A totally innocent tweet. A complete breakdown in response. Imagine, if you will, that you're sitting on your sofa watching tv. You're not feeling too bad so you decide to be a little social. Snap decision, Twitter it is.
You scroll through your timeline, rejoicing with friends, consolling others as they endure a hard moment. Then you come across a series of totally innocent, completely beautiful tweets. They're not to you, in part you feel guilty for being somewhat intrusive. Suddenly a sharp pain stabs you in the chest. No, it's not a heart attack.
You see, these innocent tweets opened my eyes to another facet of my life and childhood that I am now wishing I could forget.
The tweet was of a proud mum expressing her happiness for her daughters writing ability. It was truly beautiful to see a mum so proud of her child.
The problem is that this innocent and beautiful tweet made me realise just how lacking my parents were. They were so focused on not pushing me that they actually neglected to be happy for me during the good things. I guess what makes me upset the most is the lack of support with my writing, my art and my talents. You see I have no idea what my talents actually are, other than writing. I can't help but wonder if my parents had have supported my writing if I would actually be a much better, more succint and even an accomplished writer.
Even writing this post is causing me to cry while I type. You see, I don't think people truly realise what it is like to be so very alone. I say that a lot but if one stops and thinks about it one can see that I've never actually had a loving support system. I have been alone for a long, long time.
Having realised this latest epiphany I am potentially even more bereft as I look at the date. It's the 31st May. I was meant to start uni today. I was meant to begin my distance education in a literature major. Basically it would have served to teach me better writing skills. Now, my confidence is undermined even more. And yes, I do realise it's my fault.
There you have it. Another facet of what I consider a rather pathetic existence.
I Don't Want To Conform.
This week has been one of dramatic lows. Perhaps my lowest point this week has been the realisation that I must censor myself. I have had little events happen on Facebook, Twitter and my blog. All in the space of a few days. So I've now, after lots of thought, decided I will conform albeit kicking and screaming.
In the space of a few days I've discovered something I've always known, yet have tried hard to ignore. People simply don't want to hear about the bad stuff. Whether this stuff is communicated verbally or on an online medium, it simply doesn't matter. No one wants to know.
In part I'm not really surprised by this epiphany. Another part of me is hurt that the people I place my trust in, well, simply don't care. Oh yes, I completely realise it is my fault for continually making the same mistakes and continually allowing the wrong people into my life. No matter how hard I try I can't bring myself to blame (fully or partially) anyone else.
While I can't promise to write sickeningly happy blogs, tweets or facebook status messages, I can promise to censor them. This means I'll take out the swearing, anything regarding death, most things about my mental health and anything that is viewed as overly negative.
This should now appease everyone and make following me more delightful.
Of course, this censorship is more than likely going to be the death of all things Raznay. No, that's not said to incite guilt. Stop looking at me like that. It wasn't meant to make you feel guilty. I'm just stating the facts. I use these mediums to expel all the negativity I amass. Without these avenues I doubt I shall use the mediums.
The idea of censorship is akin to muzzling a dog, in my head. It is as if some fundamental part of my being has been stripped away. Not to mention the urge I have to rebel against this decision. Fear not, I won't rebel. The kind of rebellion required would require far more energy than I have.
It's funny, you know, I never imagined in my life I would have anything to say that would ultimately end in my censorship. Perhaps it was progress? Not even two years ago I would have kept everything inside, not being honest with my thoughts and feelings. Somewhere along the line I was honest, I did talk. Now I will go backwards, or is this reverse forwards?, and remain quiet.
I used to think I was nothing but a conformist, spineless lacky. Now I realise that is what I have become.
In the space of a few days I've discovered something I've always known, yet have tried hard to ignore. People simply don't want to hear about the bad stuff. Whether this stuff is communicated verbally or on an online medium, it simply doesn't matter. No one wants to know.
In part I'm not really surprised by this epiphany. Another part of me is hurt that the people I place my trust in, well, simply don't care. Oh yes, I completely realise it is my fault for continually making the same mistakes and continually allowing the wrong people into my life. No matter how hard I try I can't bring myself to blame (fully or partially) anyone else.
While I can't promise to write sickeningly happy blogs, tweets or facebook status messages, I can promise to censor them. This means I'll take out the swearing, anything regarding death, most things about my mental health and anything that is viewed as overly negative.
This should now appease everyone and make following me more delightful.
Of course, this censorship is more than likely going to be the death of all things Raznay. No, that's not said to incite guilt. Stop looking at me like that. It wasn't meant to make you feel guilty. I'm just stating the facts. I use these mediums to expel all the negativity I amass. Without these avenues I doubt I shall use the mediums.
The idea of censorship is akin to muzzling a dog, in my head. It is as if some fundamental part of my being has been stripped away. Not to mention the urge I have to rebel against this decision. Fear not, I won't rebel. The kind of rebellion required would require far more energy than I have.
It's funny, you know, I never imagined in my life I would have anything to say that would ultimately end in my censorship. Perhaps it was progress? Not even two years ago I would have kept everything inside, not being honest with my thoughts and feelings. Somewhere along the line I was honest, I did talk. Now I will go backwards, or is this reverse forwards?, and remain quiet.
I used to think I was nothing but a conformist, spineless lacky. Now I realise that is what I have become.
I Need A Break
I have been out of hospital for less than a week and I already feel as though I should be back in there. I can't really put my finger on why I feel this way.
I suppose it could be my extreme exhaustion? Or possibly my lack of hope and belief in myself and my situation. Whatever the reason, I feel like a stranger in my own life.
Partly, I feel extremely neglected by those here, in Canberra. I realise this is my own fault as only I can reach out and ask for time to hang out or go for coffee. I suppose I still have this stupid idea that those who know me will just appear and whisk me away! I know right, stupid!
For one thing I'm such a recluse I probably wouldn't open the door. That's mostly due to my lack of personal grooming lately. (By "personal grooming" I mean showering and getting dressed into something other than pj's).
Yep, it's been nearly a week since my last shower. I don't need to shower when there is no one to look good for. It's too cold for one thing. Another thing is a severe lack of care. I honestly don't care anymore. That's the part where it's obvious I'm not better.
It truly amazes me how the psychiatrist and nurses at the hospital thought I was better. The psychiatrist even went so far as to suggest there was a fundamental shift in the way I was thinking. She was happy that I'd made "progress" and was taking my discharge (from hospital) into my own hands. All I can do when I think of this is roll my eyes in absolute frustration.
These people are only interested in statistics and numbers. It is even more clear to me now as I reflect on my time there. They truly didn't care that I was lying to them. I'm not better, not even a little bit.
So why lie if you're not better? You see, my psychiatrist in hospital made it very clear that I would only be staying for two weeks. Basically I knew my time was up and I don't have the determination or energy to fight to stay longer. It was easier, and apparently exactly what they wanted, for me to just leave. I aim to please.
It's now four days later and I'm struggling with everything. In fact I'm so bad I am desperate to find anything to distract me from the tumultuous battlefield that is my head. Today alone I think I've managed to test no less than 20 games from the iTunes app store. So far I haven't found one to keep me entertained.
Basically, I'm at a loss as to what I'm meant to be doing. How exactly am I meant to be coping? Why must this particular journey be so devestatingly hard?
Whatever the answers are I doubt they'll actually be of use to me. I fear I can't comprehend those answers in my current state anyway. So where does that leave me now?
I suppose it could be my extreme exhaustion? Or possibly my lack of hope and belief in myself and my situation. Whatever the reason, I feel like a stranger in my own life.
Partly, I feel extremely neglected by those here, in Canberra. I realise this is my own fault as only I can reach out and ask for time to hang out or go for coffee. I suppose I still have this stupid idea that those who know me will just appear and whisk me away! I know right, stupid!
For one thing I'm such a recluse I probably wouldn't open the door. That's mostly due to my lack of personal grooming lately. (By "personal grooming" I mean showering and getting dressed into something other than pj's).
Yep, it's been nearly a week since my last shower. I don't need to shower when there is no one to look good for. It's too cold for one thing. Another thing is a severe lack of care. I honestly don't care anymore. That's the part where it's obvious I'm not better.
It truly amazes me how the psychiatrist and nurses at the hospital thought I was better. The psychiatrist even went so far as to suggest there was a fundamental shift in the way I was thinking. She was happy that I'd made "progress" and was taking my discharge (from hospital) into my own hands. All I can do when I think of this is roll my eyes in absolute frustration.
These people are only interested in statistics and numbers. It is even more clear to me now as I reflect on my time there. They truly didn't care that I was lying to them. I'm not better, not even a little bit.
So why lie if you're not better? You see, my psychiatrist in hospital made it very clear that I would only be staying for two weeks. Basically I knew my time was up and I don't have the determination or energy to fight to stay longer. It was easier, and apparently exactly what they wanted, for me to just leave. I aim to please.
It's now four days later and I'm struggling with everything. In fact I'm so bad I am desperate to find anything to distract me from the tumultuous battlefield that is my head. Today alone I think I've managed to test no less than 20 games from the iTunes app store. So far I haven't found one to keep me entertained.
Basically, I'm at a loss as to what I'm meant to be doing. How exactly am I meant to be coping? Why must this particular journey be so devestatingly hard?
Whatever the answers are I doubt they'll actually be of use to me. I fear I can't comprehend those answers in my current state anyway. So where does that leave me now?
An Unfortunate Tale
Bad days, like good days, come and go. Some of us are more resiliant and bounce back from bad days quickly. Some of us ruminate and get stuck in the bad day.
I happen to fall into the latter. As if you didn't already know this!
Lately I've been on one hell of an emotional ride. It seems to be every Wednesday something decidely quick nasty happens.
Last Wednesday a friend gave up on me. (How do I know this?He told me via email. Lovely). Luckily I was in hospital last Wednesday and was able to vent and lean on the nurses and psychiatric staff for support. I was also able to take extra medication when things got "too" out of control.
This week, however, I was home. Alone. Sick and unable to attend day program that was on today I'm now faced with another disaster. I fully realise it is how I deal with the disaster rather than the disaster itself. This doesn't seem to take the sting away from the disaster. Perhaps that's just me being weak. Perhaps it's human. I really don't know.
What I do know is that this "event" has me incredibly confused. On one hand two people stood up for me. They went outside their comfort zones to tell another person they were wrong, perhaps not "wrong" but inconsiderate. These two people did something that very few have ever done for me in my life. I am honoured. I am touched. I am shocked that they would find something someone else said so unfair they needed to speak up.
Now, I can't comment on what was said in reply to my post. Simply because I do not know. The person who made the comments deleted them, and me. Yes, the person also deleted me. I must stipulate at this point, I refrained from being on the site last night (when the "event" happened) because I wasn't well and went to bed early. So I did not see the replies/commentary until today. This afternoon in fact since I've been sick and stuck in bed.
This deletion makes me angry and, quite frankly, rather sad. Why was I punished because I was not online?
Was I really punished or was the deletion a mercy act from someone who realised they had overstepped the line?
I feel I need to say right here, and now, to the two people who stood up for me; Thank You.
I'm not angry because of your actions, indeed I'm flattered beyond words.
I'm also not hurt by what you said. You were honest. I suspect the other person was also honest, in their own way. However, I really don't know.
I can only comment on what I read. I can only comment on what I've been told on other mediums regarding the post and subsequent replies.
It would seem that the reply that sent my friends into a spin also sent others into a spin. Not everyone commented, thank you to those who also didn't comment. I think that while you agreed with my two friends you didn't feel the need to "gang up" on each other. I admire the strength it must have taken not to say anything.
So here I am. I am confused because I feel abandoned by another person. Yet, at the same time, I feel comforted because I was protected.
It is strange being me and constantly feeling such mixed and conflicted emotions. If I were not this way, the problems of yesterday would not have happened. Truly, if I were not sick the whole situation would have been avoided.
From now on I shall censor what I say. It is apparent I am not meant to speak so candidly.
Confusion
Some of you know how I've been feeling lately, some of you don't. For those that don't I'll succinctly put it like this: I'm in a really bad place and very sad.
I've been consumed with anger lately. Anger directed at my mother. Not the kind of anger that one feels when frustrated by something another has done. This anger is 25 years of rage, building up, consuming me until I snap. I think I'm about to snap.
Not a lot of people know the full story behind my illness. Even fewer people know what happened to me. Let's not beat around the bush, I'm going to tell you my memories. Turn away now if you are soft of heart.
To this day I still don't know just what would set her off. She would be fine one minute and the next she would be this evil, devil-like monster screaming at me telling me that I am useless, pathetic, if I had half a brain I would be dangerous, among other things. If I didn't cry at this point I would only get the verbal abuse. However, I was a child and my reaction was to cry. That's when the beating started.
A lot of you reading this will roll your eyes and suggest that I'm making this up. I used to be hurt by the lack of care people show, but now, well, let's just say I know what happened to me. I dream it still, her voice is now my inner voice that tells me I am stupid.
My mother used to pull my hair, smack me, kick me, throw anything in arms reach at me. It was always body blows so I wouldn't have any marks on my face. I would spend my time curled up in a ball, crying, hoping like hell it would stop soon. I couldn't tell you how long each beating lasted, they all felt like an eternity for me.
The beatings went on until I was 15 years old.
After each beating, when she'd stormed out of my room and slammed the door, I would grab my teddy bear and crawl into my cupboard. I would sit with my back against the corners so she couldn't sneak up behind me and hurt me. It was during this period that I learned to cry silently. My teddy bear would be drenched in tears before I would whisper, angrily, how stupid I was for not being a better child. I would repeat everything she said to me as if I was confirming everything she said were true. I couldn't stay hidden for long because she always came back for a second beating. I always hoped she wouldn't.
There was one particular time I remember my dad being home. Stupidly I thought he would help me. I screamed out to him when she started beating me. I knew I would be hurt more for even thinking to call out to him. He. Ignored. Me.
Instead he sat on his beanbag, drinking his beer and watching the football or something on TV. It was at that moment I knew I was done. I was broken and nothing was ever going to change that. The two people who made me, hated me.
Sometimes I would dream about my "real" family coming along to save me. It was a fantasy that I was adopted. I'm not. I would rock myself to sleep some nights thinking of my "real" family and how much they must love and miss me. They would find me... One day.
So I hear you thinking "why didn't you tell anyone about the abuse?"
That's easy. I couldn't tell anyone. For one thing I was an only child and it never occurred to me that what they were doing (or not doing in my father's case) was wrong. Secretly I never thought anyone would believe me anyway. We moved around a lot so I had no adult figure whom I could turn to. It was always just them.
Once I thought about running away and telling the police. I ended that thought abruptly when I realised the police wouldn't believe me and the thoughts of the severe beating I would get for telling anyone scared me senseless.
There were so many instances that I can't recall where my trust, love and innocence were stolen from me.
So here I am, a screwed up 25 year old, living with the person who abused me and unable to do anything about it. (That's a post for another day.) Sometimes when things are bad in my head I am a lot harder to talk with, I do tweet and FB status my moods. I know a lot of people can't understand, accept nor do they care what I'm going through. It's selfish of me, but I need to get it out... Somehow.
I've been consumed with anger lately. Anger directed at my mother. Not the kind of anger that one feels when frustrated by something another has done. This anger is 25 years of rage, building up, consuming me until I snap. I think I'm about to snap.
Not a lot of people know the full story behind my illness. Even fewer people know what happened to me. Let's not beat around the bush, I'm going to tell you my memories. Turn away now if you are soft of heart.
To this day I still don't know just what would set her off. She would be fine one minute and the next she would be this evil, devil-like monster screaming at me telling me that I am useless, pathetic, if I had half a brain I would be dangerous, among other things. If I didn't cry at this point I would only get the verbal abuse. However, I was a child and my reaction was to cry. That's when the beating started.
A lot of you reading this will roll your eyes and suggest that I'm making this up. I used to be hurt by the lack of care people show, but now, well, let's just say I know what happened to me. I dream it still, her voice is now my inner voice that tells me I am stupid.
My mother used to pull my hair, smack me, kick me, throw anything in arms reach at me. It was always body blows so I wouldn't have any marks on my face. I would spend my time curled up in a ball, crying, hoping like hell it would stop soon. I couldn't tell you how long each beating lasted, they all felt like an eternity for me.
The beatings went on until I was 15 years old.
After each beating, when she'd stormed out of my room and slammed the door, I would grab my teddy bear and crawl into my cupboard. I would sit with my back against the corners so she couldn't sneak up behind me and hurt me. It was during this period that I learned to cry silently. My teddy bear would be drenched in tears before I would whisper, angrily, how stupid I was for not being a better child. I would repeat everything she said to me as if I was confirming everything she said were true. I couldn't stay hidden for long because she always came back for a second beating. I always hoped she wouldn't.
There was one particular time I remember my dad being home. Stupidly I thought he would help me. I screamed out to him when she started beating me. I knew I would be hurt more for even thinking to call out to him. He. Ignored. Me.
Instead he sat on his beanbag, drinking his beer and watching the football or something on TV. It was at that moment I knew I was done. I was broken and nothing was ever going to change that. The two people who made me, hated me.
Sometimes I would dream about my "real" family coming along to save me. It was a fantasy that I was adopted. I'm not. I would rock myself to sleep some nights thinking of my "real" family and how much they must love and miss me. They would find me... One day.
So I hear you thinking "why didn't you tell anyone about the abuse?"
That's easy. I couldn't tell anyone. For one thing I was an only child and it never occurred to me that what they were doing (or not doing in my father's case) was wrong. Secretly I never thought anyone would believe me anyway. We moved around a lot so I had no adult figure whom I could turn to. It was always just them.
Once I thought about running away and telling the police. I ended that thought abruptly when I realised the police wouldn't believe me and the thoughts of the severe beating I would get for telling anyone scared me senseless.
There were so many instances that I can't recall where my trust, love and innocence were stolen from me.
So here I am, a screwed up 25 year old, living with the person who abused me and unable to do anything about it. (That's a post for another day.) Sometimes when things are bad in my head I am a lot harder to talk with, I do tweet and FB status my moods. I know a lot of people can't understand, accept nor do they care what I'm going through. It's selfish of me, but I need to get it out... Somehow.