Where do they come from, my demons? Why are they so strong, so difficult for me to handle? Am I that weak? Demons love that! Come running happy to answer the question. "Yes, you are that weak, you pathetic little creature. Weak and alone." Maybe alone is the reason for my demons. I have never had anyone to back me up no matter what. I never had that support from my parents, my half siblings or friends, or anything. Yes, my father was proud of me, and he told people that he was. But when I was in real trouble he did nothing. I was always expected to cope on my own, by myself. No one even showed me how I was supposed to do that. How do you become confident or even able to defend yourself when no one even bothered to give you any tools or guidance in how to use them?
I'm always expecting the worst, whether I have reason to or not. That's how it's been for as long as I can remember, but it's still been getting worse. I've learned, the hard way, to expect nothing. And nothing is what I usually end up with. There was never much love in my family, no "I love you", no hugs. I hugged pillows, cuddly toys or my pets. My dog was great for hugging, and my cat has always comforted me when I was crying, She used to lay next to my pillow purring until I fell asleep.
As the yearning child grew up I fell for anyone who said the right things, anyone who offered hugs. Still too trusting. Mistake. Bad mistake. Huge mistake. Loving words and hugs doesn't mean that the person offering really cares about you. I am sure I am not the only one who has made that mistake. The saddest part of it all is that you do not know until it is too late. When the look in the eyes change, when they show their true intention is to get what they want no matter what... I... want...
After. What do you do? Where do you go? When you had nothing before and yet you somehow still ended up with less. Who do you trust? Do you feel like telling your story to the police? Do you think they will believe you? Do you want to go to court and tell the story again? No!
I crawl into a corner with my pillows, hiding under the covers from my bed. It never happened. That didn't happen. Nothing happened. Something happened. Something tore my insides out and made my blood run outside my body instead of inside my veins. I am sick for days, can't eat, can't sleep. I just sit there, under the covers, hugging the pillow covered with dry blood and salty tears. No one is looking for me, I'm all alone. No one misses me. No one cares. Why would they? I had just been told how worthless I really am.
Later, much later, with black bruises covering my neck I try to tell my mother. "He tried to kill me." The look of disbelief in her eyes tell me everything I need to know. I'm still shocked by her response. "What did you do?" Does my own mother really think that there's something I could have done that would give something an acceptable excuse to kill me? Her only child. Her closest relative, one of few that's still alive. Yes, I have to cling to that. I am actually still alive. There would come times when I wished he hadn't let go, that he would have gone all the way, but I wasn't there yet.
No authorities this time either. My mother doesn't seem to think there's anything particularly upsetting with what happened. I'm not lying. I have the bruises. I managed on my own, by myself. No one knows. I have tried to tell, but no one really listens. "I almost died once." "Yes, so did I. I almost drowned..." They tell their story with so much animation and colorful additions. This is a story they have told before. They? He! I close my mind around my story. That isn't what I meant, but how do you start a conversation with I was almost murdered, though that is what almost happened. I was almost strangled to death. I was ready to go. Not a pleasant conversation. Let's go with that droll anecdote about a wild child that almost drowned. but was saved by a mother who was there and cared about her child enough to want him alive.
But why would I think anyone would be interested in my story anyway? How much do people really care about others? I know they care about what I can do for them, but do they really care that I might need too. I try not to bother people, which means if I do bother anyone I think there might be at least a tiny little chance they might care. It doesn't happen often. Any sign that they don't want to hear this I give up. I shut up. I try to smile and listen and keep it in as long as I can. Sometimes I just can't pretend it's okay. I have to leave, they call me rude, I just want to cry alone, but I am misbehaving, they are disappointed in me. Get in line! Story of my life, whatever happens it's my fault. No matter what I've done I'm never good enough. Never accepted for who I am. Never allowed to be me. Always told or showed that I'm wrong, that I didn't pass that test...
Practically all my life, so far, I have been tested. My "friends" would offer me something, but if I show that I want it, accept the offer, that I believe they would actually give it to me. Then it's taken away. A joke. Not to me though. Done too many times, you stop believing, it's the trust again. How many times can you be fooled by these lies? Do you like it? Do you want it? You can have it! Take it! But of course not. Stupid, stupid, of course not. Well, I stopped believing. Most times I just go through the motions now, yeah sure, yeah okay, no, hahaha funny. Yeah, I didn't think so. You're too funny. That joke is so amazingly funny. No, it isn't but... Or how about the greatest joke of all. Do you love me? Do you, do you, do you??? If that word really means something... well... I can't.
I've been hurt. I need time. Some people can't give you that time, they want to know. Now. Tell me, tell me, tell me. Who cares if I am scared, I can't say it if I don't mean it. Do I mean it? Do I? I'm afraid of feeling, but who cares? Tell me, tell me, tell me. Finally I give in, I allow my self to find out, do I feel? Maybe I do feel. Finally I admit it and I tell him, and what happened? The joke is to bring someone out on the wafer thin ice of their deepest fears and then take off. As gone as if he'd never been there, so easy to leave me. Why would you do that? Why does people do that? Why always me? Why am I the designated test subject of all painful things? Why always hurt me?
Stop believing, give up. I don't want anything anymore. Maybe I do but how could I ever admit that when I know that admitting a wish will only result in it being taken away again. That's how it's always been. I don't see why it would change either.
