abuse

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Perfect

I saw a show today where someone said that perfection is only measured within a frame of imperfection, and it made me think. I have recently started on a journey of trying to do a little more for myself, more counselling, more painting, more things to throw me off this path of dwelling on every little thing that has happened to me in the last decade, and I gotta tell you, it’s hard. It’s easy for me to blend in with the crowd and be the party girl, that’s what they call me, “they” being my friends, the people I work with, people at school. I am the girl who turns up to a test rottenly hung over and gets an A, and they all say they wish they could do that, but I wish for nothing more than to be able to turn up to a test without having to get drunk the night before because I am terrified that I wont get a perfect score. Somewhere over the years I have equated getting anything less than the “perfect” score as my abuser having some kind of control over that.

Brother

I'm sorry if this post is a bit personal, but it has been swirling in my head for weeks now, and is part of why I have been MIA, so here it is:

My big brother and I have always been good friends, despite what stood between us, namely our parents, and the fact that most of my life he lived at my Dad's house with my older sister and I lived with Our Mum. He is only three years older than me, so being so close in age we were always pretty close and I spent much of my childhood following behind him begging him to let me play (which now I realise must have been highly annoying, but what are younger sisters for?).

This is what they do to us

This is what drives me crazy about abuse and abusive people:

They screw up EVERY memory you have of childhood, to the point where I feel like smashing photos of myself out of frames in my house, because everytime I look at that kid I see what he did to me written all over my damn face.

They take and take and take untill your whole sense of self is so screwed up that you think thats all you can do for people, is give and give untill you realise oneday that that is all a big load of crap and that you wasted the majority of your life doing that when you could have, i don't know, LIVED?

One night in Bangkok

Here I am once again back in New Zealand, after managing to happily avoid christmas (which I just don't do) and take off to Asia for a few months. I wish I could say I am happy to be home, but that would just be one big fat lie.

I seem to just spiral into the same old patterns whenever I am back here, which I am trying hard not to let happen this time around, but god it is hard. Some of the places I travelled to in Asia saddened me to no end at how hard it is for Women there, and how frustrating it is for many of the young Women who i spoke to during my travel's to be told that they can either get married, or sell themselves to tourists night after night, as if their whole exsistance is to satisfy men.

Sober truths

The weekend was a whirlwind of drunk days and drunker nights, people I dont know sleeping on the floor of our apartment, someone I know even less sleeping next to me in my bed. At the time it was all a fantastic idea, who doesnt love a weekend where they can just let loose and party day and night? But come monday I was not proud of myself. I had not been sober for seventy two hours and the reality of that hit me, hard, harder than a headache and a shakey morning. I do this to myself more than I should. Its easier for me to be drunk then sober, a lot of the time, and that is something I am not proud of, but its the truth.

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Loving the enemy

We were not together for a long time, only a few months, but I loved him. And, I thought he loved me I guess. Nick and I were a good team in the beginning, we both loved many of the same things, he was supportive of me with my health problems and of my sometimes insane family. But it didn't last as long as I thought, and hoped it would. Nick changed the moment I told him I was a survivor; he thought it was something that meant I was ill, or damaged, or sick. I know these things are tough on the people we love, so I gave it as much time as he needed, but the Nick I knew never came back. He started to get really violent, and hit me, and keep me from going out with other people, my friends, because he said I was not well. But for whatever reason I still loved him even when he hurt me.

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Survivors support groups: my concerns.

Those of you who know me know that I am a survivor of long term sexual abuse. But for those that do not, I was abused from childhood until just recently by a good friend of my family. For years I was numb about it all, and not willing to deal with it at all. I finally did get myself together enough to get into counselling not too long ago, and was able to work up the courage to go to the police and report this man.

Now that it is over, and I have been through that, it has not all left my mind like I had hoped it would. Stupidly, I was hoping that I would wake up the next day and feel that huge weight lift off of my heart and no longer have to deal with the images that have been in my mind since the first time he hurt me. I was wrong. In fact, since it all stopped I feel like the images have been much clearer and I have been having flash backs much more frequently. And, to be honest I am just not dealing with that well, particularly not at night time, when I have anxiety attacks and can’t sleep at all because I feel like he is watching me again.

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