some dark from in my self

i want to work on my book today.
but i’m not sure how.

how do i talk about all the fear i had growing up in my family?

how do i express or explain the tension and haunting that was my every day?

i just read in louise hay’s book that asthma in children is a sign of not wanting to be here, fear of living really. and that gastritis is prolonged uncertainty and a feeling of doom.

i had a feeling of doom at age ten. (note to readers; I developed asthma in the third grade, along with chronic headaches, nose bleeds, allergies, and I had an ulcer in the fourth grade).

i was uncertain about whether i would live or die. would my father kill me in my sleep? or just come in to my room at night and destroy me as a human?

would my mother decide to feed me? or would she send me to school with another punishment sandwich, for being someone she didn’t like, instead of the daughter she preferred?

i am astounded at my will to live through all of this. smartly, i tried to kill myself a couple of times, but luckily i didn’t take that too far. still, how did i manage to live with a mother who was emotionally cold and removed, and so consumed with her self that she chose to ignore my cries for help?

*she hid my medicine, from the world because she didn’t want anyone to realize i was “sick” (does this go deeper than the ulcer? is she really hiding my state from the world? does she see what i’m doing and try to tuck it away in a drawer or cabinet, fearful that she might have to acknowledge that i have fractured myself in front of her, broken myself like a little hand mirror that she is afraid to look into?)

*she wouldn’t feed me. i can’t remember this but one of my alters said she had to be the right daughter. she wasn’t the daughter that the mommy wanted, so she had to try to be perfect or the mommy wouldn’t feed her. and she was scared. because she wasn’t the one that was wanted. she was UNwanted, and she was afraid she wouldn’t be fed.  maybe it’s not that my mother actually refused to feed me, but this alter is convinced that eating is a result of right action, and reserved for the favorite children.

*she sent me away to Mexico, and this alone killed someone in me.

*she sent me away to live with my godparents.

*she ignored my cries in the night and refused to say goodnight to me.

*she sent me to my father when he was in fits of rage, knowing that he had beat men up at the drop of a pin when he was in this state. he was a violent, angry man who was arrested more than once for being belligerent. he’d blown up buildings and threatened to kill grown men. and knowing that he could harm, hurt and kill, she sent me to him to calm him down. a child, sent in to calm a criminal.

*she sent me off to my uncle’s, knowing he might be harming me, because she didn’t want him to be mad at her.

i hate her.

(though this is actually mixed with love, regret, guilt, loyalty, and disdain, among other feelings and issues)

i can’t believe she did all of this to me, and more, because there is so much i haven’t even discovered about myself and my life.

my life has been a mystery. a secret that i tucked away into a little tiny drawer in a little tiny piece of furniture, way over in the corner of my mind. and now that the map of me unfolds, i am shocked at the twists and turns, the people and personalities. but more shocked at the horrible mother, like a character from a Disney movie, who willingly walks her child to the forest and leaves her there for the beasts to consume. she may even leave the beasts some handiwipes, so they can clean themselves after they’ve finished up with the dead carcass. then mother goes back to her little house and bemoans the fact that now she must find a new dish washer.

About denelle

writer. artist. ponderer.

Posted on April 29, 2010, in MPD and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. this is from a journal entry dated 7.21.09

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