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oh dear

Two things. One, when I shared this blog with the police a few years ago, I gave them the wrong URL. I said it was ‘silent scream’, not ‘dear diary’. They may have never seen it nor did they tell me it was wrong, if it was.

Two, I discovered if I wanted this to be admissible evidence, I needed to include date and time of experience, when it happened. so anything I remember from the past, kick it offside. right after whatever happened, needed to be noted right then. There might be a couple of post like that, but it wouldn’t be a regular occurrence.

So yeah, 5 years of wasted effort. hahaha, invisible, indeed.

I’m so sorry

I’ve been gone for so long. Yikes, over a year! I’m alive, which is saying something in these times.

I’ve been meaning to post for months but keep getting interrupted. And I think, ‘oh, I’ll remember that, it was pretty nasty, it can wait‘. But I don’t remember it. Them, rather.

I need a place to vent and this is the only place I have, where I am not known or where I don’t have to be a Smiling Sally. I can be mad here. Snarky. Sad. So, very, very sad.

Things to say, so there might be a blitz of posts. I will do my best not to disappear again.

If there’s anyone still here, thanks for sticking around.

Hysterical

Back in my day, says the granny, they were called buttons, or hot buttons. When someone was emotionally manipulating you, they were pushing your buttons. I don’t think, or at least don’t remember, an expression for getting triggered. Perhaps ‘trip’, as in having a bad trip, which could happen even without pharmaceuticals.

I do have buttons that are going to guarantee setting me off. Injustice. any-ism. Inequality. Abuse. I get angry.

I had recently watched an Australian show about a woman with 2500 ‘split personalities’, which they now call Dissociative Identity Disorder. I didn’t buy it at first, come on, 2,500 of them? But by the end of the show, I was willing to concede it could have happened. A couple of weeks later, I saw a show about Sybil. Rember that movie/book? With Sally Fields. Sybil had 12 ‘personalities’. This show was called Sybil; a brilliant hysterical? Filmed in 2014. The premise for this show was Sybil was a con, her psychiatrist was a con. It was all faked – seriously, 12 personalities?

I don’t have any triggers about Sybil. I watched it with my kids, I only had good memories of it. So I wasn’t sure what had triggered me. And boy, was I triggered. I couldn’t sleep, my heart was racing. My hands shaking. My mind spun around. They wanted us to believe 2500 personalities in one person, but not 12 in another? And my god – hysterical? They called Sybil hysterical?

And boom, that was it. They called her hysterical. She was angry. She was hurt. She was defending herself. Hysterical? Oh, hell no.

That’s how it happens. A woman get angry? no no no. She’s hysterical. A man can be angry. He can be enraged to the point of murder. But its women who are infantized. Demeaned. Crippled by the social expectation to eat it. Swallow it down. Don’t show anger. If you don’t, you will be called ‘hysterical’.

Fine, you think the Sybil case is just a big con. Fine. Say that. But say she was hysterical? Fuuuuuuuuck no.

I am not hysterical. I’m angry. I am fucking pissed. In the immortal words of JI Jane, ‘Bite my dick‘.

 

Munchausen by proxy?

A while back, forget which day, I mentioned on this blog that I’d really wished I could talk to a psychologist over the phone. It was the Ellen Show post if you want to glance at it. As far as I remember, it is the only time I’ve mentioned it.

Last week, partner came home from a meeting with his psychologist. (I was unaware he’d even gone, I thought he was giving a blood sample.) He hands me a note, which was the telephone number he’d gotten from his psyc, a number for phone consultations for a psychologist. I thanked him. And a few minutes later, my heart broke.

I do not recall saying anything to him on the subject. I’d only mentioned it here.

Now, I know at one point he was monitoring my online activity. Things he’d say on subjects I’d googled a few days previously. I found the dongle on the back of my computer. If he is – well, basically stalking me – I don’t know how he’s doing it. He’s the tech-savvy one, not me.

So him coming home with this number shattered me. I felt very violated.

But I checked the stats on that page, and it only looks like it was me that reviewed the page. So let’s say I did say something to him about it and have forgotten I did.

This is the person who says he’ll get me water/tea and ‘forgets’ by the time he’s out the bedroom door. If he forgets so easily, or quickly, how did he remember I wanted that phone number? Because if I had said something, it would have been months ago. Long enough that I’ve forgotten I said it.

I can only imagine what he’s telling his shrink about me. I know how he lies, with silence and a downward look. Maybe a little handwringing and a sniff. A monotone ‘she does the best she can.’ which is true – but the monotone voice says ‘not a damn thing’.

Sometimes, yes, he does need to look after me. When he remembers. What is he telling his shrink? I’ll be damned if I know. But… here’s the rub. I’m starting to feel crazy. 

He has never had to look after any person other than himself. Ever. He’ll help his mom or dad, sure, but there’s always someone else there, as ‘back up’. It is not his job! He’s the ‘sicko’. HE IS THE SICKO. It’s everyone else’s job to take care of him. That is the way things are.  It’s how it’s ever been. And he seriously resents having to look after me.

Unless I am in the hospital. Then he’s there every day. Moisturizing my feet. Combing my hair. Reading to me or watching a TV show on a laptop. People tell him how amazing he is. How dedicated and loving. They admire him.

Munchausen by proxy? Well, no. Not unless he’s triggering my illness. And I can’t say he isn’t.  Maybe he just likes the admiration people give him. Doctors and nurses. It makes him feel important. 

It makes me feel sick.

Terrorizing

My partner drives like a maniac. And I’m not talking like the joke cliché of a woman screaming ‘slow down, you’re going to kill us’, to the man driving 10 miles an hour. No, I truly mean he drives like a mad man. He knows how to drive, but the second he gets behind the wheel, his dick grows 10 sizes and he becomes aggressive. We sold ‘our’ car two years ago. He didn’t tell me how much he sold it for, and I never got any of the money. Since he sold it to a friend, I suspect he basically gave it away. I was just glad it was gone and I didn’t have to make up excuses not to go anywhere with him.

This story wasn’t the first time I was in a car with him. But it was in the first week.

We’re going up a long road. Far ahead, I can see cars sitting, waiting for the light to turn green. There were four lanes, and they all had four or five cars in line. We’re maybe a quarter of a mile away. He’s going the speed limit. Once we’re on the straight, he speeds up. And keeps speeding up. My foot involuntarily makes breaking motions. I tell him to slow down and he ignores me. The point where I would have started breaking, if I were driving, comes and goes. The point where at our speed, I don’t think we’ll be able to stop without hitting the stationary cars, comes and goes. I said, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I brace myself. He says, ‘They’ll move out of the way.’ (remember, four cars deep, sitting at a red light. They are going nowhere.) When he finally hits the brakes, the nose of the car goes down, I’m thrown forward and we come to a screeching halt. Inches from the car in front of us. I must have looked pretty pale. He just laughed and laughed.

He did it once when his brother was in the car. His brother pitched a mild-mannered fit and told him to stop. He did stop driving like that when his brother was in the car. But he still did when it was only me.

Before him, I was a good, solid driver. But I was in a different country then. The roads were smaller, very winding, and I became very afraid of being on the road, in a car with him. I became so afraid, I didn’t update my license and have never driven again.

The years passed, I became more afraid. First, I always hung onto the door handle. Then I hung on to the seat belt. It just got worse and worse. He’d aggressively move into the flow of traffic. Cut people off. Stopped hard. Rode on peoples bumpers. My heart would pound, I’d hold my breath. And after a few years, I just closed my eyes, held onto the seat belt, and waited to die. If I told him to slow down, he’d go so slow, barely over idle speed.  I was afraid someone would ram us, expecting us to be going the speed limit. He’d sneer and say, see, I’m slowing down.

I slowly stopped going out with him. I stopped socializing because I couldn’t take being in a car with him, and my disability made using public transport impossible. If I had to go, I’d spend the entire trip with my eyes closed. One day he noticed my eyes closed and just laughed. He practically pissed himself, he laughed so hard.

I thought he was just being a dick.

But looking back now, I think it was torture. Not a joky kind of torture, but real, dangling off a face cliff torture. Every single time I got in a car with him driving, I expected to die. He put me in physical danger day after day. He liked the control, I guess. My face full of fear. Pale and trembling. It was fun for him. A good laugh.

edit:

I guess I should say how this has impacted my life. I can’t drive. I’m afraid of narrow roads. I will not get in a car with my partner driving. My socializing has tanked, I just don’t now. (I can sit in a taxi, though, without fear. I expect them to be respectful drivers and so far, they have been.) The sound of a car’s breaks squeaking, even if I’m not in a car, makes my heart pound in fear. I am terrorized of cars, driving, travel, and roads. I think I might be for the rest of my life.

The Ellen Show

I’ve been struggling with depression. Not cut your own neck depression, but curl up in a ball and rock, kind of depression. My brain just cycled around all the things I’ve screwed up in my life. It’s a long list. There’s a person on my social media list, who is constantly posting affirmation memes. In honesty, it drives me nuts. Get over it or shut up! Which is totally the wrong thing to think, much less say. I do understand. It’s how she’s dealing with her shit. It’s not how I do. Which got me to thinking, how do I deal with it?

Up until now, distraction was my game plan. I play an MMORPG. Or, I did, until just recently. I’ve not played for a couple of months, and it really is impacting my mental health. Without that distraction, I sink deeper into depression. It was literally my only social contact (as I don’t count social media as ‘contact’). So without that distraction, what to do?

Browsing through youtube, I came across an Ellen DeGeneres show. I watched it, got a giggle, and watched another. And another. Soon, Ellen was the only thing youtube suggested to me. I’ve known of Ellen for a long time but didn’t watch her. Now I was watching a couple of hours every day. She really did cheer me up.

It wasn’t instantaneous. It took weeks. But I’m not as depressed as I was. I’ve still got a way to go. I really should see a psychiatrist. But gawd, that would require going out X amount of days, and all the prep work that means. I can’t just decide to do something and pop out the door on a whim. Two days at least, for planning. From shower to dressing to being able to breathe. I’ve tried finding someone to talk to, who would talk to me on the phone. That was a washout. That would truly be perfect for me.

So for now, I watch The Ellen Show, get some giggles, and hope it brings me up enough to stop rocking.

I’ve been silent

Why post here? I’ve got a web page, I’ve got social media. There are lots of places I could speak up. But there are family there, friends, acquaintances that know me, know my name, where I live. My character has already been assassinated, he’s made sure of that. And he’s a saint, he’d never do such things, according to his family.

I don’t expect anyone to see this. I’m half hoping no one does. My voice has been muted for so long, it would feel really strange if anyone spoke back. The other half of me says: Hear me! See me! I’m telling the damned truth!

I am disabled and there will be times – perhaps long stretches of time – when I can’t post. I’ve gone a year or more with my head down, in survival mode. I will be using this blog as a diary. The diary of a disabled abused person. Spoken over, ignored, invisible, a burden, a waste of space and water.

My strongest wish is his family learns what kind of person is truly is. Perhaps at the trial.