Self Indulgence

You know that video in Baby Reindeer? Telling all that shame and pain to a crowd and still existing thereafter? It appeals to me, like muck sticking to bones.

I think Donny was right. You become a sticking plaster for others pain. That’s what happened with my step-father. It started when I was six, what’s still there muddling about in the brain, the hugs and the holding and the pressing of my body into his naked one of a morning. I don’t know the depths, I don’t remember anymore, I just remember that feeling and wanting to run. I think it was far more like I was a ragdoll, or a puppy, with a rapid heartbeat and accepting eyes. There’ll be days where I think it was okay, that that was something that just existed and maybe it’s me being prudish and it was all platonic, or maybe what came after tainted all that came before, but the not knowing leaves me like a pendulum on a string pressing send at one peak and blocking calls on the other. When they announced the divorce and he cried into my body, resting his full weight on my chest, I felt my skin crawl at how pathetic he seemed. A slab of weeping play dough using a child as a pillow. 

The rest of the stories I hate. I hate them all. The payment for sleeping in my brothers room when I’d see the monsters crawling in the corners of mine. My mouth around that disgusting little worm that did nothing because he was too young. He was young but I was younger. I want to scream that often. He was young but I was younger. I used to draw behind his posters, terrible faces that he deserved to be blamed for. I wasted all my imagination entertaining him with the stories I should’ve used to feed myself. At least at that point I had my bite. I would scratch and bite and kick and pinch and rip at his hair. If he pinned my legs I was done. Always put them in between, just like sticking a foot out to catch a surfboard before it falls on you.

The things he did in Deep Bay and Limmington. The sleepwalking pretense so he didn’t have to deal with his actions. The ladder. That stripey shirt. I’d ask so many things, trying to catch him out. I used to think I gave him ideas because he was young. But I was younger. Melbourne. The other grandmother’s suicide attempt. I wouldn’t be surprised if she saw him being such an abhorrent slug and tried to dip for that. I think about it though, I would’ve looked like an inanimate robot with spit glistening on my chest like metal in moonlight. I can’t tell which face would’ve sent her over the edge, but I often think it was mine.

Then the mountain. I asked to sleep in his room. I asked. It’s like there were moments I’d forget and I’d think we’re gonna get through this, he’s just a kid too. And he said no, and I was hurt but I wasn’t asking for the pain, I was asking for a brother, a real life actual brother, who didn’t try and break me after a casual insult or misspoken word. I wanted to watch movies and tell stories. When he tried to crush me. When he broke my leg. My jaw. My finger. The choking. The bruising. The ribs. He was just a kid but I was a kid too. There’s so much when I catalogue it and it’s not like I truly want to bare it all but I viscerally want someone to care enough to know and to want to protect me because I’m so very tired. Thank god for therapy.

When I met my first boyfriend he was obsessed and I thought it’s because he was lonely and I’m kind. But the pressure on that first day when all I wanted was a hug. The repeated effort and I still went he’s okay. He’s just a jerk, and that’s okay. That’s human. I lost my virginity on Easter Sunday. I think I’d known him five months. I remember standing in front of the mirror after he’d left for work in his shitty little room and pulling up my dress expecting to see some change. There wasn’t. I didn’t really feel any different. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t want it to happen, he said he wasn’t going to, he was just playing around, but people say a lot of things and I’ve come to terms with the fact my life never set me up well for this. I burnt the dress. My aunt was oddly happy. She’d wanted me to speed run her experiences to learn. That made me feel sick. 

The next man was the same but far more forceful. I did tell him no. Repeatedly. Ruined Arcane for me. I can’t watch it. I texted him later to tell him what he’d done because it was just jokes to him, and he was so sad. I spent two days comforting him. It felt like our entire relationship from then on was him doing terrible things and me comforting him in a cycle. God, I was so much stronger as a kid. I told so many people. They just kept letting me down. He filmed me. He started to disgust me more than I disgusted me, and I realised how far I’d crashed and burned. I’d always been able to see it, cry for it, the good in the shit. The whole picture but I couldn’t this time. I really wish it was a mic drop but I didn’t have that in me anymore— I asked for a break, he went to his home country for a holiday. I kissed someone and told him. He slept with someone else and didn’t tell me. When he came back he raped me. Scooby Doo night at his house. All our mutual friends were there. His best friend saw him pick me up while I was in and out, I was drunk and high but I swear I remember that walk. He was right there. The way he pinched and pulled at my clothes. The pain in my eyes. The feeling of him entering me with nothing— thrusting until the lamp fell. I remember thinking about how to right my clothes as it was happening. That’s where I wonder sometimes. Why was I frozen. Apparently it’s common. I immediately left. The robot in me kicked in when the lamp fell. I said I had to go to the bathroom and walked out the back door. And kept walking. 

Then I called the fella I kissed; they were friends. That fucking piss ant became the nail in the coffin— the attempted rape. I bought him Maccas to comfort him too after. And he kicked me out. All the time. Two weeks later, why won’t you put out. Why’re you so frigid. You didn’t make me feel desired. Why don’t you try. The letters, the anger. My self respect was so low and I was so isolated. I’d told my aunt about Scooby Doo and she’d given me the same line my Grandmother had given me about my brother, you don’t want to ruin his life, do you. I got a text later, about our differing definitions of rape. I didn't expect the you were drunk so what would you know line. I have a theory and it eats at my chest, my aunt wants me to validate the necessity of her experiences because then it means they’re inevitable and they're not that bad. She sent me once to the serial abusers house dressed in white lingerie. She said I should know what that’s like. This was after I said I wasn’t a fan of sex. 

I want to be a kid again just so I could’ve had the balls to tear a chunk or two out of them all, Sunny style. The worst part is I know I’m missing so much. The walk abouts. The pity parties for my brother. Holding my Mother together. Counseling my step-father. My step-brother. The walking. So much walking. I’m scared of the things I don’t remember. The awful thing about that last one was I was genuinely for a moment so happy I had someone to call. That this time I won’t be alone. 

I tried to explain to my friend the lack of support system I truly have and what that means. Why her repeatedly pushing the boundaries I’ve worked so hard just to communicate and trying to pick my brain to get close to someone hurt far more than the regular, that’s just what teenagers do. There’s so much desperation in maintaining the friendships I have. Sometimes going to uni is hard, like I’m scared all the people I’ve found will be gone when I get back. There’s no home to see them all after work, no reason to stay. They have their own families while I’m trying to build mine. I can’t argue. There’s no one in my life I can argue with and they’ll still be there. I have to be so careful. It’s partly why things slide, but it’s so hard to reconcile people truly not caring. She'll get another chance. They all get so many. Not that I can’t forge it anew, I’m trying my best. I’m good at trying. Or I was. I always write one of these when grief consumes me and I don’t mean to pity party too hard, but it’s a hard day today. I thought I was running from the future, but I’m using stressing about the future to run from the past really. That makes sense. One thing I do agree with my aunt on is sometimes you have to sit in the shit. I don’t want to be alone while I sit. Perhaps someone on a cleaner platform to wave to. Or a hug. 

I’ve learnt so many things through it all, and I hate it, lessons don’t justify this. Life is tough and we all have excuses for our behaviour. Even the abhorrent, I’ve heard them, I’ve made them. I know there’s humanity in there, but it’s also not anyone’s responsibility to offer absolution. You as a wronged party don’t always have to be the one to forgive. Let someone else do it and let it go.

I think I’m done being self-indulgent now. It’s been such a long stage of my life. It’s time to bite again. Sleep. Continue to build. Create my peace. Offer less chances. Be kind. Get my head out of ass. All of it.

This is when I talk to myself like I wish my Mother did. I hope that for you, sweetheart. Rest well xx May you all rest well too