This is Not Surviving
I never used to feel anything. Nothing at all. From November 1st 2002 - July 27th 2003. I don't know what I was. Some sort of soulless creature one would assume. I would walk and talk and breathe and go through the motions but I was never really there. I was sitting in the back of my mind. Re-living what he did to me. Over and over and over, re-play, instant re-play. Or maybe; maybe I should say what he tried to do. Maybe if he had done it, I mean, if he had succeeded, maybe they wouldn't act like it was nothing. And they do you know. Its taboo. He said he was sorry to them. He apologized and said how he'd changed. He'd found himself he said. But I was lost. I think I still may be. No one likes to talk about it. And when I do, they play it off as a 'tiff.' They've used that word a lot. The official sponsor of the defining moment in my life. The moment that I died inside. Maybe it was died. Maybe not. It felt that way. But inside it just felt like i wasn't connecting to the emotions. That I knew what I should feel so I said I felt that way. I did not cry when Nonna died. I did not shed one tear. I saw my best friend double over from the unbearable agony of losing someone she loved dearly. It didn't affect me at all. I just sat there, watching her lying there. Wondering why she didn't just get up. I was gone by then. 27 Days later, and I was already gone. I don't know who walked and talked and hugged and consoled and I don't know if I want to. But it all started before that. I could feel then. I did feel. The problem was what I felt. My mom, she abused me. Emotionally. She would treat him like gold, and pretend I didn't exist. I was the problem child. She would fuck with my head. Tell me she loved us equally. But I know she didn't. Ray knew she didn't. She loved me out of obligation. She is old fashioned you see. She loved me because mothers love their children. Its how the world works. I get that she had a bad life of being held up at gunpoint while she was pregnant with me and whatnot. Maybe I am a reminder of that. Or maybe of my dad. Whatever it is, I know I'm not her son. Not really. I used to think that I got out scott free, that I survived all of her abuse and tears. But I didn't. That is why I'm not a survivor. Because I didn't survive. There is a difference between surviving and not dying. Well, there is to me anyways. She let him do this to me. She let him. They all know it. My family; my friends. She let him do whatever he wanted. From outside my door he said "go ahead, call mom. you know she wont do anything. you know she wont care." Or maybe he didn't say that. Maybe I have just re-played this over so many times in my head that I think he did. I know that he knew it though, and thats really all that matters. He knew she wouldn't dare interfere with him. After all, he was the good son. After all of it, he is the good son. It started in grade seven and finally ended in gr eleven. From 12-16. 5 Years of abuse. Her's was more of a constant reminder that she loved him more and that i was a piece of shit. She showed me over and over again that I was nothing, and I wasn't good enough. That I should be more like him and shouldn't think for myself. That I was a bad person and my beliefs were wrong. Do you know she forbid me from being wiccan? Did you all know that she told me I was against her religion? That I was bad? Maybe that isn't abuse. Maybe I'm just blowing things out of proportion. Maybe I'm just a stupid kid. Sometimes I think so. Everyone likes my mom so much. But they are blind. She is not a good person. Mommy dearest is just that... 'mommy dearest.' Now he.... he was different. He was direct. He threatened me, and toyed with me, and directed his anger towards me. He would tell me he was going to kill me. He would hide around corners and wait for me. He would watch... he would just watch me all the time, and I would sit there... frozen. I would cry silent tears and pretend not to notice. He used to think it was funny to make me uncomfortable. He would call me a faggot, or stand in front of the t.v. or computer and pull his dick out. He never touched me. He never EVER physically hurt me in my life. Just emotional. But no one sees that. That doesn't count. Until he tried to kill me. I guess that counted for something. It set the course of events that would throw me into a spiral. I ended up living with my dad. He denied everything to do with my mother and brother and instead focused on making me his tool. He hates her you see. He hates his ex-wife and his wife. She would slip butter and milk into my food. Tell me I wasn't vegan anymore. He would lock me in the house for months at a time, and I could never go out. I could use the phone, but I could only leave the house for school, and baba would tell him if I didn't go. I tried to tell the vice-principal this, but he would call home anyways. He told me I wasn't crazy, just a stupid kid who wanted attention. Well, I guess if that is what I am, I got it.
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