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[ Personal Narratives ]

Interred In My Mind

What was awful was being looked at but not seen. Needing to be invisible but always visible. He would use my body but never notice he had destroyed me, I was some inhuman object and so it didn’t matter what he’d done to me.

I wanted to be invisible. I would hide, always hiding. Staying quiet. I would not draw attention to myself. Nothing mattered though. Trash, it eventually gets noticed, eventually something is going to get done to it.

I was molested throughout my childhood by many men, some teenage boys, my adolescent brother. Growing up in a small town with an out of touch alcoholic mother left me available and unprotected. My drunk mother walked in on me being abused once and she just yelled for it to break up. Nothing more. He was never punished or sent away. And so it happened again and again. She was a bad drunk, not a mother. I was invisible to her, but not to those that mattered.

As an adult, I spent most of my life entombed in my body. Walking around dead. Still feeling like an object with the idea that people will only ever use me. If someone did take advantage, I did not stop them. It was how life worked.

Drinking made it so I didn’t feel. It helped free me from some of the pain of my childhood awkwardness. I didn’t care what I was. When I’m drunk I just am. It is a relief—for a little while anyway.

I wish it still worked. It was my invisibility cloak. I felt no one could see what I was or the monsters lurking in me. If they could see, I didn’t care.

No longer daily drunk or high, I am exposed to myself. I feel. I hate feeling. For some reason, my feelings embarrass me. They pull my veil off and leave me completely bare.

But through my journey, I’ve been learning that understanding what I am feeling helps to manage them. By understanding I will be less confused over the mental destruction of my negative thoughts. Instead of a meaningless pile of crap that I have no fix for, or might have a major depressive crisis over, I might be able to make sense out of what is going on. I can then hopefully avoid a needless catastrophe. If I drink to skip the feelings or to cover the depression—well, it really is a postponement and part of a pile of emotional shit that has stuck to me my entire life.

I can feel myself not liking it, this concept. It sucks. My past seems too big, too full of awful feelings. I look at the past as if it were a painting. I am looking at it but I am not apart of it and it is scary, horrible. It cannot elicit anything good. Feeling means I will have to paint myself into the picture, I will have to associate myself with my past. It is frightening because I react in the same degree to almost everything. It’s either nothing or it’s everything. Devastating or dangerously euphoric.

I still prefer to be safe and not noticed. It would be nice if I found peace. Not be a walking corpse or an emotional wreck. Not invisible but known for the person I might have been if that abuse hadn’t happened.

If I am not shackled by my emotions or interred in my mind, I might be an okay person.

I will have to see how that feels.