Burning Inside & Outside
When I was a little girl, I did odd things.
I had a good childhood. I wasn't abused; in fact, I was spoiled rotten by parents who loved and supported me. I drew something fairly close to the jackpot.
Still, I remember sitting in my little bedroom, surrounded by its country decor frills, wooden geese and paintings of Beatrix Potter characters, right up close to the electric heater. How I loved its warmth on cold days! Huddling right on top of it to suck in as much precious heat as possible, I would start testing myself; how much pain could I take?
It wasn't the product, at least to my knowledge, of being tormented inside, of feeling the need to burn the tragedy in my soul onto my flesh, where it would heal and distract me from my tormet. That wasn't it. In truth, I believe I was testing my limits, trying to make myself stronger. I nearly wrote "immune from pain" just there, which might lead those amongst us to point a tidily-manicured finger at me, look down over spectacles and say, "Young lady, you have just revealed that you wanted to be immune from pain. This implies that you were in pain, does it not?" Perhaps, but not the unceasing torment I have seen in the faces of my friends or people I've only just seen on the street in passing.
There is some question of sexual abuse from either an elderly relative or an infrequent babysitter, but I have zero memory of such, and my mother (the former prude, the current sex cult member) insists she never saw any signs. She doesn't try to dismiss my questions, she just lets me know she honestly never thought anything happened.
But there was the burning. I can, very clearly, remember doing it. I can remember the sense of testing myself, but what if, in all of its human agility and complexity, my brain has shut off, utterly blocked-out some kind of abuse? It would be like a digitally-altered video feed, expertly done, with no sign of tamper. That is really unnerving to think about, because what the hell else is lurking in there? Was I a tormented child? Is that why I have an eating disorder?
Jesus. Let me state, for the record, that there had better be some sort of Answers waiting for us at the end of the road, whatever else lies there. Seriously.
I had a good childhood. I wasn't abused; in fact, I was spoiled rotten by parents who loved and supported me. I drew something fairly close to the jackpot.
Still, I remember sitting in my little bedroom, surrounded by its country decor frills, wooden geese and paintings of Beatrix Potter characters, right up close to the electric heater. How I loved its warmth on cold days! Huddling right on top of it to suck in as much precious heat as possible, I would start testing myself; how much pain could I take?
It wasn't the product, at least to my knowledge, of being tormented inside, of feeling the need to burn the tragedy in my soul onto my flesh, where it would heal and distract me from my tormet. That wasn't it. In truth, I believe I was testing my limits, trying to make myself stronger. I nearly wrote "immune from pain" just there, which might lead those amongst us to point a tidily-manicured finger at me, look down over spectacles and say, "Young lady, you have just revealed that you wanted to be immune from pain. This implies that you were in pain, does it not?" Perhaps, but not the unceasing torment I have seen in the faces of my friends or people I've only just seen on the street in passing.
There is some question of sexual abuse from either an elderly relative or an infrequent babysitter, but I have zero memory of such, and my mother (the former prude, the current sex cult member) insists she never saw any signs. She doesn't try to dismiss my questions, she just lets me know she honestly never thought anything happened.
But there was the burning. I can, very clearly, remember doing it. I can remember the sense of testing myself, but what if, in all of its human agility and complexity, my brain has shut off, utterly blocked-out some kind of abuse? It would be like a digitally-altered video feed, expertly done, with no sign of tamper. That is really unnerving to think about, because what the hell else is lurking in there? Was I a tormented child? Is that why I have an eating disorder?
Jesus. Let me state, for the record, that there had better be some sort of Answers waiting for us at the end of the road, whatever else lies there. Seriously.