They’re
foolish games, but let’s call it a tie. I fought the matches, razors,
and Klonopin; I won. I fought the alcohol. It won. Tie game.

I’m
dissociative as hell tonight and can not be responsible for what arbitrary, random commentaries come out of her mouth. She should
come with a “Do not disturb” label and a warning sign that reads “Do not feed the
animals”. I wish she were illegal. She makes me feel bad.

I
am on my own. There is no one to pull me out of this. I truly feel
I am forced to do this on my own, and I can’t fucking do it. We’ve
regressed. We have a hug deficiency. We are children needing to be
gently scooped off the ground and nourished and comforted.

My
body has been on absolute fire with anxiety and despair. I hate
myself. It’s hard to love myself when I live in the corner of the
dark ceiling of a child who witnesses . . . . I’m reminded of it
everyday. Those times feel like they get closer, but they never
materialize. But I know, I know, I know the storm is coming. It’s a
build up. And I wonder if things were really allowed to come to true
awareness and float to the surface I might find relief like a
release, because all the pressure has been let go. It’s building,
it’s building, it’s building. Like a pressure cooker. And if I
could just face it I might feel peace for once . . . and forgiveness.
But for now, I’m in the child’s dark room, hovering above her bed,
watching the damage she denies, watching her be hurt irreparably ,
scattered, tossed, strewn like jagged parts discarded along the way.
Leaving me the adult tossing about on violent, angry waters who only
want death.

And
here is the point: when can a victim say she survived?
When does one become a survivor and leave behind the image of a
victim? Is it on her death bed when she can say she survived? Does
she have to reach a certain age to claim victory? Can she randomly
declare one day she is a survivor? How many tests and trials does
she have to go through to be declared a survivor?

Maybe
that’s my problem. Maybe I still identify myself as a victim.

The
very definition of a survivor is a person who survives alive after
an event in which others have died. How many people really die from
abuse? Sure, it makes us wish we were dead, and it may kill parts of
us, but not many physically die. So how does one become a survivor?

I survive myself every day – despite my best intentions to destroy
myself. Right now it satisfies me to hurt myself because I know it
is what the girl in the dark room who lives in the ceiling hovering above the bed deserves.

I
need a hug. I need a hug. I need a hug.

I
hurt. I hurt. I hurt.

Help
me. Help me. Help me.

I’m
fading, fadin, fad . . .