Fake

I'm a complete and utter fake. I walk through my life as though I'm someone completely different. I pretend to be happy. I pretend to be normal. Deep down inside, I know I'm not. Just when things get really good, something inside me wants to sabotage everything. Like today.

I woke up today in such a funk. I was so upset at the world. I was so upset at me. Everything around me just made me want to close up inside myself. Every person I saw made me cringe. Everyone that spoke to me made me want to cry. I felt so alone among all those people today that I just wanted to run away screaming. Speaking hurt. Smiling felt like it was painful. Thinking was a chore. I felt so tired. I hate those questions. "What's wrong?"..."Are you okay?"..."Everything okay?". Pfft.

Then I get so angry with myself. I can't believe that I let myself be like this. No one is supposed to know that something is wrong with me. Fuck.

Maybe tomorrow

I've been sitting here, staring at this phone number. I keep telling myself to call. Then I end up promising myself I'll do it tomorrow.

I've waited years to find it. To have the ability to make that call. And now...I can't.

I've never been afraid to do anything like this. I'm actually quite gutsy. But now that it has to do with me..with something so personal, I guess I'm chickening out. There's some fear inside that maybe he won't remember me. Maybe he won't be able to answer any of my questions. I've even planned to be someone else when I call so I don't alarm him. Maybe tomorrow.

Regrets

I didn't realize that it's been this long since I last wrote here. I honestly don't know why. I promised myself I would do this regularly, as a form of therapy, and as a way to reach out to whomever may be reading (though I'm inclined to believe that I'm the only one that's reading this).

Several things have happened in the last few months.

I had that dream again. I remember it like it was something that happened in my waking life. I remember tossing and turning, having a lot of difficulty sleeping, I had a rough week and maybe that's why. Maybe it's because there were a few things weighing down on me from the previous days. After a few restless hours, I think I finally fell asleep. At some point, it was like my legs completely fell asleep. Not that "pins-and-needles" feeling, but a numbness, almost as though my legs were cut off...that I had no legs. As the waking me was asleep with his eyes closed, the dreaming me was fully awake, ready to expect the worst. Then everything went dark. I started panting. My throat went dry. Then I felt a weight press down on me so hard, I couldn't breathe. In my head, I could hear my voice. Well, not my voice now. But my voice when I was a little kid. I tried to scream out for my mother. My throat was so hoarse, so dry, nothing came out. I felt myself sweating, trying to push whatever the weight was away from me. "Maaaaa! Maaaaa!" I tried to scream. It felt like hours. My legs were frozen. My chest felt heavy. I woke up lying in a pool of sweat. My head was soaking wet. My shirt was drenched. I'm not sure if I was just screaming in my dream, or if I was screaming in real life, or both. I don't even know if both the real me or dreaming me couldn't because of the parched throat.

I don't know what that all means. I don't know what that weight was. Should I be worried?

I found a phone number of someone that might have some answers. I've had it for a week or so. I'm afraid of calling. I'm not sure what I would say. I've practiced in my head what I think I'd like to say. But then when I think of actually dialing the number, I  get really scared. Will I actually be able to go through with it? What if I don't get the answers I need or am looking for?

I watched a show the other day where a survivor talked about what happened to them. A fictional story. No strands of truth in it. And the person listening...showing signs of empathy and compassion before leaning and hugging the victim. "I'm so sorry that happened to you." What powerful words. No one's ever said that to me. I wish I could take back all my disclosures. I never regret anything. That's the only thing I ever regret in my life. Telling people. And no one ever feeling like they were sorry.

Fear

I'm afraid something's going to happen.

Normal

I'm not normal.
I probably was once.
Then something happened.
And every shred of normalcy vanished.

It isn't normal for someone to constantly question themselves.
It isn't normal for someone to continuously find reasons to live and keep going, only to say "I wanna die today".
It isn't normal for someone to have dreams, try to fulfill them, and then just give up.

For the last week, I've had no reason to be unhappy.
Somehow, I found a reason.
It just crept up on me.

I have so many ideas, so many things I want to do.
I get so excited about them, only to tell myself to forget it, that no one will ever care, that no one will ever give a damn.

Last night, I felt as though I was convulsing.
I felt a heaviness in my chest.
I felt as though I was being hurt, although I felt no pain.
I don't know what that means; it was scary, it lasted about two minutes, I felt like someone's hands were on me.
I hope it's something, some door that's opening.

I hate myself.
I disappoint myself and everyone around me everyday.
I don't want to live.
I just can't do it.
I'd rather someone else did it for me.
I'm so tired.

Disclosure

It's so confusing. Someone does something to you and tells you not to tell anyone. And you comply.

Now I don't remember if that ever happened to me, but I'm sure someone at some point said "don't tell anyone because..." or "if you say something...will happen..." or "...or else..."

But then...you grow up with people telling you the complete opposite. "If anyone ever does anything to you, you have to say something". "Sometimes, it's okay to tell secrets, especially if someone is hurting you". "Don't keep it to yourself...talk about it".

So who do you believe?

Children are intimidated into believing the worst. That no one will believe them. That they wanted it. That something bad will happen to the people they care about. That they're crazy. It's no wonder why the "say something" band wagon never wins.

I don't know if there were any threats (I don't think there were from what little I remember). I can't say that there was any shame involved (although I feel the shame now, I'm sure I didn't mind the attention back then, even if it came in a strange way). So while I'm still working out what happened, at whose hands, when, and why (I'm sure I'll never know why), I'm also trying to figure out how this person (or people) manipulated me into keeping silent.

But things started to change. I was so troubled when things started coming to light (I was about 14 or 15), that I told anyone that would listen (even a few that I forced to listen). Here's a list of people in whom I confided:

- I told a few friends, who, in their limited capacities, provided whatever support they could. Then one person told someone else. Then that person told someone else. That fucking hurt. It was supposed to be in confidence. Plus, 99-percent of them are nowhere to be found. I realize that friends drift apart, but I feel like they stole something from me.

- I told a teacher, in writing. I told him I never wanted to speak about it, because it was too hard. He was very kind, caring, and understanding. He respected my feelings. He offered help (in writing),said that this was something that he couldn't help me with, and urged me to speak to a counsellor. I told him I had to think about it, and he worked out a deal for me. He told me it was in my best interests to tell my parents. I refused.

- I told a counsellor (referred by my teacher), which I did, but only once. I never wanted to go back to her. She was nice, but I couldn't see myself opening up to her. Now that I think about it, I remember very little about going to see her. I can't remember anything of our conversation. All that I can recall is that her office was in the hospital close to my house, that her office was bright and colourful, that I felt very uncomfortable in the chair I sat in, and that she promised to help me in any way she could. But, I can't remember anything of what I told her in those two hours (my teacher signed me out of school, and he promised to do so once a month so I could see her so as not to arouse suspicion with my parents). I remember her name, but I knew I could never go back there.

- I told my brother, sister, and mother. I pretty much expected their reaction. My brother wanted to kill the "son-of-a-bitch" that did this to me. My sister cried for days, and wanted me to get counselling. My mother didn't want to hear it. I don't think she even understood what she was being told. My mother screamed, cried, then begged me not to tell anyone. She begged me to keep it to myself. Not for any other reason except that she couldn't handle it. Our culture is very "we-we-we". We never talk about our problems with the outside world. Sure, lots of people say that, but it IS true in our culture because people in our community are very judgmental. If they knew, they'd blame my parents for it. My mother, I realized after a long time,  felt guilty. She and my father worked incessantly. My father worked shift work. My mother worked in a sweat shop. I was a latch-key kid. I took care of myself. I think she blamed herself for what happened, even though there were a lot of missing pieces in my story. A LOT. I harboured a lot of resentment towards them for a long time afterwards. It took years for me to get over it, because maybe I blamed them (as well as the person/people that did this to me) for not seeing any signs, for not intervening, for not asking, for not stopping it. We still don't talk about it. But I don't blame them anymore. I realize that just like me, they were victimized too. I struggled to handle my situation, to make sense of it, and they did too, the best they could. Which is why I believe it's important for family members to be just as equipped as the child/person it happens to. To find a way to take the disclosure, and deal with it in an appropriate manner, especially when there are cultural sensitivities. And for the record, I made a solemn promise to my mother not to tell my father. He was, at that time, really very subdued, but also kind of like a ticking time bomb, ready to go off at any minute.

- I told the people where I think one of the incidents happened (because I know it happened more than once). I never told them the full story, just a few details of something I was "researching" for a "friend". I remember something about my elementary school in grade one. I had a very deep attachment to that school. I remember when we moved away, I cried for days. I pretended to be sick at my new school because I didn't want to go, because I missed my friends, teachers, and whatever else it was that made me want to stay there. The administration gave me the run around. After several attempts to contact them back, they refused to listen to me. Any attachment I had for that place vanished.

- I told a doctor. It was consuming me so badly, that I needed to get some help. As helpful as she seemed to be, I didn't think I could go back to that counsellor again because I felt that I somehow let her down by not going back to see her. I couldn't stomach the embarrassment of having to go back and hang my head in shame again. I saw a commercial on TV that suggesting talking to a family doctor. My family doctor was a woman, and I felt really uncomfortable, because she was from a similar culture, and she knew my family. I went to the male doctor at the same walk-in clinic. I asked him not to write down anything I said in my file. He agreed. After I finished telling him "I think this happened", he looked at me and asked what I wanted him to do. I told him about the commercial I saw. His response? "And?" I thanked him for his time, and for wasting mine, and walked out. I never went back to see him ever again.

- I told a police officer. A friend of mine was caught shooting her mouth off in high school that she had a gun and was going to "off" herself. What an idiot. Someone called the cops on her. She screamed at me on the phone, thinking it was me. The investigating officer called me, asking me for information about her character. He seemed very genuine, and found it interesting that someone so young (I was 17) could ask such "intelligent" questions. I sussed him out, tested him, and finally told him. I had such high hopes. He said I could ask him anything, call him for anything if I ever needed him. I remember calling him from a payphone in my high school's hallway, asking if he would help me find this person. He said there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could do because it happened so long ago. But that he was very sorry. I never met him in person, but I remember his voice. I remember the way he said he was sorry.

Professionals, self-help books, talk shows, police. They all say it's important to disclose. It's important to stop being a victim. Talking is an important step in the healing process. Really? I don't know about anyone else, but in my case, opening up has made things a lot more difficult for me. It's made me doubt myself, my memory (what little of it I have), and my sanity. It's made me want to retreat to myself. It's made me realize how difficult the process is, and how important it is to keep things to myself. I'd love to tell my partner, or my close friends why I act the way I do sometimes. Why I want to just be left alone. Why I don't want to make love. Why I don't feel like hugging. Why I get a little anti-social. Why I look like I'm carrying a four tonne weight on each shoulder. But knowing what my journey's been like so far, this is something I'm going to have to deal with myself. It's hard. It's painful. I know everyone means well, but I just know that can't talk anymore.

He stopped smiling

When I was growing up, I loved looking at pictures. Pictures of myself, pictures of my family, pictures of where I grew up. I loved taking pictures. But over time, that stopped. I stopped getting pictures taken of myself, because I never really approve of what I look like. I never want to stop time for an instant, because I don't want to "cherish" a memory for that given point in time.

I don't really look at myself anymore. I'd go through pictures of myself as a young kid and smile. Now, when I think of some of those pictures, I don't even know who that was anymore. There's something so deep, so hidden in those expressions. In some of them, I'm smiling, but I know deep down inside, that it was forced. Other times, you can see just how forced that smile is. Most, though, have a rather lost expression. I don't quite know what I was thinking, what was going through my head. I know that there's been a degree of unhappiness in my life from a very early time. No child should ever feel that way.

I'd really like to meet that boy. I remember a few things about him. A few things that really make me smile. But there are a lot of things about him that make me very sad...that make me really want to cry. Sometimes, some vague smell, or a little flicker of sunlight, or the way the wind blows, reminds me of him, and I start to convulse, to choke and gag, to panic.

That boy...what can I say? He had such dreams. He wanted to dance, to sing, to act. He wanted to be funny and have lots of friends. He wanted to explore the world, to learn about new cultures, and to meet new people. He loved to cook and experiment with new tastes. He loved to draw and paint. He was fascinated with science and religion. All of that curiosity, those dreams, those aspirations, gone.

He was afraid of people. He couldn't talk to anyone. He played by himself, or with kids who were "weaker" than him. He was constantly picked on. He stopped nurturing any means of "talent" that he had. He stopped dreaming, instead, he started criticizing himself. He didn't have many friends at all. He kept to himself. He started to sabotage himself; if he were ever curious about something, or if he ever started to do something that he enjoyed or thought had merit, he'd destroy it, or stop in the middle altogether. He became self-destructive. He lashed out and fought with those close to him. Most of all, he stopped smiling.