fault). I had these utterly repugnant images of Paedo doing that to him and I flew into a panicked rage – though a panicked rage I hid well from the others, as usual.
I should re-iterate that I think the likelihood of Paedo being ‘active’ towards either of these children – or any others – these days is infinitesimal to non-existent. It is my mind that is the trouble here, rather than any nefarious intentions from him. I see these grotesque images. I am even sicker than I thought. How can my mind even begin to think of that tiny little baby being raped by that cunt? IT IS VILE. I AM VILE.
Paul will tell me on Monday that I am not vile, but Paul will be wrong. Paul and I may try to utilise our therapy sessions to make me ‘realise’ that I am ‘not at fault’ for what happened in my childhood, but in the (in my current mindset unlikely) event that that does happen, that doesn’t – it can’t – stop the images or, indeed, the actual returns to being there. I will always see it. I will probably always feel it. Paul is skilled, and perhaps he can make things better – but he can’t make it not have happened. It will always have happened. I will always be stained.
I can’t be arsed to proof-read this. Sorry.