Cycle of Abuse?

You know that feeling when you’re suffering from ‘sob constipation? When you needed a good cry, but there wasn’t a good spot to do it in, so you held it, and now that there is a place you can’t get it out because you were holding it? I’ve got that going on at the moment.

There was a woman who spoke at an event today, about the cycle of abuse. She didn’t say it in a textbook way, she said it in a way I could understand. I wish I could have filmed it or something, I don’t remember anything now. But it gave me sob constipation.

She talked about witnesses, and the difference of that versus observers. She talked about getting angry. How victims of abuse would think things of themselves that they’ve been told over and over.. I wish I could remember it. I’m probably not getting it right right now either. This time I did come up and thank her without being an idiot (last time she touched my arm in an ‘I care’ attitude my tongue was tied because I don’t remember the last time that happened)

My core is separate from what my family does to me. I know I like myself and my potential life, and my core is strong in that. What they do hurts, but it can’t touch that inner center where I know who I am.

I’m finally angry.

And no one listens to my anger, or.. anything I have to say.

I love my two cousins with all my heart, and the family cat (not my cat, the family one I grew up with that was ‘my cat’ there). Unconditionally. I love the rest of the family, but that sometimes seems.. heavier? More conditional in a sense? But I want to adopt my cousins and steal the cat and live like that. That aunt is the most poisonous, I don’t know what’s real or not. She’ll ignore me at the drop of a hat, so I have to pretend, so, so, hard, at being normal, to try to stay present for those cousins at least. I am so so worried at how they fare at home, and the fact I can do nothing, only change my behavior. So I change it for the worse (not in an evil sense, but a.. neutered sense) and pretend the status quo is normal, just to be even present in their lives. I don’t know what’s more harmful. I’m probably enabling my aunt’s awfulness by trying to be neutered, but I’m not there, maybe my cousins are doing okay. Not to my eyes though.

My parents feed the cat shit like Meow Mix. The poor dear weighs a ton, smells bad, and her fur looks like she hasn’t seen a shower in months, if that makes sense. She cleans herself okay, but her hair is greasy and flaky at the same time.

I wish I could take all of them, I love them so much.

The sob constipation probably started a few days ago, at group. In the middle of talking about a point, I realized another point. The reason my apartment doesn’t feel like home is.. that I’ve never had one. So mentally and emotionally my foot is figuratively outside the door. I’m on high alert, and even lounging on the couch won’t soothe it. So even though I literally have my own, safe place to stay, I’ve never had that anywhere else. Some were more extreme than others, but the one that was the worst, obviously, is that I was never safe in my parents’ house. My room was never ‘mine’. It was made clear that it was their house, I was just living in it. My ‘room’ was cleaned when it didn’t match dad’s standards, same with my possessions. If that wasn’t by my mother’s standard, it would go to goodwill. Which isn’t even mentioning how I myself am treated, which is even worse.

So, cycle of abuse? I’ve finally gotten angry enough to say something. I sent an email, and called mom, about it. That really really sucked, so never mind that. When do I.. give up.. on them? Excommunicate them and move up to Maine? I’m not going to do that, but, I need to do something, for the sake of myself.

(I tried to go to the LGBT night at a bar here to cheer me up. I got all touchy feely with a guy, and he was back, but in the end, he was straight. The entire dancefloor was straight people, the gays lurking miserably on the sidelines. So, he was straight, and I’m a cliche, hahaha )

Now What?

I have read a bit into Bear’s book, (go me!) and came across ‘glitter family’.

I miss them.. and here, when the veil is thinnest, (they’re not dead, just gone), I want to reach out to all those who have passed through my life, old friends that I wanted to call family.

But I know that’s really not a good idea.


One of the bars here is holding a halloween party. Takes an hour to walk down there. I’m debating on whether I should go, and try. But, ‘and then what?’ is the question. I don’t have a drinking problem, per se. I’m not an alcoholic.

…but I am a former psychotic. And alcohol makes me feel like I’m losing it.

It’s really hard for me to feel safe anywhere, and alcohol just magnifies that sense tenfold. it’s like my core flickers wildly, and my shields are pulled outwards like cobwebs. As my insides roar, it’s hard to keep my tongue in my mouth, to keep ‘seated’ in a sense. I feel like I have to work hard to stay here.

Smoking, I can’t breathe, and that sends my anxiety everywhere. Smoking something else *ahem* if I smoke to much of it, I really feel like I’m close to losing it, and I have to sit there, and work hard to keep myself whole. Painkillers, I hate taking them. They do it too.


‘Just get a soda!’ you say. Ah, but there’s the rub – I actually do have a soda problem. I’m trying to quit, it’s been five days. I’m dying.

so, now what? It’s a ‘tradition’/stereotype, that queers have met in bars.. and for 20 somethings to drink. And, now what?? I’m socially graceless in general. If I have no ‘habitat’ in which to pretend to know what I’m doing.. now what?

…you take him.

I’m trying to read Bear’s new book. (I have Johnny Cash’s biography too, both from the library.. oh I wish I could still read!!)

But the point is family. I wish I had one of my own, a chosen family. I hope it’s just the depression talking, but I echo so much that I doubt I ever did.

I don’t know where I fit. I’m a four years transitioned transsexual (dude). To my bio family I’m a cousin, (that one’s weird since no one’s near me in age anyway) a brother (Bueller..?) a son (you’re joking) and a nephew (to whom?). They’re a bit of a traditional gender divided bunch of irish catholic kind of thing. On thanksgiving the ladies are in the kitchen, the lads are watching football, and no one blinks. But that’s just barely looking at it. In the middle of it, it’s like, ‘you take him’. I’ve crossed the line and am not part of the girl circle anymore, and I can see that. I’m not a girl, but I don’t know that block very well yet. But the guys don’t want a thing to do with me either.

I believe in stories.

Some people have religion, have faith. Some people don’t.

I am neither of these things.

I believe in stories, ties that create strong roots and ropes that can anchor us home. I believe in the unshakable myths that have been carefully folded again and again. Tales passed down as a way to explain things, but also as a way to drive back the dark.

But more than this, I believe in the stories of family. Through stories, the deep sigh of tired soil smiles warmly as the tree grows there, again and again, stronger than before. Past, present, and future splash freely, catching the sun, and we laugh as we drink it all in.

And we are loved.

A Felted Heart


I wish I were healthier.


I wish I weren’t so alone


I wish I were normal.

The gods of 11:11 seem to be busy with other cases, lately. All of those things sting.

My senses are clearer, these days, it’s like this:

the depression is, as ever, present, at times a knife blade, but I see it, instead of it seeing me, if that makes sense. I can move forward with it flickering and sometimes burning in my chest, because there’s where it’s staying right now. It’s not everywhere, bringing me down in shackles.

But all of those things sting.

I wish I were normal, and I didn’t go into a sports bar in a kilt and rainbow socks. But I did, you could cut the tension with a knife. I lasted until the end of the second period before I knew I was defeated. They were laughing at me on the patio, as I was leaving, with the old ‘is that a boy or a girl’ routine.

I wish I were healthy, and my meds didn’t exhaust me into napping and into the caffiene nation, or ravage my insides so badly that walking about is a chore and the best of my nutrients come from gatorade.

I wish I weren’t so alone.

I have friends from the past, that I’ve tried to regrow something new with them, but it’s fallen apart in my hands. I have blood family, and they don’t want to talk about the things that hurt. My chosen family is all but gone. I had a cobbled up patchwork something, to me it was beautiful, that kept me warm. Now it’s just me and my cat.

I try to reach out, but it doesn’t work and I just curl up in shame.

My heart is a loose bag of felt triangles. You can barely feel an edge, or substance, about to give up. I think all the triangles are the times it has broken, and it’s about to come tumbling down.