Keep Quiet, Girl

Be pretty, little girl/ Be a sweet little thing/ Be completely unprepared/ For what this Hellish life will bring

Be hurt, little girl/ Be abused, little one/ But be completely silent/ Keep those pretty pink lips mum

Keep quiet, girl… Mmmmmmmmmm

She was raised with the Bible/ with beatings to enforce/ Momma bathed her in bleach/ To keep that child pure

Daddy sewed her clothes/ covered her head to toe/ to make sure not an inch of her/ would ever show

Keep quiet, girl… Mmmmmmmmmm

But Momma’s Daddy shot himself/ and all hell broke loose/ Daddy locked his daughter out/ to free her from abuse

She was homeless/ she was scared/ from brainwashed and sheltered/ she was desperately unprepared

Keep quiet, girl… Mmmmmmmmmm

And a wolf on the prowl/ helped her drink her pain away/ then carried her to his bedroom/ and had his way

She fought and she spit/ But the gun by the bed/ told her she better take it/ or else she’d be dead

Keep quiet, girl… Mmmmmmmmmm

Now no one wants to know/ No one wants to hear/ What goes on behind closed doors/ Is hers alone to fear

She was saving herself/ until she was a wife/ But who would want her now?/ A blemished, broken bride?

Keep quiet, girl… Mmmmmmmmmm

She tried to keep the secret/ She locked it up in chains/ She smiled at every stranger/ While the hurt consumed her brain

Sometimes, when alone/She’d break down to floor/ Until one night that damned secret/ wouldn’t stay secret anymore

I can’t keep quiet anymore!!! … Ahhhhh!!!!!!!!

I will not be the victim/ I will not die inside/ I’ll have my revenge/ I still have my pride

I’m a reverend, a warrior/ With a savage vengeance/ Wolf, I’m going to kill you/ So you better seek repentance 

I can’t keep quiet anymore!!! … Ahhhhh!!!!!!!!!

I’ve been beaten/ I’ve been abused/ But I’m powerful/ And on the loose

If you’ve been beaten/ And you’ve been bruised/ Make pain your power/ You’ve got nothin’ to lose!!!

You can’t keep quiet anymore!!!! … Ahhhh!!!!

We can’t keep quiet anymore!!!! … Ahhhhhh!!!!!

Remember you are vindicated/ Remember you’re appreciated/ Remember if you’re ever hurt/ Make sure that you reciprocate it

I won’t keep quiet anymore.

The Hurt and The Must

Girl in front of mirror - Pablo Picasso I’m trying to figure out who these people are inside of me. I know that I switch and I’m one, and then I switch and I’m another. I feel aware of two of them. I’ve known about them, but hadn’t known how to vocalize that knowledge until recently. I need to name them or something so that I can organize them a little bit. One will be The Hurt and the other will be The Must.

The past two and half years, my normal me is The Must. She loves Husband, is thankful for her job, works hard, keeps the house clean, believes in God. She carries the past in a piece of luggage, but tries not to open it. The Must is a normal wife, with normal sexual needs.

The Hurt is the one that comes out and confuses people. The Hurt thinks that she loves Patrick. The hurt wants to be dominated sexually. The Hurt writes the best music and plays guitar and turns into The Reverend on stage. The Hurt wants to smash people and scream and cry. The Hurt hates that she is married, hates what her life has become. The Hurt wants to run away. The Hurt knows that Husband blackmailed me into marrying him. The Hurt carries all of the past like broken armor on her chest and back.

The Must and The Hurt interact. Last night, I was The Hurt. When I am The Hurt, I feel like she is the real me. She screams and screams, cries out that the life she is living isn’t fair, that she was forced to take on The Must to survive. The Hurt was homeless, raped, molested, abused, blackmailed, and desperate. So a switch just flicked and she became The Must. The Must married into a well-off family and tried to kill off The Hurt. Everything The Hurt is dealing with is just intolerable to The Must.

Hannah and Landon: doomed desert days / photo by  Shae Acopian Detar

When I was The Hurt last night, I planned to meet Patrick today. I was so angry with Josh and so hurt that he blackmailed me and angry at everything that happened. I was craving intimacy with Patrick. Craving making music with Patrick. Craving being away and being The Hurt completely. Then I hated myself so much for what I am. If I try to make one of me happy, I stab the other one. The Hurt decided to sacrifice herself to The Must last night, or at least try to. She submitted to Husband. She let husband take out all of his anger on The Hurt. He wants to control The Hurt because he’s scared that he’ll lose both of us, The Hurt and The Must. That’s why he blackmailed me. He stripped me down, told me to lay face down, pinned my legs and arms, put one hand on my throat and the other in my hair, and took it all out on me.

I fell asleep. So tired. So broken. And I woke up The Must. I felt so disappointed at The Hurt for making those plans with Patrick. But I sacrificed her to Husband last night. I let him rape her and then I tied her up and locked her away. I know she wants to see Patrick, but I can’t let her. I don’t want to see him.

Rainbow Death

Daily Prompt: Roy G. Biv

by michelle w. on January 7, 2014

Write about anything you’d like, but make sure that all seven colors of the rainbow — red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet — make an appearance in the post, either through word or image.

Husband’s Papa died yesterday at six. I don’t have any family other than a friend I consider blood, so Papa has been my grandfather for the past three years as well.

We have faithfully visited Grandma and Papa regularly ever since I met Joshua. Watching his slow decline has been painful, but even though we knew it was coming, death still hit us off guard.

I have been wading through a sea of repressed memories flooding back to me concerning parts of the abuse with which I haven’t acknowledged. I’m on weekly visits with Mary. We were in her office yesterday at the clinic. I was having a break down. Josh gets a call. He leaves the room. He comes back in and says, “He’s dying right now. We have to take Grandma.” Mary scribbles the prescription for my new medicine, passes it to me, and sends me off with a hug and a ‘love you’. And I said I love her too. I do.

I ran right past the car on my way out the door. Ran back around and climbed in the car. Josh is trying to hold it together. He’s speeding as fast as he can, but of course, we hit every red light. He keeps getting calls from his sister crying and he can hear people moaning in the background, “He’s dying! He’s dying!” It doesn’t seem real.

At grandma’s house, I jump out of the car and run to her door. I ring the doorbell. She’s home alone. She doesn’t answer. Josh rings. She doesn’t answer. The door swings open suddenly and she, with wig askew, clutches Joshua in her arms and cries a cry that is so tired it sounds more like heavy breathing. “I just can’t believe it,” she cries. We sandwich her between us in a hug. She goes back to the bathroom and gathers herself. We take her car and head out to the nursing home. Papa had just been transferred there from the hospital for hospice that morning.

The drive there seemed an hour long. Every minute watching those orange digital numbers flick on the car clock felt like ten minutes. Grandma kept exclaiming that it didn’t seem real. Her phone rings. She answers. “He died.”

That moment is frozen.

She says it so naturally. Josh is not jolted by this exclamation. I don’t feel like I deserve to react when those two are staying so strong. But after listening to the conversation, I realize that Josh and Grandma already knew. Somewhere in our communication, ‘died’ became ‘dying’.

We get to the home. Climb out of the car. Josh takes one of her hands; I take the other. We walk her through the doors and down the hall, and it hurts. I don’t know what to say but, “It’ll be okay.” At his room, the usually open door is closed. We push it open. I see a room full of people, but the faces that stick out are Mike, my father-in-law, crying. My brother-in-law, Jarrod, crying. These men I never expected to see crying. And then as I look around the room I see face after face of my husband’s family, the family I see as my own, in tears. They all cry out when they see her go and clutch his yellowing, dead hands.

Every time I see a dead body, I flashback to a funeral I attended three years ago when I first met Josh. The girl was a friend I had known since early childhood. She hung herself in the tree under which we used to wait for bus for years. The funeral was open casket. And her eighteen-year-old neck still had rope marks.

To be continued… Maybe.

Bed Full of Phoenix

Holy Shit: Have I expressed how much I love Phoenix? I love Phoenix. If I could have intercourse with sound, I’d be fucking Phoenix.  Just look at them. And the music is exponentially sexier and more amazing than they look. And they are actually better live than in recordings, which is ridiculous considering how perfect the tracks are. Yes, I’ll take a bed full of Phoenix please.

Last Saturday: Went to Mount Pony, Library of Congress and watched Pulp Fiction with Mack and Josh.

Last Monday: Mack came over and went to Mary. Then we went to State Theater for Harlem Gospel Choir.

Last Week: Mack stayed for a while because of snow. I had snow days the entire week last week.

Yesterday: Snow day.

This Tuesday: Niece’s going away party.

Today: Swimming with the kids for Winter Sports and Silvertone Swing Band at State Theater.

Tomorrow: Josh’s 26th birthday party.

Sunday: May help Mack move into her new room.

Update: I am depressed. I am reckless. I am craving adventure: sexuality, danger, and art. Maybe combine the three. I know how, but it’s against the rules. I don’t know how to keep the two versions of myself alive. I have a new self named The Reverend. Well, you know about The Reverend from the song I wrote earlier this month. But there are definitely two distinct other versions of me. I should give them all names so that it is easier to figure out which is which and maybe how to manage them.

Just Notes

Haven’t had to teach in five days. Another snow day tomorrow. I have been watching Downton Abbey, cleaning/organizing, studying, relaxing with Samita, and hosting Macky-J.

As you may know, I teach at a private school. The school is in major debt after separation from its associated church. With the deadline for a ridiculous sum of money due in February, the future of the school does not look bright. With my employment up in the air, I have latched onto the idea of possible starting a photography business.

I am not a photographer. I have never run a business outside of my private guitar instruction. But I live by the ballsy assumption that I can do anything. Young, idealistic, idiotic? Perhaps. My biological father always said, “To assume makes an ass of ‘u’ and me.” Regardless, this assumption has served me well thus far, and I plan to continue under its sway.

I was thinking of possibilities. Boudoir, photo booth, portrait, landscape, dimensional photography, freelance news-related. I hope to research and expound upon these ideas in the very near future.

Listening to Vangelis and Emile Pandolfi.

A Sea of Me

Neiko Ng {fantastic!}

I am a negative thinker. I am fully aware that my disorder contributes to this frame of mind, but I want to learn to be positive. In response to my Train Engine post, I’d like to now compare myself to this image of scuba divers reaching whimsically beautiful depths.

Progress has meant confrontation of painful memories, hurt, loss, and darkness. But I hope that as I delve deeper into myself and push harder toward my goal of self-empowerment and feeling good, I will find something beautiful within me.

Just as these divers are swimming past the darkness to the diverse, life-filled, pretty sea floor, I want to push through this darkness to discover my creative, life-filled, positive self.

The ocean has always terrified me – a great, powerful force of unknowns. Confronting my disorder terrifies me too – another great, powerful force of unknowns. While the sea holds giant creatures, murderous currents, and seemingly endless expanses of hopeless loneliness, my insides hold giant hurts, murderous currents of thought, and seemingly endless expanses of hopeless loneliness.

While afraid of the sea, I am fascinated by sea life – diverse, intricate, mysterious, and withholding so much power over mankind. Only twice have I ventured to dive into the sea to observe and swim as a part of the sea life, and while I was terrified of the sea, I felt such awe, thrill, and revival. In the same way, I am fascinated by the good parts of me. I hope that despite my fear of confronting this disorder, I will dive in and discover awe, thrill, and a revival of person, soul, and spirit.

Train Engine

Stay safe on an Indian train journey ....

I am this train engine. All of the people I take care of are the Indian people. All of my responsibilities and trauma are the cars of the train.

I have a rabbit in my bathtub. I’m fostering it until Mack is ready to take him home on Monday.

I woke up on Wednesday morning with unexplained, large, painful bruising all over my left leg. Mary says it’s a reaction to the medication of which I was taking 1/6 of the recommended lowest dosage.

I am doing well in my LUO classes. I have earned A’s on all assignments thus far and have submitted all assignments ahead of the deadline.

Mack tried to do herself in again on Wednesday night. She stayed with us last night and visited Mary this morning. I look forward to the day that Mackenzie feels better – feels happy, secure, confident, content – and that I don’t have to worry about losing my very best friend.

I slept through the night last night and did not have any nightmares or night terrors. I am still emotionally and physically exhausted, but I feel that I’m making progress.

Mary told me yesterday that I need to let myself be angry. I want to let myself be angry, but I am afraid of how that anger will manifest itself in my life.

I trimmed my fingernails as short as possible to prevent myself from tearing up my hands. Results are progressing as intended.

Full faculty/staff meeting at 8:30 AM Tuesday. We should know more about fate of the school then.

Studying psychology. Think I need to find ways to get my body into parasympathetic mode more often that not.