I hate writing autobiographical stuff

I do it because I feel pretty sure that it should be said, needs to be said, shared, and passed around. I’m not so different. Others can read my experiences and know that they aren’t the only ones who have ever found themselves dealing with horrible issues.

But it’s very hard. Catharsis, in my opinion, is like reopening an abscess. Yeah, okay, so you gotta get it out. But you are still reopening an old wound.

Emotional states are very delicate. It’s easy to trigger yourself, to set yourself off.

I posted the other day about photo therapy… but what it really turned out to be was a story about the abuse I suffered from the first man who I ever actually loved, truly loved. He took my love and used it against me. He emotionally abused me, manipulated me, controlled me, lied to me, violated me, took everything he could from me, then discarded me.

I have mentioned I hate using the R word. My boyfriend has given me and important reason to not do so. He says that more specifically it was all abuse. While one particular incident may stand out to me, all of it showed a long pattern. Being violated is just another piece of a puzzle. But the puzzle itself is abuse, and that word alone better conveys it all.

It’s not something I haven’t gone through before. I’ve been emotionally and verbally abused since a child, by both peers and my father.

I been attacked with semantics in the past while trying to talk about these things. Today I felt that I was being attacked again. The ghosts of previous attacks can hurt you just as much. And the proverbially punches these ghosts lay on you can be so much worse than when you are there, in the fight.

Because you can’t talk back to a ghost. When your own memory attacks, there is nothing to be done then to replay. The best we can do is somehow twist the story, undermine the old plot, give ourselves a better epilogue than that which others would write for us.

But today wasn’t my day to do so.

I hate writing autobiographical stuff because I really do hate my history. There are times when I just hate my life. But I have a boyfriend who is big on reminding me that I’m a survivor.

And a hottie. His words. Not mine.

So enough of the bloggy crap for today. I don’t need to deal with my own history today. I can deal with my own history tomorrow.

Or maybe I can talk about why the term “healthy diet” is a total mindfuck.

Maybe I’ll do both, like I have done in previous weeks, and just bombard my small audience with a lot of posts about random things. I enjoy being random.

Everyone should be random. Maybe not always, but at least at random times.

Here is me, getting randomly “painted” purple in Old York:

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