Take a moment and see things from my light.
Take a moment and think about me.
Take a moment and think.
Take a moment.
Take a moment?
I realize I ask too much of you.
Take a moment and see things from my light.
Take a moment and think about me.
Take a moment and think.
Take a moment.
Take a moment?
I realize I ask too much of you.
I know how I feel, but their words drown out my voice.
I know what has happened, but they say I’m making it up.
I know what I have seen, I know it and I will never shut up.
It’s just sensory overload
You’re just displacing your fear
This is a simple case of, “_____”
maybe “it’s Just” what I’m telling you it is.
perhaps I know what I’m experiencing
“The social worker thinks it’d be a good idea to get you into counseling”
Have I not been saying that for three years?
Listen to me.
Just fucking listen to me.
I know how I feel, I know what I’ve seen, stop doubting me.
I’ve come to terms that you don’t listen, my words are like wind to you,
they pass quickly and you don’t notice them.
my words are like the sound of a subway passing,
quick and you’ll soon forget them.
I swear to god, some strangers notice my suffering more than you have,
and don’t tell me that this is my fault.
I didn’t bring this on. I didn’t call CPS.
Please someone, tell me this isn’t normal.
Please tell me that being yelled at, accused,
please tell me I’m not just too sensitive.
I need reassurance that I’m not just a weak kid who
doesn’t understand the world.
I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy.
I need someone to reassure me that this is not regular.
That having Child Protection Services at your house is irregular.
That being screamed at and blamed is unusual.
I need to know I’m not just exaggerating,
I need to know that I will be okay,
I need to know that this isn’t all me..
An issue that poses itself after having been a “victim” of domestic violence is that if it happens to someone more than once, which is statistically quite likely, people can assume that you’re not very credible or don’t know what abuse is, or simply favor playing the victim.
I want to state, for the record, that I have never wanted to be a victim.
I want to be happy, healthy, and safe.
You’d think that if a kid came to you and said they were being bullied on the playground, you’d listen.
And if that same kid came back and said another kid was bullying them, you might think (unless you’re a piece of shit) that there’s an issue with bullying at this kids school.
Well my playground is home, and my bullies happen to be the men my mom bring into my life. They are people that I share a bathroom with, that sleep not even seven feet away from me, they are people who I am not related to by blood or marriage – and who do not pursue any kid of healthy relationship with me. He’s here to fuck my mom and use her for weed money.
But these same people, or Person really, feels entitled to discipline me in his own fashion.
He disciplines me in ways that the scientific method has not proven effective in any conclusive way that promotes one’s mental health.
He uses fear tactics – physical threats, screaming, breaking things to invoke fear. He has never beat me, but has grabbed me while angry. Which brings me to my next point, my mom had a rule that she taught my sister and I when we were younger – to never lay a finger on someone when you were angry.
There were no exceptions.
Laying a finger on someone when you were mad, or worse yet, physically hurting them when you were angry, never led to anything positive.
I have listened to her, I haven’t hit anyone or gotten in fights. But when it comes to this man, who I will not call her boyfriend, because at this point he is an abuser – when it comes to him, these same rules that she has set for us do not apply to him.
He can grab my wrists when angry, he can scream at the top of his lungs and point a finger in my face, he can bruise my little sister’s back for bringing milk upstairs – he can cause damage to our belongings by throwing them and damage to my mother’s daughters by physically hitting us and using what is clearly verbal abuse.
When I brought my opinions to my mom, carefully laid out, I stated that I simply couldn’t see how she can ignore the signs of abuse, to which she responded that she couldn’t possibly see how I did.
Two days ago, I posted this image on facebook:
And I will admit, 1) it’s obviously incredibly biased, and 2) it is the kind of post that when I see someone who I disagree with posting it, I roll my eyes and internally scream something along the lines of “MY GOD YOU NEED SCIENCE” – but it said what I was thinking. So I posted it.
The topic reminded me of how my dad would whip me with a belt and leave bruises on my ass. It reminds me of when he would hit me so hard repeatedly that I would be sore for days.
I consider that abuse – even though it wasn’t the only abusive thing he did to me or my family. I feel the need to say that. I feel the need to qualify my abuse. To make it seem serious, because not nearly enough people see abuse as it is.
But even though I didn’t post this with the man my mom brought into my home in mind, he commented on it taking a defense.
He knows very well how guilty he is. He knows what he has done is wrong.
Yet he had the audacity to tell my oldest sister that she was projecting her anger on to him, being childish, and playing the victim.
My mom jumped to his aide as well, and used the same example she has every time we’ve argued about spanking – about the kid who runs into the street and puts them-self in danger.
Which apparently merits hitting your child. Because, hey! They survived! Let’s give them a beating so they wish they hadn’t!
But honestly, let’s break this down.
So it’s okay to discipline your child with a firm spanking, when they are putting them-self or others in danger. Alright, I can acknowledge that this isn’t devoid of logic. No one wants their kid to cause harm – but what about those other times this form of discipline has been exerted? And what is there to be said about using this method regularly? Because if the purpose truly is to strike fear and create a memory about what not to do, then this should not be overused. That is simply psychology – if physical discipline is used repeatedly and often, the child will grow to not fear or learn from the experience (I’ll likely write another post about whether or not it is ethical to use fear tactics while raising a person, because I don’t exactly agree with that).
The aforementioned milk incident, when my young sister brought a cup of milk upstairs? (which had a lid on it, I might mention. It was a sippy cup) Did that require a spanking? How about the time she was crying in the corner because she was exhausted, as four year old’s get, and he aggressively made his way down the stairs to spank her repeatedly (not even aiming at her hind anymore, but instead hitting any surface of her body which was available) and leaving bruises on her back, and welts where his hand had been? Sure. It shut her up. Sure, she isn’t crying and he was able to go back to his room and smoke some pot and go back to his jobless life of mooching off my mom’s income, like he has been doing for the last two and a half years.
Did the milk merit a beating of such caliber? Did the sad toddler in the corner, who felt isolated and unwanted, who expressed this through tears, did she deserve to be beat? Was that a worthy enough cause for him? Is that justifiable?
If it is, shame on him.
This child has gone through enough, she has to visit her depressed father every other weekend who doesn’t even properly bathe her. She has to watch him be an emotional mess – he cries in front of her.
There’s a fine line between discipline and abuse, but to me, violence will always be violent. Hitting will always be hitting. I don’t care if it’s on my ass or across my face, this is my body, my autonomy, my life and mental health you had in your hands and you fucking obliterated it.
To caregivers, parents, or siblings out there – it is your responsibility that these young people are okay. You are responsible for the mental health of these people. You are responsible for their well-being. Their perspective on life. You are everything they have. You are their consistency, their world. Make their world as great as you can, give them every possible opportunity you can. Their worlds depend on you.
I am not a victim of my circumstances. I am not Bryan’s victim, or my dad’s. I am no one’s victim, no one’s abuse toy, I am an independent individual who doesn’t rely on an abuser to give herself an identity. I am not your victim. My sister is not your victim. We are fucking strong, we hate you and your actions with a writhing passion, and I don’t care what delusions my mom has about you and what you have done, but I am no fool. I see your bullshit. I see your phony grandeur. You are nothing more than a sack of flesh who abuses children who are not even your own. You left your daughter in Australia and had to take a moment to remember her name, you use my mother for pot money and haven’t even applied for a job since moving here, you sit in your chair that my mom bought for you, smoke weed that she bought for you, you sit under a roof she pays for, use a computer she funded, and internet which she bought for you.
Get a life. Stop abusing those who are bridled into living in close proximity to you. You are a fucking loser.
I’ll admit it, I’m happy they broke up – because for a short while I loved him.
I mean, who likes to feel replaced? Who desires to see someone they would confide in become attached to someone new? not me.
I may have disagreed with him on everything, he may have been an asshole at times, but I cared deeply for his shitty ass.
I hate that I cared, but I can’t help how I felt toward him.
But there he is. Sitting in front of me again, his gross hair that flips out at the bottom, his thick red jacket (the one that’s extremely fuzzy on the inside, the one that would keep my hands warm on rainy mornings before AP Psych). He got new shoes, I still wear the watch he gave me. a few weeks after we broke up he wore the leather bracelet I gave him, I wonder if he still has it. Why do I care? If he honestly came to me to make amends and try again I wouldn’t take him up on it – he hurt me too much.
He dated Felicia.
He let me meet his family, when he knew he didn’t love me.
I loved him.
I could tell he didn’t love me.
I ignored it.
I’ll admit it, as shitty as it makes me, I was happy when I found out his relationship wasn’t happy – I didn’t care that much if he loved her, I just was happy she didn’t love him.
He’s christian again,
lives with his crazy dad,
probably going into the military.
I’m atheist as fuck,
want to go to university,
I want to travel and live a godless life.
A life of love, of friendship, of tidiness and sex.
I want to burn candles on rainy days,
sleep in on Sundays,
read case studies and policies while drinking black coffee,
eat pomegranate seeds and avocado toast –
White bed spread.
Wall of windows overlooking Seattle.
Seeing a therapist every Tuesday.
A clean fridge.
A white cat, miniature dachshund.
My godless life.
It’s 1:30am, I have about 5 hours and 10 minutes before I need to be up, but I can’t fall asleep. So, I’m up. And I’m writing. Because I have been trying to go to sleep since 9pm.
All I can seem to think about are my old memories. Very distinct and exact memories.
I can remember where everything went in my last house – the house where we lived as a family last.
I can still here the way the different doors creaked – I can hear the kitchen door that led out to our Asian patio. The way my mom’s desk looked, the stain on the carpet in the hallway just outside my room. The way the carpet came up just enough to see the green tile in my closet. The way the laundry hamper smelled in the hall. How we organized our freezer and pantry. Potatoes on the bottom shelf, onions too, both in wicker baskets. Those rice and blueberry treats mom would get from Costco. The guest house. How it always seemed to smell of barbecue chicken. The closet, weird coats, how we would go out there just to watch tv. The old cigar box in the guest house garage. The tire swing by the horse pasture, the orange grove, the brick wall, the nut trees by dad’s shop. How the orange trees smelled in the summer, the way snails would gather near the sprinkles, our pool. The second story of dad’s shop, how you could hear rain hitting the tin roof. The old war maps dad hung in his office out there. His big metal work table. The way the old blacktop road would burn my feet, mom’s white porch swing, our pomegranate tree. The lemon tree, the tree house we built with Callie. Mom’s garden. The basil plants. our compost pile. The brick fireplace inside, the big solid wood mantle above it. Dad’s bear hanging in the dining room, my pine piano. Mom’s brown rug. My music rack. The little patio outside the door off our breakfast nook. The lights suspended in there. Tig. The kittens. Our playhouse, and the summer we spent at the house before we moved in, sesame ring pretzels. Too much Febreeze. Mom’s clothes line. When dad worked in Vegas and mom made that bon bon ice cream that the whole block loved. Mom’s fourth of July parties. The vegetable stew she would made during thunderstorms. How we could see the beautiful mountains outside our kitchen window. When mom would wake us up by singing. Getting ready for youth group, that shimmery purple eye shadow I loved. The ivy wallpaper we had in our bathroom, the stone walk-in shower that’s light didn’t work so it was always dark. All the goddamn storage space in there. Our craft closet. Mom’s closet, which was always organized. The little garden outside mom’s bedroom, the wall of windows that were in front of her bed. Her beautiful bathroom, the high windows, tall ceilings, wood and stone everywhere. Our beautiful, expensive, World Market table. The wall of windows in our dining room. How mom would let us make an pillow fort out of the living room during the summer when Lacey and Katie would stay with us. That Thanksgiving when Uncle Winky brought his Brazilian friend, who was probably his boyfriend and we were all just oblivious to how gay he was. Sage and Sonia. Spending summers with the Deitz, their treehouse. Going over there to hang out with Jacob and Nate before any of us were out of the 8th grade. The year Jacob started high school, when he started driving, when he went off to college. When Carson started dating that dude with the weird name – playing in the orange groves outside their house, the palm fans. The mule. Callie’s horses. Going with her to mediation in the hummer, taking her to her dad’s house. Going to see movie’s with her and Melissa, always having diet Dr. Pepper and tootsie rolls. When Melissa would decorate for christmas, and their entire house transformed into a winter wonderland. Ms. Terri’s 15 foot christmas tree, staying out until 1am to help get ready for VBS at Foothill. The red berries. When Mrs. Hengst took her Sunday school class to see Mega Mind and I felt super left out.
Oh my god. Carson and Hayley are both married. Jacob and Nate both have girlfriends and are going to graduate college soon. Callie is a Sophomore. Riley and Katie are in college. Lacey is graduating this year. Sonni is at COS. What the hell happened to my childhood? I will never spend another summer at the Deitz cabin. I will never climb frog rock again or go to Dudley Ranch. I’ll never go hunting with my dad again. I’ll never go inside the 38o house…. I’ll probably never see the Sisto’s, or step inside Foothill.. Who knows if I will even see Delaney or Owen.. But I’ll never spend a halloween at their house, or go into their treehouse with those weird little brown berries that fell off their tree, or see their clawfoot bathtub filled with plants that DD put outside her bedroom window, or watch Owen obsess over Cars or Nate over spongebob or Jacob playing Call of Duty on their family computer… I will never sit on the Deitz porch swing and hold kittens again, or see Boomer.. I miss their pebble walkway and watching everyone play volleyball on summer afternoons while Melissa obsessively cleaned her house.
I’ve only been writing for twenty minutes, but I just took a long journey back into my childhood.. I can’t believe where I am today, when I used to lay awake at night and think about my future. I never imagined my parents would divorce, and moving to the coast was always a desire but seemed far fetched. Going to a public high school? Unheard of. I’ve had three boyfriends? ALLYSA! Y0u were supposed to marry Jacob, Nate, or Caleb – preferably Max. C’mon! You were going to get married in Gramp’s church, with that nasty blue carpet and wooden pews and green cushions, the weird cross with backlights. But too much for that, because it has all been torn out and redone. Now it’s The Road. Those little lights that used to line the stage are even gone. The smell is gone too.. And you have been in every room in that church now, all the mystery is gone. The fear is gone. Now it’s just a musty old building, and the imagery of Burt is dead. You had your thirteenth birthday party there, it was really fun. You worked there, too. When you were 15. You watched your little cousins roam those halls, now. Oh yeah – Uncle Juano got married and has three kids. Uncle Wink has two. Aunt Ne has Ribbon now, and you lived with her as well. You miss that. You also lived with Nana and Gramps, your room was the one with the weird, old closet that always scared you. The one that used to be Gramp’s office with the bottles filled with sand and coins. Also, I don’t really have to tell you this because you kind of already know, but you don’t believe in God at all. But you already have your doubts.
So much has changed for me… I kind of just want to go to Katie’s trailor and just sleep among the musty old smell and bad internet. I want to wake up to the neighbor’s rooster crowing and the hill we all know is Goliath’s grave…
As I write this, the harsh reality sets in that I have to wake up early and go to school tomorrow. The alarm will go off at 6:40, I’ll begrudgingly hit “off” as I hold back a moan of anger and depression. I’ll sit up, roll off the bed, and pull of the t-shirt I wore to bed. Standing for a second longer than considered normal, turn the lamp that sits on my dresser on – I’ll stare at the clothes I set out and consider what it might be like to not go to college and graduate with a low GPA because I skipped too many classes. I put the clothes on anyway because my mom would never go for it. Glancing at my jewelry, I consider wearing some, but just grab the watch my ex boyfriend gave me. Every time I see it, it reminds me of him, but I don’t know what I’d do without it. I remind myself that I picked it out, put it on my amazon wish list, and that anyone could have known to buy it for me. But it still reminds me of him and I wish I had another, despite how much I love the way it looks.
Grabbing my backpack, I head to the upstairs bathroom to brush my teeth. The light annoys my eyes, everything is a little blurry, and no one else is up yet. I kind of want to cry, but I don’t want a red face for school and my nose is already stuffy, and it would just agitate my cough, so I decide against it. I head down the stairs and really hope I don’t slip because man that would hurt and I would definitely have a bad day after that. But it doesn’t really stop me from taking quick, loose steps. Because at this point, I could care less about whether or not I have a good day.
Sometimes I’ll head to the kitchen to grab a quick lunch, sometimes I’ll head to the downstairs bathroom to do my makeup – it just depends on how much I care about eating lunch that day.
I grab my box and bag of makeup. As I sit down, I adjust my makeup mirror and turn on the light, I look at my face for the real first time today. I’m never smiling. Why would I smile right now? I’m about to embark on a day at school, with people who I despise, and teachers who expect either too much or too little, and a series of expectations that I don’t care to fill – I’m about to see my ex boyfriend and guys who think too highly of themselves. I’m about to see librarians who are far too enthusiastic for their jobs so one assumes they’re compensating for having such a depressing job as a high school librarian. I’m about to see the girls for whom I wear makeup to intimidate, the same ones who snicker and gossip and annoy the living fuck out of me. Why would I smile when I know what my day holds? But I look in the mirror anyway, at my dead eyes, my unmade face, and I stare. I do my makeup, every stroke calibrated, every dab deliberate, and I make my face perfect so there is one less thing to say about me. One less flaw to poke at. One less hateful word said. I’ll check the time about every ten minutes, until it’s time to leave. I’ll realize at about this moment that my mom and sister are still getting ready, and I’ll be incredibly annoyed at how inconsiderate they are of when I need to be to school. But I’ll ask my mom for the keys so I can start the car, and I’ll head outside to wait for them, accepting that I might be late. But why would I even care if I was late at this point? Who fucking cares if I even show up because it’s just another day in the mandatory hell they pass as education.
They finally come out to the car, Kendra kicks and screams, complaining every second that she spends buckling into her carseat. My mom isn’t far behind her, complaining just as much about how she dreads the day ahead. I silently sit, staring dead in front of me, my eyes blind, head full of miserable thoughts. I just want to be in bed. I want to really learn. I want to live, not this dead, dull routine. This isn’t living.
Driving to school we pass the children walking to their middle school, the crossing guards, the parents dropping off their kids. We pass this man, who I presume is waiting for his ride. He always has his cloth lunch bag, and on rainy days he wears a clear slicker. He’s a short man. He isn’t smiling either, as he leans against the cinderblock wall. He’s staring dead in front of him, with what I assume are blind eyes. We come to a halt at the four way stop, school bus passing in front of us, we wait. Pulling up in front of the administration building, I get out of the car, closing the door as I say I love you to my mom. Hoisting my backpack on my shoulder, I climb the hill to my classes.. I stumble upon the first group of people I see, and I’m smiling now. Despite the fact that I feel the same way as I did when I first looked in the mirror.
This is just an easy way to say everything on my mind, so I’m doing it again. I’m scared, actually terrified, that you’re just doing what you did last time. I let myself get attached to you, have feelings for you, and just to have you tell me that you lost interest. I can’t let that happen again. God, it would be awfully easy too. I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m actually the one who is hesitant. I really am not sure how to trust you, because you hurt me – however unintentional it was.
I don’t trust that your feelings are strong enough to allow myself to open up to the idea of something happening between us. You really need to communicate with me a little before I can have that sense of trust again. Like, how do I know that you’re really interested and this isn’t just your way of passing time?
It bothers me a little that you don’t message back faster, but that isn’t really an issue if you’re actually interested. I’ve just taken it as a sign that you don’t really care, and if you don’t care then I am not going to allow myself to put effort into this either.
I just want to know what this is to you – if you just messaged me out of the blue because I was an easy option (someone who was interested in you before), then count me out. I want to know that you are genuinely interested and care to make something work out here.
If you don’t have feelings for me, if you don’t get chills when you think about me, or if the idea of hanging out together for an evening talking doesn’t give you butterflies and make you ecstatic, then don’t waste my time.
This could just be a communication issue, or I could be right. So yeah, just get back to me on this.
My mom. If I were going to describe her in a few words, I would say she was brave and independent.
I have looked up to her for a few years now, but honestly there’s a lot that my mom has never offered me.
For one, emotional support.
She has the tendency to downplay my emotions so she doesn’t have to deal with my problems. Using phrases like “mind over matter” to push her agenda that we can overcome emotions simply by making yourself feel another way. Whereas, I believe in completely feeling the way I do before moving on to another thing, I don’t want to mask my emotions or hide from them – believing that such behavior simply delays the time I could spend feeling happier.
I don’t want to just shit on my mom, because while I do believe she has been a more than sufficient provider, she lacks the loving touch, open ears, and shoulder to cry on that I have always desired in a mother.
Those are things neither of my parents have been able to provide me, and I believe this has led to my intense desire to have a partner who I can hug and be close to.
She is rough, however also loving in her own way, but her rough nature makes it incredibly difficult to show her love. The things she wants done, and the ways I show her love are two entirely different things.
She complains a lot about how hard her work is, which I can definitely see – she is the manager of two pains in the ass, and is constantly having to fix their fuck ups. She is required to stay in that boring building, not allowed to use the internet for her own personal entertainment, and they don’t even have music playing.
But.. who doesn’t have problems like those that they have to deal with? Isn’t it just part of being a functioning person to separate your work/school struggles from home life?
Her attitude about life is depressing me. Often, I find myself wondering if I will be the same way. If I will find myself sitting on stairwells at 10pm when I am 40 years old, crying about where my life is going, the decisions I have made.
It was when I started looking at my mom this way, I realized how much I didn’t want to be like her.
I still admire her for everything she has done, accomplished, overcome… but I do not want to be her.
She is exhausting, never happy or content, she doesn’t even know what can make her happy. I’ve suggested she find a new job, but she doesn’t know how to get out of sales work because she has no college degree.
When I moved to the coast, I envisioned a healthy, happy family who lived together in harmony.
Instead, I have been met with more turmoil, anger, and chaos.
Is that just life? Can people live together without fighting, arguing, or bickering? Without petty remarks?
My mom’s boyfriend is another source of stress and discomfort for me. He is always angry – once he broke a container filled with rice when everyone else was gone. He kicked my dog, Ribbon, because she barked at him. He has grabbed me by the wrists before. He likes to intimidate and yell at people..
I’ve never been sexually abused, but I am really uncomfortable around him because I feel like he might do something. The bathroom door doesn’t close all the way in the winter because it’s swollen with water, and every time I go to shower and the door isn’t completely shut, the thought is there.
My sister Riley is mostly a source or relaxation, and honestly if she ever read this, I just want her to know that I just needed to get this out – but, she will inadvertently guilt me much of the time about things like my eating habits, the way I do my make up, or how I will cheat on my math homework occasionally.
Just the other day she said something that has really affected me – that she would kill herself if I got her sick.
I have been so paranoid about making sure I don’t get her sick, and honestly I would feel so guilty if I did (she is sick right now, but she doesn’t have the same symptoms as me)
but the thought is there and so is the guilt.
Which brings me to Kendra – writing this feels unfair because she is a kid, but her influence on my life is so great. She is loud, dirty, and honestly making my life so hectic/insane.
I look forward to when she is at my dad’s every other weekend, simply for the peace and quiet, and being able to keep my room tidy for longer than 20 hours.
She’s so poorly behaved, I don’t know how she makes it through school — she screams, kicks, throws the most bizarre tantrums over things like banana’s, and there’s close to nothing that I can plausibly do about it.
She just doesn’t like me some days. She’ll blatantly say she hates me, that I’m the worst sister. It hurts, I just want to be that person in her life who she can be around without stress and anger surrounding her family. but honestly I can’t be that person for her. I have a very poor temper myself.
God, today was rough. Besides being sick, Talon was there today – apparently he’s finally changing schools. I have mixed feelings about it..
I keep forgetting that I made out with Sam when he was here. I also keep thinking about Cadence, in the weirdest moments. I actually asked my mom for a Hundred Grand bar — something that I had only eaten with Cadence at his house. Which is reminding me of mini M&M’s, watching Archer, and drinking homemade iced tea on rainy days.. Staying at his house late at night, driving home on foggy Lovers Lane in Visalia..
I wore a tshirt he gave me the other day – but I keep remembering that he and Abiel are dating.. It still urks me.
School sucks. My teachers suck. The system sucks. The people who go to my school suck. Waking up early sucks. Being sick sucks. Forgetting coffee sucks.
Why is being happy, content, and calm so difficult?
There’s something about a man’s pants. It’s in the way they hang, the way they tell a story – you can see what he has gone through, whether he wears khaki, faded denim, or a starched pair of Levi’s.
But this man’s pants, they told a story unlike most others. His pants came up high enough for one to see his ankles – but no more.
What is the story behind this man’s pants? What happened to him – what has he gone through? Perhaps he is unaware of this oddity about his pants. Perhaps he knows full and well, and is waiting for his next paycheck to buy a pair that fit him. But the story is there, and it’s not my story to know.