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 |   A journey of self-improvement - or not. |
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Sup? I'm Char. You may know me from timeless classics such as
and
I blog for things like
[Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Believin' all the lies that they're tellin' ya Buyin' all the products that they're sellin' ya They say jump and ya say "how high?" Ya braindead, ya got a fuckin' bullet in ya head |
Artist: twenty one pilots Song: Fake You Out [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Mood: Agitated af. I don’t remember what I wrote in my last entry whenever that was, but I’m very worked up right now so I thought I’d try to blow off some steam and see where that takes me. It might be a winding route to the end of the entry because my brain just isn’t cooperating with linear thought patterns right now. But, so... Okay. Got a call from my brother last week and he brought up this horrible memory that I’d intentionally pushed wayyy down on to forget. After that though, I kept thinking about different shit and I had this brilliant idea to go read some of my journals from, I dunno, 15 years ago. And I just. I’m so fucking infuriated. I’m infuriated with myself for ever thinking that would be a good fucking idea. But I’m also fucking furious because of the things I’ve read in these journals. And before you start saying like, “Oh Charlie, let it go. Like, it’s the past” or whatever. I can’t. I can’t let it go. I’ve fucking tried. I blocked so much shit out and then I self-medicated for years and years specifically trying to not think about these things. But that’s not the point. You can think whatever you want but the bottomline is that I was abused for my entire life and when I hit my mid-twenties and tried to get clean, all of that shit was still there and I don’t know how to cope with it. I don’t know how to be okay. First of all, I can’t believe all of the things I’ve just straight up forgotten. I fairly quickly stopped reading, but what I did read... It’s like reading something written by someone else. I have zero memory of what I was writing about like 90% of the time. So that disturbs me and makes me dissociate, like, just disconnect with myself and reality. Even worse though is that I’m so pissed off with my younger self. All of the excuses I made for people and all of the naivety is infuriating. I should have then, like right then, been like this shit isn’t okay, like wtf. Obviously, you guys have no idea what I’m talking about because you didn't read the entry, but the first entry I read was just like a random page in the middle of my journal from when I was thirteen. I’m not going to dig it out again to write down verbatim what I wrote then, but the essential gist of it was like... I was doing homework at the kitchen table and it was just my dad and I at home because my mom got home from work like 2 hours after I got home from school and he got home from work. So my dad comes into the kitchen and tells me to put my cup in the dishwasher if I’m finished with it because he wants to run it. So I get up and bring my cup over to the sink to rinse it out, and when I did that, a few droplets from it splashed onto the window blinds of the window that was above the kitchen sink. That’s the entire situation. Nothing else happened, but this angered my dad, so now we were in a situation where he was getting increasingly pissed off at me. Because I: 1. Started to use a paper towel to clean up the blinds and he said I should have used a dish towel and not wasted a paper towel. 2. So then I grabbed a dish towel and he got even more angry because now I’d already wasted a paper towel and I was trying to dirty a dish towel on top of that. So the situation has now escalated to the point of furious. He’s going off on me, calling me names or whatever. And, according to my journal (since I don't remember this entire event), I put my hands up and said, “Ok, ok, let’s just settle down.” Well, that was the wrong thing to say because he became fully enraged and essentially lunged at me and dragged me through our house and threw me into my bedroom. Just to give reference, my bedroom was through the kitchen, the carpeted dining room, the carpeted living room, and then down a hallway at the far end of the house. So I read all of this and I wasn’t fazed by it at all. Even though I didn’t remember it, like, yeah, that kind of shit happened on a regular basis so obviously I’m going to forget things. It’s not a big deal. I pretty much just skimmed it like, “Haha, sounds about right.” But what I read next is what actually just fucking upset me so much. That whole part of my entry took up maybe ¼ of a page. The next 1 ¾ pages were me absolutely agonizing over the fact that it was the dead of summer, when I typically just wore shorts and ran around outside a lot, and I had gotten rug burns from being dragged across the carpet on my back, my arms, and my legs. I wasn’t upset about the rug burns, I was upset because I was terrified that my mom or my grandparents or who lived next door or someone at church was going to see the rug burns and ask me what happened. Seriously. 1 ¾ pages reserved for me coming up with some kind of excuse so that if an adult asked me what the fuck happened, I could have an answer ready for them that wouldn’t “rock the boat” by causing a fight between my parents or anyone else. I explored every avenue of possible resolutions. Like, hey, maybe just wear long sleeves and jeans, but it’s like 90 degrees out so isn’t that going to look weird? Maybe just say I fell, but I don’t really know how you can slip across carpet far enough to cause that much rug burn. Oh, I know, I should go to my friend’s house now and then just say we were fucking around, like roughhousing on the carpet or something? 13-year-old me, hellllooo. What the fuck!? Why make it your problem to find an excuse for an adult dragging you around like a fucking ragdoll? Why do you give a fuck if he has to answer for it? More importantly, why do you even think anyone would care when there’s so obviously a long-standing pattern of abuse that literally no one gives a fuck about? I can’t explain how frustrating it is. I want to go back in time and fucking slap myself. Because I should have rocked the boat more. I should have created more of a scene about things so that it wasn’t so easy to brush things under the rug. I made it waaaay too easy for my dad and way too easy for my extremely avoidant mother to just be like, “Oh, bumped into your locker? Oh, fell off your bike?” So that now she can be like, “I mean, obviously you were appropriately punished sometimes, but I don’t think that's unreasonable?” Like, no, every single time some bullshit like that happened I should’ve been like, “Hey, motherfucker, welcome home, Ma. Dad dragged me across our entire fucking house because I accidentally made a tiny mess in the kitchen, wanna see my marks?” Just so that now she couldn’t hang out in that fucking grey area of like, wellllllll... everything is debatable. Two sides to every story.  You know, that fucking “I didn’t see anything” with a wink bullshit.I know I’m just going off right now and I know most of you probably don’t like cussing so I’m sorry, but it’s just like, so many years of frustration built up and it just spills out at some point. I actually have a positive point to make here if I can get myself to it. Reading my old journals made me come to this realization that I can’t do that shit anymore. It’s completely imperative that I stand up for myself and not back down when these situations arise now. And what I mean by that is, like, for example, a while ago my parents absolutely dismissed me when I called them out on their abusive bullshit. The context to this is that I actually didn’t call them out first. They got into a fight with a different family member who essentially said, “Well, you guys have a history of being abusive, just look at Charlie.” This made them furiously angry at me because they thought I had maybe been talking to this person about my childhood (which I’m not allowed to do), even though I most certainly hadn’t talked about it. This person was using me and my past experiences to basically go for the jugular on my parents. But, regardless, they confronted me and told me that I better not be talking about it to anyone and that it wasn’t that bad and I essentially need to shut the fuck up. I was really caught off guard by the entire thing and pretty much just backed down immediately because I didn’t even know what was happening. I was just like, “Okay, I won’t talk about it.” Then they went on to inform me that it wasn’t that bad, I’m just overly sensitive and emotional. So I was like, “Okay, no problem.” Eventually, I did end up going off on them because they were continuously harassing me for weeks even though I was trying to back down from the beginning. But my ‘going off’ was like, “I don’t want to talk about this and I’m not going to talk to you anymore if you keep telling me to shut the fuck up when you’ve already silenced me.” Then we just didn’t talk to each other for months. But reading my journal made me realize that I’m done protecting them. I’m done protecting them when other family members or family friends bring up my childhood. I know that I rant here about it, but this is the ONLY place I do that. In real life, when someone brings up my childhood like, “What happened with that whole thing where you left school and ran off?” I never respond by saying that my parents kicked me out so I didn’t really run away so much as I was pushed away. Instead I just tell them that I was pretty rebellious and wanted to be in the city instead of a rural area. Why? Why do I do that? It makes me so angry to think about the fact that I essentially still just follow whatever the fuck excuse they gave to someone to make themselves look good. Like, “Yep, I was such a shitty kid that I just up and ran away! Yeah, I know I didn’t see my family for years because I’m such an utter trash bin.” I’m not fucking doing it anymore. I was making excuses to make sure they looked okay then and I’m still doing it now. Even in my journal I’m like, “I know I can be really irritating.” Bitch, what the fuck are you talking about? You’re 13, you’re not being irritating to the level of needing to be manhandled because you accidentally spilled a few drops of a drink. See, I’m getting worked up again. I’m sick of hiding from myself and hiding things on behalf of other people. I’m sick of being like, oh no, Charlie, do whatever you can to avoid the memories that are constantly popping up when you’re trying to sleep or work. Distract yourself, take some pills, have some drinks, go meet up with someone who can take your mind off things. I’m sick of avoiding and dismissing myself because I think I just had a realization that avoiding and dismissing me is exactly what my parents did and continue to do. So instead of acknowledging a memory when it pops into my brain and being like, “Hey, yeah, that wasn’t right. It’s not okay that that happened. It was shitty behavior that you didn’t deserve.” Instead I’m like, “Oh, really still hung up on that, you fucking loser? Still planning to be ‘processing trauma’ when you turn thirty? You're so sensitive/emotional/dramatic/immature.” And then instead of dealing with that memory, I just dismissed it and pushed it further down while berating myself for even thinking of it in the first place. Just to cycle back to the memory again 3 years later and be like, “Oh wow, look at the fucking crybaby still thinking about this incident.” It almost feels like I’m treating myself how my parents did/do, and I have no idea why I’m doing that or how to make myself stop? It’s alarming. I'm so afraid of what you have to say 'Cause I am quiet now and silence gives you space |
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