Hating The Insides

 It's been a minute. Not that I haven't been around, there's just been a lot to deal with on this side.

I'm going to warn you now - this is a trigger warning post, if ever there was one from me. Eating disorders, self-loathing, self-harm, etc. If you don't want to read it, look away, sweet child, look away.

.

.

.

With that said...

The therapist kicked me in the head this month, and it really fucking hurt. Still reeling from it, and I'm not sure how to deal with it, other than just to keep writing about it. That feels safer than talking directly to someone, somehow. Like TikTok content creators, the words used in blogs can be curated, adjusted, and manipulated to create a better, more attractive version.

No matter how I put it, I can't make this post attractive, though. I am a ball of existential dread, wrapped in raw nerve endings at the moment. It hurts to breathe most days, because I don't know what's going to hit, or when. And the feeling most often currently is anger, not sadness. 

I'm pissed as fuck.

Who am I, she asked. Fuck if I know. I'm 52,and ice always been what everyone else needed me to be. I was the perfect child, the perfect student, the perfect girlfriend, the perfect wife, the perfect employee... I forcibly curated this image from the time I was 4, because even then - I understood that being someone who was easy to be around, someone quiet, someone willing to do whatever was asked of them, made those around me happy. And I was told that that's was I needed to do. 

So now, I'm struggling to find my footing because for the first time in my life, someone asked me who I was, and what I wanted. And I don't know. 

I react more than I consider, these days. I punish myself by not eating, or not sleeping, when I can't finish a task to the degree I "should" be performing to. I end up having hour+ long panic attacks when I end up spiraling out of control, and it just makes things worse - makes me double down on the idea that I need to be in control of every nuance of my life in order to get through the day. 

I keep myself at arm's length from everyone, because honestly, it's safer for them - I'm a fucking ticking time bomb of emotional backlash and trauma just waiting to go off if someone says the wrong thing.

I'm not a walking red flag any longer. I'm a claymore mine now, wrapped up in an ugly, kicked up box in the gutter, waiting for some poor, unaware, curious fucker to bump it.

And yeah, I said ugly. Because that's the other thing I'm dealing with right now. Mirrors aren't my friend at the moment. Honestly they never were, though at some point, when I was younger, I wasn't as unhappy looking in them. Now, though, that's a level of personal horror I'm simply not wanting to deal with at all.

I found myself writing a scene in the book I'm publishing, where the main character says "people who look like you don't go after people who look like me... I'm not someone's wet, hot dream. I'm someone's Saturday Night Sloppy fuck. And that's fine. I'm fine with it... I'm am... I'm fine."

And I kept reading that, and realizing that's my fucking life. It's been my life. With both my ex's, they chose to have me as their "fall-back". Their safety net - so they could do whatever they wanted, to whomever they wanted, and know when they came home, I'd be there with a tidy flat, dinner cooked, etc. I didn't go out with them. They went out with their other partners, and I stayed home.

Polyamory can be a positive thing, by the way - just as an aside. The versions I experienced were not positive. I wasn't allowed to date anyone if I had feelings for them, or if they were men, or if they had feelings for me, or the wind blew in from the east... My experiences with my ex's shouldn't be taken as the norm, but as the cautionary tale to kick your partner in the teeth if they pull the following shit. 

The first ex was blatently vocal about it, when he got his butter bars. "I'm taking [partner a], because she won't embarrass me the way you would with how you look. The guys at the barracks have been talking."

That's all it took. I stopped offering to go, and that was the end of the marriage.

The second was less blatent... It was always "oh, but this weekend I promised *them* I'd take them. I mean, you can go, but you'll have to be over there on your own, since this will be my weekend with them.", or "You wouldn't enjoy yourself at this - it's a [insert gathering here] , - it's not really your thing, right?". Never a direct denial.

I stopped asking to be included. Stopped expecting the aftercare, stopped looking for acceptance, or even acknowledging the fact that I was there, other than a kiss on the cheek before he'd dissociate into the computer, or go upstairs or out to fight/fuck with the other partner.

It wears on you. A total of 30 years in that type of relationship creates a monster in your head that eats your heart out from the inside, and teaches you that being small, being invisible, being nothing, is the only acceptable way to be. Eventually, you lose who you thought you were, and you don't remember where you thought you wanted to go.

So, when I'm asked "who are you?" I have no idea how to answer. I don't know who I am. I don't even know what I am, other than a horrible, grasping, needful thing. 

I feel like a succubus who's been starved of human touch for decades - and perhaps I am. I don't know. I probably won't know, either. The people I'm constantly attracted to aren't going to look at me and see me as anything other than fat, useless, and/or unattractive. They might be kind about their dismissal of me, but it *will* be a dismissal.

I'll never trust your compliments, your friendship, your kindness. I can't believe when I'm told that I'm anything other than the worst versions of myself, because I've swallowed those statements for so long, it's filled my brain to maximum capacity. 

I can't think that anyone would ever want to see me as anything but my worst self, because that's how I see myself. I can't comprehend that anyone would want me as I am, because I'm not the size 2 model with the perfect pose, perfect body, and perfect smile. I end up presenting myself as being as competent, darkly-humorous, self-depreciating, all to try and keep you from seeing the damage inside. 

I make sure I'm in control of every situation, so that I'm not a burdon on anyone - because I don't deserve to be wanted or taken care of. I have back-up plans for my plans. I don't ever make promises I can't keep, I make sure I meet deadlines, and expectations... 

And when I fail to meet the expectations I've set for myself - because I know I will - I know I have no one to trust I can fall back on. So I punish myself, to remind me that no one will ever come and save me. I'm on my own, so I'd better fix it myself, get better, stop being a bitch about it, and suck it up. 

I'm fighting to keep from hating my brain so much I fall down *that* rabbit hole again. Because apparently that's not an option. It makes people uncomfortable, upset, and I end up in a nice grippy sock vacation - which I can't afford. So I'm sticking with anger toward what I'm going through - because it's safer. It's easier. And I'll keep that wall up between myself and everyone else, for my own safety. Because I can't afford to hear it all again from the outside. It's already been internalized, set on repeat.