The Worst Day of the Year

I hate October. I fucking hate October.
(My eyes are burning.)
It gets worse and worse until the end.
Awful.
(I feel like death inside.)
Saw Repo! the other night. Pretty well amazing.
(Hate is gnawing at my intestines.)
Neither I nor my brother want to give out candy. I think we'll just turn out all the lights and hide in the basement.
(Rape, murder, spinning sociopath.)
I don't really want to be awake today.
(Let what must be done be done quietly.)

Black Bile

Due to time constraints and stress, the following blog post will be written in freehand poetry.

Spiritual sister swinging
limping from the skylight I can't
dream a team it seems so sweetly,
scratching scratching
tear my heart from her chest
pureblood dripping
skin and tie and all that I am
Cat is scratching when he hates you
jabs you when to hold on tighter
I have teeth but keep my mouth shut
Never hunger, never lust
neither a combination o' the two
(but let's call it that)
arms wrapping waist snapping
smooth as glass and rough as paper
inside out by any means
(not funny, not funny)
want and need a suitor, breaking
ribs to suck in breasts, snaking
through the second heart, waking
up
no interest in me
no hand to slide to hips gladly
no longer my world
another dream of necks and ravage
beauty queen
O, sweet sister
Bishop all I am.

How to Breathe

Step 1: Take the subject to a relatively quiet place, free from distraction.

Step 2: Open your heart. Release pheromones.

Step 3: Open the subject's heart. This can take the form of anything as rough and sensual as foreplay or as pure as a quiet, heartfelt conversation.

Step 4: Once the subject has opened him/herself to you, draw them in. Use whatever hooks are available to wrap yourself in them while maintaining contact - however slight - with their solid body.

Step 5: Initiate the Blood Kiss. This is much easier if accompanied by a literal kiss, which often causes the subject to lower their barriers completely, but is not necessary.

Step 6: Pull the subject into yourself. Take your time.

Step 7: The subject will fill your head like thick perfume. Breathe him/her in. Absorb all you can.

Step 8: When finished, release your hooks. Allow yourselves to naturally drift apart.

Step 9: Gently close your heart and the heart of your subject.

I have done this to people and not explained my intentions. I was... hungry.
I'm so sorry.

Two hundred and twenty-second

I’ve been sick again. Threw up yesterday. Had to wait forty minutes for my mum to pick me up. Rough times. It’s better than my brother’s been, though. He’s… ugh. I don’t even know what he’s got. He’s been awful on the inside for some time now.
I can feel my heart beating in my left eye. The pain in my chest is getting worse. Headaches, all the time. Geh.

I’ve been working on something new. We call it Potato-Talk. A piece of the global consciousness is broken off and tossed like a hot potato from one identity state to the next. In the split second when it’s left the hands of one but yet to reach the other, I can look down and see the cracks between them. A tiny glimpse into the Abyss. Words float up. I’m not certain what they mean.

We
have
seen
the
world.
do not
Take
us,
do not
want,
need,
must not
Take,
do not
Take
us
away.

No idea where this is coming from. There is a lot of emphasis on the words seen and take.

I had a body memory. I think that’s what it was. A hand, pressed against my back, near the base of my neck. But I’m not certain it was real. Though I felt it plain as day at the time, looking back I can’t be sure which hand it was, or what position it was in. Maybe I just needed something to explain why I can’t stand to have things touching my back. Or maybe it’s a sign that things are starting to change. Switches are happening more often – countless times recently people have told me about things I’ve said, things I’ve done, conversations I’ve had, that I have no memory of – and memories are getting dug up. Slowly.
I’ve been thinking about going back to our old house. Looking around. Seeing what memories that brings back. I can’t really remember the layout of it, what it looked like. Maybe on the weekend I’ll go out for a walk, find the house again, and knock on the door.

Rise from My Ashes

I feel like doing something drastic. Like overdosing.
Not lethally. Just enough to shake things up.
Is this something I need to get out of my system? Or should I be avoiding this at all costs?
I don't really know.

Daydream's Over

The Dream Jar is moving again.
After we found Clarence everything closed up for awhile. Nothing was fixed, nothing healed, but for a short time it stopped bleeding. I could at last get some rest. It looks like that time is over. Got to start moving, shift terrain, dig things up and get my life back into gear.
Already things have started churning up. Things I'd thought were hidden away, safe from view. Most are hairline fractures, flashes of memory so quick that I don't have time to register them, but there are more complete ideas thrown into the mix.

A pool, full of leaves.
Roadkill.
"Don't test me, little girl."
A certain hand motion, my right arm swinging inwards and downwards, fingers clapping together.
Skin touching skin. Holding hands.
Someone standing behind me.
"Ella... may I kiss you?"
A woman, tied down on a table. I'd hoped that one was gone forever.
The violent episodes I used to have at night. I forget the name I had for them, but they remind me worryingly of seizures.
Hands scratching at a wooden door in the darkness.
A plastic shed.
Lips touching beneath a tree. Oh God, I'm having an affair.
The day my back was slashed.
"I can get one of my dad's condoms if you like."
Trying very, very hard not to scream.
Crying.
I have no idea what it means.

I hate that I'm so weak. I hate that I always need someone. I've survived so much, there's no reason I can't be the strong one. But whenever someone needs my support I always let them down. I'm never strong enough. If I can't hold up myself, I can't hold up anyone. I hate it because I know I'm supposed to be better than this. I'm supposed to be powerful and noble and... and fucking able to help people...
I'm not who other people need me to be.

I've been living on my own for awhile. Not letting anyone else in. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. I just don't completely trust anyone any more.

The headaches are getting worse. So is the pain in my chest. It feels like there's something there that has no right to be inside of me. I want to vomit it up, slit up my chest, tear myself to pieces to get it out.

What I'm terrified of more than anything else is that I really am just making it all up. I don't really have a disorder, nothing ever happened to me as a child, the things I've seen nothing more than the products of a deranged imagination. What if I'm normal?
As a child, I always wanted to be special. The best one. One of a kind. So when I failed to become anything other than another student my mind... twisted itself. Maybe I want to be dissociative because that makes me "special". Maybe I want to have been abused because that justifies the way I think. Maybe I just tell myself I try to hide everything because it makes me sound like less of a petty, self-obsessed attention whore.
My psychologist has failed to give me any form of diagnosis. Those around me are clueless. My memories are inconclusive. Even those who recall their past selves, I read, find their memories so distorted and refigured that they don't even slightly resemble the truth. If my subconscious is as rotten as I fear it is, I will never, ever know if something really did happen to me. It could be fabricated, all of it, every memory, every symptom, every episode.
What would that mean? I've spent four years lying to myself. My whole life up to this point would be meaningless. I'm already scared that no one will believe me. If I lose faith in myself...
If someone could just say something to me for certain - yes, you do have a dissociative disorder; yes, you were abused as a child; yes, the demons you see are real - then at least I would have something solid to face. But not knowing, that's far worse. I'm forever searching for evil, something corrupt and rotten within myself to justify the way I am. Because if it's not there... I have no excuses. I can't shut out the rest of the world. I have to live my life as a normal person, with normal responsibilities. I could be the person I know I should be. All this might be just my excuse.
But if I am everything that I think I am, then such paranoia will only destroy me.

In the library, every day now, I retreat into an isle and pull Breaking the Circle of Satanic Ritual Abuse off the shelf. I don't sign it out, and I don't sit at a table to read it. I don't want anyone to know that I'm looking at it. Reading about SRA victims, all the terrible things they endured - the acts themselves, living for years with suppressed fear and guilt, having to remember it again, never knowing for certain if their memories are real - I felt nothing. I tried very hard to feel nothing. Not a muscle on my face moved. But every few minutes, I, who have not cried at anything in over six months, had to wipe the tears from my eyes.

Invented Flashbacks

I've been torturing myself again. Reading up on SRA. It's the same as when I was worried about schizophrenia; I don't visibly have all of the major symptoms, but enough to make it worth looking into, surely? I do have the abandonment issues, distrust of authority, violent sexual weirdness, difficulty making decisions and fear of being the center of attention, to name just a few. The latter is the one woven most deeply into my disguise... I am an excellent public speaker. No one would guess that being onstage is absolute hell for me. And dissociative disorders are often caused by such abuse.
It's all irrelevant, though. I do not believe that I was ritually abused.
But it would make sense if I was.
But there's no evidence for that.
Yet.
There's no way it could have happened.
That I know of. I remember so little.
And so the conversation goes...

I'm sick of this. On my seventeenth birthday I promised myself that this would be the year I turn my life around.
I want to know what happened to me. I don't care if it's painful, I don' care if it tears me apart. I need to know. I can't live like this. I need to know.

Well that just proves it

Today, I hugged a friend. Then went outside and threw up.
It's official. I can not touch people any more.
I don't know how I'll survive.