Deviant Art Journal Crosspost: Spooked As All Frak
So, I mentioned that I would update you on how good everything is going for me.
First, I should mention I am kind of spooked right now.
I was just watching Angel Beats episode 3. For those who are not familiar, the lead singer guitar girl describes how she died. See, her parents fought a lot growing up. She had no escape, except through music. She ended up working hard to try to create a career to get to make music for her life. She was getting so close too... when, she passed out... unable to talk. Turns out in the fights a hit on her head caused some kind of concussion that robbed her of her life... her last moments were of her so close to success, unable to talk, slipping into unconscious.
Some of you may be aware, that my mother is a psychotic hose beast... the mother of all psychotic hose beasts.
Looking in the mirror is a bit of a horror show, as I tend to see her staring back.
The thing is, unfortunately, I'm not really making much progress gaining back motor skills and control. I know I should be fully able to do fourty sketches in a single day... easily (and on a bad day, too!). Right now, I'm barely able to do more than ten or fifteen.
My range of motion is nearly completely gone... well, gone compared to what I am understanding it as suppose to be located at.
I'm fighting my own body more than anything else it seems as of late. Every muscle, nerve, tendon and cartilage point hurts.
I do what I can to lessen this... and I fight it at every turn. I also make it look like I have no pain. As well, if I show any pain, I'd only be faking it right? As I cannot actually be in pain... if I mention it, it means I am lying for attention.
The reason I tend to be so violent is: I learned it from my mother. The woman who beat the crap out of my dad, whose only crime was having common sense. "I just worked seven days shifts, I cannot care for the kids, you should have called a Babysitter if you wanted to go to the club tonight."
His issue on the one fight I could never block out, was that Mom decided to not call a Babysitter and expected an exhausted--physically and mentally--man to take after four children. The oldest one being roughly eleven.
There were lots of other fights I did block out. There were fights Mom had with me that I also blocked out. Seems that five years olds do not have
the capacity to comprehend the carnage Mom was causing.
It is why one of my rules in fights is to avoid having children know it is happening... to avoid having people who cannot handle it know it is
going on there. To keep people from getting inadvertently hurt from them.
Why am I not peaceful? I do not think I was ever raised to know how to do that.
My mother would yell, scream and hit people... to the point where it was "just how she was"... with doctors telling a five year old me, that this
is not appropriate behaviour for adults.
My dad always saw me with suspicion. As I resembled the woman who beat the crap out of him way too much. Most fights my dad would go into scared, would be filled with accusations of, "your mother is turning you into her"--and notions that Mom was wilfully training me to be like her.
This in amongst Mom setting up situations where injury was the only likely response. Except I was expected to do this. This stuff that if I expected other children to succeed at, I would get in trouble, as that obviously should break children.
Except: I hated injury.
I hated worse than injury, the notion that I was only getting injured to resemble mother. Who often was getting sprained ankles or into car accidents.
Often times, the ankle that was sprained would be switched from the opposite of my mothers to the same side as Mom's sprain. If I had my
way, I'd be running around... not on those stupid crutches... fucking hate those things. Sure, I could move around with them easily later
on... but it was so much more satisfying to walk without my foot hurting me.
And yet, because I was the kid, it had to be ME copying my mother.
I hated injury... and I would fight it any way I knew I could. Learning how to dodge, roll, take hits or whatever. Learning how to get up and
just walk... just walk... and take the pain from it.
Yet, the whole time, I got accused of being a hypochondriac. My injuries were always so well planned. So decently timed. So damned convenient. No kid could be as sickly as I was. I wasn't trying to be injured or sick...
And so, I took to fighting it more and fucking more... which had the stresses on my life only get worse.
The first time I fought back with my mother, was when I was fifteen. Before that, I would just take it. She'd usually apologise afterwards--it was
my fault of course. The mental illness was so hard for her to take... and I needed to learn to not hurt her... so she'd stop punching me in the face... or kicking me in the chest... or thwapping me in the head. She was the grown woman and I was the teenager... I had to be the aggressor, as that was how things were.
Like the time Daddy's only issues with Mom going out to the club was there was no Babysitter, and Dad was too exhausted to handle us meant that he was the aggressor for not letting a knife wielding Mom go clubbing... a knife wielding Mom who had already struck him with open and closed hand to the point of bruising.
A Mom who Daddy could never figure out how to love correct... who Daddy still swears if he handled it better, the divorce would have never happened.
A Mommy who still got child support payments for me, until I was twenty one, even though for four of those years, I was sleeping on the streets... two of them, I was living with my father.
Those Child Support Payments never went to the children... they went to having Mom buy needless fancy things for herself.
After Daddy learned that the status of his children had nothing to do with how the child payment stuff would work... or if he'd even see his children... he began listening to what Mom asked him to do much more often. Mom had been working on having me and Daddy fighting each other... Daddy seemed more inclined to do that at the age of fifteen, I started living with him, and it did not do anything to make things better.
Some people note that Daddy getting along so well with my little sister Nyssa is proof that my claims I remind him of Mom are not accurate. Nyssa reminds him of the Mom he Married. I remind him of the Mom that threw him out of windows and broke his kids toys. It is simple, really to understand.
If anything... I am kind of glad I remind him on the Mom that beat the shit out of him... it means Nyssa gets to be the good one. I accept that easily.
Sorry... I am crying heavily now...
I'm just here, because of what watching episode 3 of Angel Beats did.
As with my limits in motion getting incredibly harder to deal with... that episode scared the fuck out of me.
It has been three Christmases since the last one I spent with them... the last one with them, Robin faked an injury... he does the "fake an injury to get Katrina Red Carded" a lot.
It took me a while to realise that Robin must fucking hate how Mom never feels anything for his injuries... but for mine, Mom gets right creepy over that stuff. Robin had mother fucking brain cancer, and Mom visited for twenty minutes... every day she felt like it... Robin laying there in that fucking bed... and Mom acting cold to him.
When fully well, both me and Robin know if I got a scraped knee, Mom would be going completely full stalker crazy on me.
No wonder Robin fucking hates my guts. I could get a scraped knee, and Mom would do everything she could to try to take care of me (let's ignore
that usually it was Mom that caused that shit... or Mom that just lied to the doctors about it)... yet, Robin could have fucking brain cancer, and Mom would act like a bitch to him.
I mean, the main reason I didn't visit him, is because it upset him to see me there... but dammit... what Mom did was wrong there.
It has been three Christmases since Robin sliced his brain open, to get me into trouble... but also to see if Mom might just care about his injuries once. Only half a victory was made there.
Sorry... I just... I'll make another journal about how it looks like I'll have success soon. I... I hope. Gotta have hope, right?
Maybe... maybe I'll watch something that doesn't have me sobbing like a small child afterwards?
First, I should mention I am kind of spooked right now.
I was just watching Angel Beats episode 3. For those who are not familiar, the lead singer guitar girl describes how she died. See, her parents fought a lot growing up. She had no escape, except through music. She ended up working hard to try to create a career to get to make music for her life. She was getting so close too... when, she passed out... unable to talk. Turns out in the fights a hit on her head caused some kind of concussion that robbed her of her life... her last moments were of her so close to success, unable to talk, slipping into unconscious.
Some of you may be aware, that my mother is a psychotic hose beast... the mother of all psychotic hose beasts.
Looking in the mirror is a bit of a horror show, as I tend to see her staring back.
The thing is, unfortunately, I'm not really making much progress gaining back motor skills and control. I know I should be fully able to do fourty sketches in a single day... easily (and on a bad day, too!). Right now, I'm barely able to do more than ten or fifteen.
My range of motion is nearly completely gone... well, gone compared to what I am understanding it as suppose to be located at.
I'm fighting my own body more than anything else it seems as of late. Every muscle, nerve, tendon and cartilage point hurts.
I do what I can to lessen this... and I fight it at every turn. I also make it look like I have no pain. As well, if I show any pain, I'd only be faking it right? As I cannot actually be in pain... if I mention it, it means I am lying for attention.
The reason I tend to be so violent is: I learned it from my mother. The woman who beat the crap out of my dad, whose only crime was having common sense. "I just worked seven days shifts, I cannot care for the kids, you should have called a Babysitter if you wanted to go to the club tonight."
His issue on the one fight I could never block out, was that Mom decided to not call a Babysitter and expected an exhausted--physically and mentally--man to take after four children. The oldest one being roughly eleven.
There were lots of other fights I did block out. There were fights Mom had with me that I also blocked out. Seems that five years olds do not have
the capacity to comprehend the carnage Mom was causing.
It is why one of my rules in fights is to avoid having children know it is happening... to avoid having people who cannot handle it know it is
going on there. To keep people from getting inadvertently hurt from them.
Why am I not peaceful? I do not think I was ever raised to know how to do that.
My mother would yell, scream and hit people... to the point where it was "just how she was"... with doctors telling a five year old me, that this
is not appropriate behaviour for adults.
My dad always saw me with suspicion. As I resembled the woman who beat the crap out of him way too much. Most fights my dad would go into scared, would be filled with accusations of, "your mother is turning you into her"--and notions that Mom was wilfully training me to be like her.
This in amongst Mom setting up situations where injury was the only likely response. Except I was expected to do this. This stuff that if I expected other children to succeed at, I would get in trouble, as that obviously should break children.
Except: I hated injury.
I hated worse than injury, the notion that I was only getting injured to resemble mother. Who often was getting sprained ankles or into car accidents.
Often times, the ankle that was sprained would be switched from the opposite of my mothers to the same side as Mom's sprain. If I had my
way, I'd be running around... not on those stupid crutches... fucking hate those things. Sure, I could move around with them easily later
on... but it was so much more satisfying to walk without my foot hurting me.
And yet, because I was the kid, it had to be ME copying my mother.
I hated injury... and I would fight it any way I knew I could. Learning how to dodge, roll, take hits or whatever. Learning how to get up and
just walk... just walk... and take the pain from it.
Yet, the whole time, I got accused of being a hypochondriac. My injuries were always so well planned. So decently timed. So damned convenient. No kid could be as sickly as I was. I wasn't trying to be injured or sick...
And so, I took to fighting it more and fucking more... which had the stresses on my life only get worse.
The first time I fought back with my mother, was when I was fifteen. Before that, I would just take it. She'd usually apologise afterwards--it was
my fault of course. The mental illness was so hard for her to take... and I needed to learn to not hurt her... so she'd stop punching me in the face... or kicking me in the chest... or thwapping me in the head. She was the grown woman and I was the teenager... I had to be the aggressor, as that was how things were.
Like the time Daddy's only issues with Mom going out to the club was there was no Babysitter, and Dad was too exhausted to handle us meant that he was the aggressor for not letting a knife wielding Mom go clubbing... a knife wielding Mom who had already struck him with open and closed hand to the point of bruising.
A Mom who Daddy could never figure out how to love correct... who Daddy still swears if he handled it better, the divorce would have never happened.
A Mommy who still got child support payments for me, until I was twenty one, even though for four of those years, I was sleeping on the streets... two of them, I was living with my father.
Those Child Support Payments never went to the children... they went to having Mom buy needless fancy things for herself.
After Daddy learned that the status of his children had nothing to do with how the child payment stuff would work... or if he'd even see his children... he began listening to what Mom asked him to do much more often. Mom had been working on having me and Daddy fighting each other... Daddy seemed more inclined to do that at the age of fifteen, I started living with him, and it did not do anything to make things better.
Some people note that Daddy getting along so well with my little sister Nyssa is proof that my claims I remind him of Mom are not accurate. Nyssa reminds him of the Mom he Married. I remind him of the Mom that threw him out of windows and broke his kids toys. It is simple, really to understand.
If anything... I am kind of glad I remind him on the Mom that beat the shit out of him... it means Nyssa gets to be the good one. I accept that easily.
Sorry... I am crying heavily now...
I'm just here, because of what watching episode 3 of Angel Beats did.
As with my limits in motion getting incredibly harder to deal with... that episode scared the fuck out of me.
It has been three Christmases since the last one I spent with them... the last one with them, Robin faked an injury... he does the "fake an injury to get Katrina Red Carded" a lot.
It took me a while to realise that Robin must fucking hate how Mom never feels anything for his injuries... but for mine, Mom gets right creepy over that stuff. Robin had mother fucking brain cancer, and Mom visited for twenty minutes... every day she felt like it... Robin laying there in that fucking bed... and Mom acting cold to him.
When fully well, both me and Robin know if I got a scraped knee, Mom would be going completely full stalker crazy on me.
No wonder Robin fucking hates my guts. I could get a scraped knee, and Mom would do everything she could to try to take care of me (let's ignore
that usually it was Mom that caused that shit... or Mom that just lied to the doctors about it)... yet, Robin could have fucking brain cancer, and Mom would act like a bitch to him.
I mean, the main reason I didn't visit him, is because it upset him to see me there... but dammit... what Mom did was wrong there.
It has been three Christmases since Robin sliced his brain open, to get me into trouble... but also to see if Mom might just care about his injuries once. Only half a victory was made there.
Sorry... I just... I'll make another journal about how it looks like I'll have success soon. I... I hope. Gotta have hope, right?
Maybe... maybe I'll watch something that doesn't have me sobbing like a small child afterwards?