Tommy has been dead for fifteen years today. I don’t blame myself for his suicide any more. I used to. It took a long time for me to stop feeling like it was all my fault. I didn’t even think about it until I called a girlfriend yesterday and said, “I am completely freaking out and I’m not sure what is triggering it.”

She said, “Don’t you have a big anniversary at the end of June?” Oh. I had managed to not remember until she said that. Yup. This is a big one.

I called her because I’m told often that calling people is the right thing to do when you can’t think of what else to do other than hurt yourself. Distraction is your friend and all.

I haven’t cut in quite a while. The last time was one night when Alex was here and I could not get my body under control to even talk to him. That was a few years ago. I haven’t beaten my head on the floor since my 30th birthday. That is going on two years.

I have been appropriate for a couple of years in a row. I don’t scream much. When I do I immediately apologize and I have to take a time out to model dealing with inappropriate behavior. I haven’t hit anyone in a very long time.

I maintain “good” behavior by removing stimulus so my life is nice and boring.

Right now my stomach hurts so much that I feel like I could vomit on my bed. I haven’t medicated yet today. I have been playing games with not medicating. Because I go through these shame spirals about only disgusting bad people are addicts. I need pot. Therefore I am a disgusting, bad addict. Aren’t addicts supposed to be punished? Isn’t that what we do here?

I think that thinking about Tommy is part of the emphasis on the burning-alive screen in my head. Normally that show isn’t so prominent. But when I think about Tommy pretty much what I see in my head is a flip-flop between images of him burning (which I didn’t actually see) and the physical feelings of him trying to rape me. I wish I could forget what that felt like.

Next year he will have been dead for half of my life. Due to funny math it takes a bit longer until my father has been dead for half of my life. I had a birthday in between their suicides even though they were only four months apart.

Just breathe. Therapy tonight. Not going to the park today. Thank goodness for rain. Please start raining, sky. I want to have a good reason for not going instead of just being a whiny bitch.

Sometimes I can not-hate me for the things that have happened to me. Then there are all the other days when I look around and notice that other people didn’t have lives like me. I must have deserved it. I must have been supposed to be treated like that.

The one thing I have no fear of as a parent is whether or not I have snuggled my children enough. It would not be physically possible for me to spend much more time snuggling my kids. We spend hours every day hugging and cuddling. My children will not have brains and bodies full of the feeling of being hit and held down as someone tries to remove your clothing.

My children have never been told that they are whores who are required to open their legs whenever they are told. No one has ever hit them and told them to be still and silent while they are being hurt. No one has ever humiliated them and then told them to stop crying or they will be given a reason to cry. No one has ever told them, with fingers in their vaginas, that this is the only part of their body worth keeping them alive for.

Sometimes when I think of all the evil poison I have inside me I feel like the only way to run away from the toxic sludge is to be dead. Otherwise I don’t know how to stop remembering these words, these feelings.

Just get up and do something else. Even if the first attempt to distract myself fails I have to try again. And again. And again. I have to get through today so that I can have a tomorrow that hurts less. It will hurt less. I believe that in the pit of my stomach in a way that I believe very few things. Not every day hurts like this. I know this.

I suppose that is actually major progress. I don’t think I had that belief in the past. When I was young I remember feeling trapped in the fear and pain. I did not believe I could ever not be in pain. Then I had my children. They bring me more joy than anything in the whole world. A lot of the time I am able to immerse myself in the joy of being near them and forget everything that came before them.

Sometimes I feel like I was born with them. I am trying to write a new story. It started on May 24th, 2008. That was the day that me being in pain wasn’t really something that bothered me. It was pain with a purpose. I needed to help my daughter be born. I wanted it. I wanted it more than I have ever wanted anything.

And the person I got is even more incredible than I imagined. She is more loving than I thought she would be. I think I believed that my children would always have thinly veiled contempt for me like I was told to have contempt for my mother.

My father, sister, and brothers all told me to have contempt for my mother. She was weak, powerless, stupid, ineffectual, unable to handle real life. We were supposed to lie to her always because she couldn’t handle anything.

So far my children seem to believe that in any average room I am going to be the most competent person there. If something needs to be done they assume I can do it. Even if I have never done something before I say, “Well let’s check the internet!” Then I just do it. I don’t care if it is “hard” or not. If it needs to get done and a person can do it then I believe I am capable of doing it. (Ok, barring some limitations of sheer strength or size. But there are tools that help you over-come such short comings!)

Fifteen years ago when I was told that my brother was dead, no wait–let me be clear: when I was screamed at that I was a stupid bitch who killed our brother I went off by myself. Eventually I went to Jenny because I had nowhere else to go and I knew I wasn’t really welcome in our house. It was all my fault after all. Everyone was so mad at me.

If I hadn’t prosecuted my dad none of this would have happened.

Fifteen years since I called 911 and said, “I need to talk to someone about my dad molesting me.” I cried and could barely give the operator my address. Hell, I barely knew my address. I think I had to find a piece of mail and read it off. I hadn’t lived there very long.

That was when I started really fighting back. I wish that I knew some way of fighting back other than disappearing. That is what I have done. I left. I left everyone who was previously in my life. I treated them like there was an ultimatum and they lost.

Pick my abusers or pick me. Given that you never knew about any of the abuse and you don’t believe me that it happened I will take that as you picking them and I will leave.

I don’t need you.

I don’t need my mother or sister or brother or aunts or uncles or cousins if they aren’t going to believe me about what happened to me.

I live in hell because of the things that were done to me. And I’m supposed to make nice-nice with the people who hurt me. I’m supposed to forgive and forget and support them and love them because they are family.

I think that if a dog was treated the way I was treated my family would go to jail over it. Animal rights activists are fucking fierce.

I learn every day how bad it was because I make conscious choices about how to talk to my children. I weigh my words very carefully. I have to think about every.fucking.thing.I.say. Or I might slip and be inappropriate. I know how very inappropriate I could be. Oh holy fucking shit I could be wildly inappropriate.

Someone tried to tell me that I don’t understand how upsetting rape pornography is. I said, well very few people have pictures of themselves being hanged by the neck but I do. Do I understand how upsetting it is that generic men might want to do that to generic women? Uhm, how about having to live with the fact that someone I loved very much wanted to do that to me. He thought that was the appropriate way to treat me. He masturbated while watching me choke.

I am very careful what I say to my children all day every day. I have had an entire life of Not Safe For Children. Like 99% of what is in my brain is not appropriate to share with children. So I have to think very hard and very carefully all day every day to ensure that I am appropriate. This is the hardest thing I have ever done. I have to think about my words, my tone of voice, and my facial expression. I have to do this full speed ahead while interacting with two very challenging individuals all god damn day every god damn day.

I actually feel proud of myself when I think about it. I am not perfect. I am snippy and I say things that are too harsh sometimes. Hopefully not in a long-term damaging way? Who knows. I’m saving money towards their future therapy if needed. Seriously. Growing up with me is an Adventure!

They sure don’t act like children who have had all the joy taken from the world. (I’m sitting in the play room watching them interact. We’ve been in here a while.) Ok, actually they aren’t both in here any more. I guess stuff changes.

I should probably start chores. It is a day and all.

Sometimes it is inconvenient that I think it is so important to model this shit every day. It is inconvenient that I prioritize their having these memories over what my body wants to do. It is just more important to care about their future selves having this stable scaffolding to build on. It doesn’t matter how I feel. I want to sit in bed and watch The West Wing season two for the sixth time.

But that wouldn’t be functional, now would it? I’m pretty sure I am getting sick. My nose is running and my throat is getting sore. We still need to go on a walk and get work done. The world does not stop just because you aren’t feeling perfect. We won’t run but we do need to move our bodies. We need to be active. We need to be out in our community seeing people and continuing to exist. We won’t stop and chat as long and we won’t stand as near them.

This feels very important. Just keep moving. It doesn’t matter if you want to be alive you are still alive. Keep moving. Act like you will be alive for a long time. You can either do it miserably or you can do it in reasonable health.

If you want to actively die get it over with. Stop the bullshit. Don’t kill yourself with a thousand paper cuts. That is chicken shit. If you are doing that, stop it.

There has to be a different way. What is it? Time to go start the day.