THERE IS NO BEAUTY IN PAIN AND TRAUMA (Not For Me)

I’ve talked about this more than I probably should have. I obviously have unresolved feelings I have to work out. I understand that. I’ve been watching Dave Navarro on Ink Master and I know his music from earlier years.

Dave Navarro and his friend put together a documentary style film “Mourning Son”. Dave’s mother was murdered by her ex-boyfriend when he was 15. In the film you see how this changes Dave. He also visits the man that was convicted for the crime in prison.

I also watched a lengthy interview with Dave Navarro and Todd Newman (Director). Mr. Navarro said he probably would’ve been a drug abuser regardless of his mother’s murder. He goes on to say that when you come through the pain and trauma there’s a beauty in it.

It’s how he sees it, it is his life and they are his feelings. When I watched the film footage there was a scene where he was tied to a chair by a woman wearing spiked heels. She appeared to be enjoying herself as she dug her spiked heel into his chest and inflicted various amounts of pain. He was dressed as half schoolgirl, half prostitute. Yes, he was. There was also footage of him shooting up and footage of his behavior as it became more erratic.

During the sex/fetish/masochism scene what I saw was a man with the emptiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Someone who wasn’t in the room, who was going through the movements so he didn’t have to think about anything else. I know he does enjoy doing suspension and I can understand that. It’s a traditional ceremony when done right releases endorphins. Having someone hurt, punish, or degrade you is a little different.

As his drug abuse progressed he would put needles in the same site over and over causing abscesses to form and get infected. His friends would tell him to be careful and he became more reckless as time went on.

This looked and sounded like a man who either wanted to die or was screaming for help and no one was hearing him. If they were hearing him they weren’t trying hard enough to get him help for one reason or another.

He talked about visiting his mother’s murderer in prison. It sounded like the experience was cathartic for him. He went in with a calm demeanor and left the same way. He’s a better person than I in many, many, ways.

FORGIVENES AND WHAT YOU TAKE AWAY

It’s obvious Dave Navarro could take a lot of positive stuff away from his experiences. I am not able to do that. I’m not sure I will ever be able to do that. I’m not left seeing the beauty in my trauma and pain. Unless you count the pretty pink in my hair because I couldn’t get the blood out of it. I had such light blond hair that it stained. I would become dizzy and sick to my stomach every time I washed it. I still did it no matter how much it hurt. I am left with a small scar on my nose resembling a crescent moon. It’s from a skull ring. I like crescent moons.

What I am left with are nightmares like the one from last night. I’m pinned down by knees. I’m being punched in the face. I can’t breathe through my nose or mouth because of the blood. I feel paralyzed. It goes on forever. I hate this drowning feeling. Why doesn’t anyone hear me? A girl watches from another room. She does nothing. I’m choking. I’m thinking it will never end and also thinking this is what I asked for. I wake up crying with a sick feeling I can’t shake.

I didn’t drink because of this. My alcoholism started at 16/17 and brought me to some places that a young girl shouldn’t be spending time at. An undiagnosed Mental Illness also helped keep me there. I thought it was where I belonged. I didn’t deserve a better life, I didn’t deserve a life at all.

It’s hard to forgive someone who has bragged about beating you. It’s hard to let go when the person lives near you. It’s harder when you know the person suffered no consequences for his actions and is living his life just fine. As a matter of fact his life is better than yours. It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

I can’t forgive and I can’t forget. What’s worse than that is I’m pretty sure that whatever is hidden in the deepest part of my brain has to do with him. If it does it’s better I never know. I’m not sure how I’ll react.

There is a regret I have. I wish he could see me now. After losing 135 pounds, having a flattering hair color, and some self respect it would at least make me feel better. This “man” who once told me I better not get pregnant because no one would ever notice. This “man” that encouraged other men to make elephant noises at me in front of over 50 people. The same “man” who would tell me he could possibly love me if I lost weight then beat me.

I’m lying. I would feel much better with a baseball bat or an extremely attractive, intimidating man with me when I saw him. Sorry, it’s how my brain works. At least I stopped daydreaming revenge fantasies. Progress.

There are so many people that can forgive another person for some of the most painful acts. Parents who forgive the men that murder their daughters. Any family that forgives someone who has murdered or harmed a loved one. I don’t understand. I don’t think I ever will. Is it part of my illness? Is it genetics? Is it because I’m Irish? Why do I have such a hard time with the concept of forgiveness?

When it comes to smaller incidents I can forgive. I forgive my brother for everything he’s done except for hitting on W at my mother’s funeral. I have issues with my sister but they usually go away. Wait. I have a problem with forgiving my niece for what she wrote to me. Telling me that I should’ve killed myself because everyone would be better off and that my mom would be rolling over in her grave if she could see what a loser I am is kind of bordering unforgiveable. Other than a few small things I mostly let stuff go. Ok, maybe not.

 

 

You’re An Asshole. Thanks For The Memories.

I remember being at a Manager’s Meeting one day and there had been a woman murdered by her husband on the news the night before. The Manager’s were discussing how there had been a history of violence with the husband but the wife continued to take him back.

There was one Manager that as I listened to him I could feel my face growing hot. I could hear blood rushing in my ears. What he was saying was so insulting, so sexist, and never should’ve been allowed at a professional meeting. But no one stopped him. His view was she must have done something wrong or liked it to stay.

None of the other Manager’s knew about my past. I wasn’t exactly eager to tell them. Most of them viewed me as quiet and meek. I rarely spoke at meetings. This one time I had enough from this 6’1, 280 pound bully. I stood up and looked him in the eye. I quietly asked “Have you ever had someone larger than you, pin you to a floor with their knees, while they repeatedly punched you in the face until you felt you were drowning in your own blood?” He said no. I said “I hope you never do.”. The conversation ended there.

He wasn’t the only one to feel that way. My own family never understood why I continued to go to J’s. They hated him and everyone who went there. Even when I stopped going there and was just at W’s house they didn’t like it and thought W was the problem.

I can’t sit here and blame everyone else 100%. I have a Mental Illness that went undiagnosed for far too long. I am the product of 2 alcoholics but no one put a gun to my head and forced me to drink. I chose to. W couldn’t have stopped me. She did try. I was going to destroy myself regardless.

I did fall into that small percentage with one person where I thought if I loved him enough, if I gave him whatever he wanted or needed, he would change. It never happens.

I need to say in all seriousness that no amount of prayer or gospel is going to heal me. It is gibberish to me. I find it insulting when I’m sent Evangelical propaganda having to do with Mental Illness, Domestic Abuse, or Child Abuse.

I don’t want to be disrespectful. Everyone has a right to their own opinion and beliefs. I just don’t want to be flooded with them.

Everyone has an opinion about abuse. I don’t want to get into that. Here is what happened in a shorter version and the consequences because of it.

I became an alcoholic at 17. I was an undiagnosed Bipolar person and also had severe social phobia and anxiety. I hated myself and had trouble in social situations. Alcohol made me numb to any pain I was feeling and I didn’t care who I talked to or what anyone thought about me. The more I drank the more I had to surround myself with people who drank like me. This brought me to places filled with mostly men who had been in and out of prison, were a lot older than me, and were not the nicest of people. The more embarrassing things that would happen to me or I would do at the place I drank the more I drank to make it go away. If someone touched me without my permission but I was too drunk to say or do anything I would think “It’s your own fault. You put yourself in that situation. Deal with it.”. I would deal with it by drinking more and sometimes showing bursts of anger myself. I would also hurt myself. I felt I belonged with them. I didn’t deserve better in life. I had felt that way from the age of 12/13. When you have felt that way for so long there is pretty much nothing that will change your mind.

When the last and I think the most violent act occurred, I finally never went back. My feelings about myself never changed. I did have a new hatred inside of me that I didn’t like.

Those years left me with not only physical scars but psychological scars that are hidden deep inside. I have memories my brain will not let me access because they would be too much for me. Instead these “traumatic” memories come out in physical ways. Stuttering, tremors, startling easily and crying. That’s everyday anyway but when my father starts to slam doors and yell “Goddamn!” it reaches a very high level. I’ve dropped things at the grocery store because of a man’s voice in the next aisle. I often leave if I hear too many deep male voices, there are also too many bright lights, and it’s a new place.

It isn’t a fun way to live. Part of me wishes I knew exactly what the cause is. Part of me is frightened to death it’s something I won’t be able to live with. What my brain plays over and over is bad enough if there’s worse I can’t imagine what it would do to me and my family.